I usher him into the suite, which is as meticulous as I remember it with no signs of permanent residency. I can’t believe he actually lives here, considering that he’s in the city for at least a third of the year. The other two-thirds? I have no idea. And I’m not sure if I want to know.
“Can I get you anything else?” I ask, going straight to the wet bar to grab a bottle of water. I crack the seal and hand it to him. He takes it without provocation and flops onto the sofa. “Food?”
“Nah,” he answers before taking a swig. “Order yourself something if you want.”
“That’s ok. I’m not staying,” I reply, looking at the door. I really should get home. Tucker will be home any minute and although I left a note, he’ll still be worried sick.
He snorts out a sardonic laugh before draining the rest of the bottle. I grab another and hand it to him. “What?”
Ransom shakes his head. “Nothing. Of course you’re not staying. I’m too fucked up to give you anything.”
“What?”
He struggles to his feet and staggers to the bedroom. “Nothing, H. Go on home to your husband. Don’t worry, whiskey dick usually wears off in a few hours.”
I’m right on his heels, filled with renewed pisstivity. “What the . . . what are you talking about, Ransom?”
He spins around, not as coordinated as he usually is, but successfully startling the shit out of me. I follow the swift movement of his hand, completely enraptured and unable to look away as he cups his manhood for the second time tonight. “I said, don’t worry, baby. I will still get hard for you. That is what you want from me, right? That is why you’ve left your warm, marital bed to come save me from myself, abandoning poor Tucker, right? But don’t worry. He looks like he has no problem taking care of himself.”
I don’t know what possesses me in the next pivotal moments. It’s like having an out of body experience as I watch my right hand pull back and lurch forward to connect with Ransom’s stubbled jaw with enough force that his chin meets his shoulder. Slowly, he turns back to look down at me, his nostrils flaring and his dark eyes brewing with ire. A single trickle of blood escapes the corner of this luscious mouth, and he sluggishly drags his tongue to his lip to lap it up, those sultry, onyx eyes never straying from my face.
“I see how you want it,” he rasps, his voice husky with anger and alcohol. “You like to give it just as much as you like to take it.”
“Fuck you,” I spit out. “Fuck. You.”
“You did, baby. Don’t you remember? We talked. We laughed. We drank. We fucked. We came. Hard. Or was I that forgettable for you?”
His words are ice but the look on his face is all fire. And even through all that . . . even through the bitter bite of his insults, I see his pain. I don’t want to—I want to hate him—but I see in him the same thing that I see every time I look in the mirror. The same thing I see reflected in Tucker’s eyes when he gazes at me in pity and confusion.
“I didn’t forget you.” I say it because he needs to hear it. I say it because it’s true.
“Then why do you want to leave me?”
I don’t expect that from him—that raw, unguarded truth—but it’s right there. And he’s not taking it back.
His strangled words are barely a whisper, but I hear them loud and clear. “I can make you feel young again, Heidi. I can make you feel things that he can’t. Let me be your second chance.”
I shake my head—at him, at myself, at our whole fucked up situation. Now I understand . . . I see why Tucker often looks at me the same way. Shaking his head in resignation, sighing in reluctance.
You can’t win with a broken person. Because you don’t want to. It’s just not a fair fight.
And Ransom—somehow, some way—is more broken than me. And something within me wants to put him back together again.
“I’ll stay,” I find myself saying. “I’ll stay if you lie down and rest. Ok?”
He seems to sober with that promise and allows a small smile to slip from his lips. “Ok,” he agrees.
I help him to the bed, assisting him with the buckles on his boots and belt. And while there’s absolutely nothing sexual about me undressing him right now, I can’t help the way my skin prickles when my fingertips graze his taut waist. Or the way my breath catches when he removes his shirt to reveal the most spectacular torso that I’ve seen in more than three decades.
He climbs into bed in nothing but his fitted boxer briefs, and while I know he should probably shower, I can’t see how I can coax him into getting up now that his head has hit the pillow.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, his eyes closed. I bring the duvet up to his chest, more for my comfort than his.
“For what?”
“For wanting you. For hating that I want you. For wishing you’d hate me too.”
“It’s ok,” I whisper.
He releases a sound from the back of his throat, something more out of pain than eroticism, and within seconds, he’s asleep, snoring soundly.
I click off the lights and gather up his dirty clothes to send out to be laundered before tiptoeing out of the room. Before I stuff the smoke-saturated garments in a plastic bag, I remove all the personal effects from his pockets to ensure he doesn’t lose anything.
At least, that’s the reason I tell myself.
Oxy. Ativan. And what’s left of an eight ball of coke.
Fuck.
Ransom isn’t just broken. He’s still breaking.
Chapter Eighteen
Pure morning sunlight filters through the curtains when I finally allow myself to go home. I’m convinced that Ransom won’t notice anyway. He probably wouldn’t even remember last night or my presence whenever he came to. However, I would never forget the things he said to me. Or the look of sheer desolation on his face. Or the drugs I found in the pocket of his jeans.
I’m still not sure what to do when I arrive at my building. If anything, I’m even more confused.
“Hey, baby,” Tucker rasps, his voice hoarse with too-little sleep. “Everything ok?”
“Shhhh, go back to sleep. It’s fine. We’ll talk later,” I smile, leaning over to kiss his lips. He returns my grin before rolling over and drifting back off to dreamland.
I slip out of my clothes that still stink with the aroma of beer and bar, and head into the bathroom for a quick shower. Just before I step under the hot spray, a pang of guilt attacks my chest. I’m washing away what little bit of Ransom I’d taken with me. He was afraid I’d forget him . . . that I’d leave him. And that’s exactly what I’m trying to do.
I’m still trying to convince myself that it’s the right thing to do when I slide into bed next to my husband.
“YOU SHOULD HAVE told me.” I stir my latte for the tenth time, trying to expel the nervous energy. If I look up, I may slap him across his pretty face.
Caleb heaves out a sigh. “I know. But if I had, would you have taken him on?”
“Of course not! Jesus, Caleb. He’s a junkie. You tricked me into representing a fucking junkie and had me in there blind. Can you imagine what could have happened once you sent me off in the middle of the night with him?”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “He’s harmless, I swear. He’s more of an emotional addict. And come on . . . what entertainer isn’t coked out of their minds every night?”
I shake my head, refusing to agree with him although I know it’s true. “This is different. Ransom is . . .”
I can’t find the words. Special? No. Better than that? Hell no. Using only to stifle a much deeper compulsion? Ding, ding, ding.