Fanfare
Page 16
“Cristina, I didn’t do this because I wanted to piss you off,” he began lamely.
I spun around to glare at his handsome face, brushed past him, and proceeded towards the kitchen to get a drink of water. He followed.
“Please, talk to me.”
“Tom, if you didn’t do this to piss me off, then please explain to me why you did this?”
He took a deep breath. “I didn’t want to leave you alone here.”
“I wouldn’t have minded . . . and your argument about forgetting to tell me to bring something to wear is really the biggest bunch of bullshit I’ve heard in a while. You went to a lot of trouble to find a gorgeous dress for me, and I’m assuming you didn’t just stop by the nearest jeweler and magically find earrings that matched it perfectly.”
He waited patiently for me to continue.
“You obviously went through a lot to make sure I would go to this party with you. It would have been easier for you to tell me ahead of time and give me the choice of whether or not I wanted to go.”
“You would have said no,” he interrupted.
“Of course! You didn’t even want to go to this party! What makes you think I would want to go?”
“I really wanted you to go,” he said simply.
“So, you thought that the solution was to take away my choice? Normally, I don’t mind too much when you negate the importance of my opinion by just asking that I go along with whatever you’ve planned. Tonight, you took it too far.”
“I don’t understand why you’re so upset. I mean, I know that this was less than ideal, but you were amazing,” he tried again.
“Amazing? I was terrified!” I shouted.
His mouth snapped shut in surprise. “Terrified?”
“Yes! I don’t know any of those people! I don’t fit in with them! I had one conversation tonight that didn’t make me feel like a prize idiot! Even you looked uncomfortable there! Can you imagine if someone had dragged you to one of those parties for the very first time and neglected to tell you what to expect? Worse, imagine that they didn’t even say where you were going?”
“Where did you think we were going in a tux and eveningwear, love?” he asked kindly.
“Don’t patronize me, Thomas Abramson. Do you know what kind of shitstorm I’m in for tomorrow? You didn’t even think it was necessary to consult me before you fed our relationship to the media wolves! I step into a limo thinking we’re going to a fancy dinner or to see some show, and when I step out of it twenty minutes later, thousands of cameras are flashing in my face, and people I don’t give a damn about are demanding to know my name.”
He just stood there and stared blankly at me.
“How could you do this?” I wailed. “Why would you do this?”
“I was tired of hiding you from everyone.”
“It’s not just about you! I can’t believe you would be this insensitive. Do you even care?” I yelled.
He cut his eyes and pursed his lips in the first gesture of anger I had seen in him all evening. “Now wait just a moment. I’m not going to listen to you say that I don’t care.”
“What about this situation shows that you care about my feelings or my opinions?” I demanded.
“Stop it, Cristina.”
“No! You’re just mad because you don’t know what to say. You can’t even answer my question about why you would do something like this because you don’t know. It means that you never stopped to think about what it would mean for me . . . which then means, that you didn’t care enough to consider it!” My anger consumed me as I ranted on thoughtlessly.
“I said, stop it!” he shouted. Irritation built up in him with each ill-advised word that passed my lips.
“Don’t you dare tell me what to do! If you hate hearing me say that you don’t care, then you’d better start acting like you do!” I bellowed as the angry tears welled.
That did it. Tom’s eyes flashed furiously as he struggled to manage his temper. “You think I don’t care? Are you really that mental?” he yelled back
“Mental? How dare you!” I raged as the tears streamed down my face.
“Do you even know what the fuck you’re saying, or do you just like to hear yourself talk?” he demanded as his fury took over for one tense moment. Immediately afterward, I saw the dismay in his gaze as he realized what he had said and watched me cry in response.
“Don’t you dare curse at me!” I choked pathetically.
He closed his eyes for a moment to regain control of himself. When he opened them again, he yanked me into a rough embrace.
“I’m so sorry. God, I’m a dick.”
I was silent as I wrapped my arms around his torso, and he cradled my head in his hands.
“I’m sorry, Cris,” he whispered into my hair.
“I know.”
“I just—I can’t deal with you thinking I may not care. It’s like someone telling me I don’t care about my family or something. I don’t want to hear it. I guess I overreacted,” he continued soothingly.
“You guess? I thought Brits were cool under fire.” My voice was muffled against his chest.
“You’re one to talk . . . you’ve got quite a temper,” he said huskily.
“Pot, meet Kettle.”
“Kettle, I’m truly sorry for being such an arse.”
He placed each of his hands on either side of my face to direct my gaze towards his and smiled tentatively.
“I may not have a right to do this at the moment, but I want to ask you for a favor,” he said as he brushed the hair out of my eyes.
“What do you want?”
“Promise me you won’t say that rubbish again,” he requested.
I stared up at him.
He inhaled carefully before proceeding. “I do care—very much. In fact . . . I’m in love with you.”
I could feel my heart jump into my throat at his admittance. My mind was too filled with silly happiness to say anything. I merely smiled back at him as sweeter tears fell.
“Do you promise?” he whispered.
“I promise.”
He pressed his lips to mine slowly . . . his touch was careful at first, but it quickly escalated in intensity as I tangled my fingers in his hair. His hands raked across my body, and our mouths locked together as he lifted my short frame from the ground. He ambled back towards the bedroom, lowered me onto the bed, and his hand moved to the bottom of my dress to seductively slide from my ankle to hip. He rolled onto his back and pulled me on top of him. Electrified adrenaline coursed through my veins as I moved my mouth from his and brushed aside his tie to finish unbuttoning his shirt. I kissed his neck as I pulled the tie free and tossed it to the ground. He grabbed a handful of silk by my hip in an attempt to tug the hem of the dress upward.
“Thomas?” I breathed as I gazed down at him as my heart raced in anticipation.
His eyes were molten as they stared up at me with searing desire. “Yes?”
I Languorously dragged the tip of my tongue from the base of his neck upward to whisper in his ear, “I’m tired of just dreaming about you. Make love to me.”
“Hell yes.” His hands searched for the zipper of my dress as my fingers moved rapidly down the buttons of his shirt.
In mere moments, we had tugged free of our finery, and clothing worth thousands of dollars was strewn haphazardly across the floor. I was pretty certain Esteban would have a heart attack if he saw it.
“God, you’re so beautiful,” he said huskily as his eyes and palms sculpted across my skin. “Everything about you. . . .”
I placed my hands on each of his wrists to momentarily interrupt his exploration. Slowly, I moved my fingers up his arms, across his chest, and past his neck to tangle in his hair. I grabbed his head roughly and pulled his face to mine.
“Are you going to recite poetry, or are you going to live it?” I demanded.
With a low chuckle, he wisely chose the latter.
Love is trust. Love is hope. Love is oblivion.
Inhaling with measured breaths, I attempted to control my pounding heart and the correlative tremble of my limbs. Each caress elicited its own unique set of responses. Each kiss took me further from reality. My ex had been a careful, deliberate lover. Everything was meticulously choreographed. Having no basis for comparison, I had relished in his consideration and tenderness for the four years of our relationship. By contrast, Tom was incredibly instinctual. Passionately unpredictable. Breathtaking.
Soon, the memories of my past burned to cinder in the blaze of my present.
If ecstasy could be adequately depicted in words . . . there would be little need for the imagination.
“You’ve officially missed . . . eighteen calls,” I announced with glee as I looked at the screen of Tom’s iPhone.
“And you’ve missed . . . seven calls.” He tossed my cell back to the floor after a cursory glance.
“Ugh, I don’t want to return to the real world,” I groaned while pressing my face into the pillow dramatically.
“So don’t. My bed will miss you if you do,” he joked.
“It has been excellent company these last two days . . . and nights.”
He grinned and gathered me into his arms again. Our behavior for the rest of the weekend following the Vogue party had been exhilarating . . . and slightly mortifying. We had not set foot outside the sanctuary of the apartment building, and I was embarrassed to admit I had failed to dress myself properly since donning Esteban and J.D.’s Marchesa masterpiece. Tom’s T-shirts did not count as adequate attire.
“You realize I’m not giving this shirt back. It’s way too comfortable. Plus, it smells like you,” I proclaimed as I reached down to retrieve my weekend uniform from its resting place on the floor. Tom pulled me against his bare chest and trapped me in an embrace that made it impossible to move.
“I’ve always found it quite unfair how women can steal men’s clothes, and we don’t have the same luxury. Not that I envy you those string-in-the-arse panties. I still have no idea how the hell you wear those and manage to smile at the same time,” he teased.
“You get used to it. Not that I’m a staunch supporter of the thong or anything. It’s a necessary evil . . . like the government.”
I attempted to sit up in bed so I could yank the shirt over my head, but Tom refused to relinquish his hold on me.
“I don’t know where the hell you think you’re going.”
“I have to get ready! My stuff is all over the place, and I need to go to the airport in an hour!”
“Great. That gives us forty five minutes . . .”
“No!” I laughed as he rolled over onto me and tangled us amidst the jumble of sheets.
“That T-shirt is going to cost you . . . forty five minutes,” he murmured as he placed stupidity-inducing kisses on my neck and down my stomach.
“I’m not a hooker,” I gasped back as his palms curved behind my back for leverage. I was losing . . . and he knew it.
“No one’s calling you a hooker. I won’t be the only one who profits from this,” he spoke matter-of-factly as his hand moved behind my knee to angle my leg suggestively. His lips grazed tantalizingly above my midsection.
“When you put it that way. . . .”
An hour later, I had managed to throw my stuff into my bag without pausing to organize any of it. My hair was a disaster, and I was worried that I looked like I hadn’t left the bed all weekend (hah). But it was difficult for anything to mar our contentment as we rode down the elevator to Tom’s car.
You can imagine my surprise when Tom’s body tensed as we drove towards the security gate to exit the premises. As we rolled slowly past the sliding wrought iron, a small group of photographers aimed their large cameras at the vehicle.
“Have they been waiting there all this time?” I asked with dismay.
“Yes.” His tone was begrudging.
“My God! Why?”
“Sometimes they get paid tens of thousands of dollars for just one picture of a celebrity. That kind of money is a big motivator,” he stated grimly.
As we pulled up to the departure terminal at LAX, Tom grumbled an undecipherable string of expletives when he glanced in the rearview mirror.
“They followed us,” he intoned after he completed his sotto voce rant.
Sure enough, two vehicles halted immediately behind us, and car doors swung open as shutters clicked simultaneously.
He half-smiled in a bemused fashion at me.
“I had a really good time . . . minus the fight and the party,” I said softly.
“I had a really good time, including the fight and the party. You’re quite sexy when you’re mad,” he mocked affectionately as he reached over to run his right hand through my hair.
“Just when I’m mad? That sucks. I think you’re always sexy . . . well, most of the time.”
He laughed and leaned over to place a tender kiss on my forehead. I tilted my head upward and pressed my lips to the underside of his jaw before his mouth met mine in a lingering caress. For a moment, I completely forgot about everything else around me.
The noise from the photographers outside distracted us.
“Bollocks,” he muttered as he pulled away.
“I’d better go,” I whispered.
He unbuckled his seatbelt.
“You don’t need to come with me,” I said quickly.
“Yes, I do. Keep your head down, and try not to respond to anything they say to you.”
I wrapped my fingers around the door handle and took a deep breath.
“Cris?”
I turned my head towards Tom. “Yes?”
“I love you.” He opened his door and stepped out into the sunlight.
“Thomas! Look here! . . . Cristina!” Oh my God, how had they figured out my name!?
Tom ignored them as he grabbed my luggage and wrapped his arm around me protectively. We walked towards the doors leading into the terminal.
“How long have you been dating? Come on! Thomas! Cristina!”
“Call me when you land,” Tom whispered in my ear and released me just in front of the door. Everything had happened so hastily . . . and he was gone before I had a chance to say anything in response.
I strode through the sliding glass and into the rush of hassled people with burgeoning suitcases in tow trying to make their way to a ticket kiosk or a gate.
Disoriented, I stood in place for a moment before I spun towards the nearby window to glance back at the curb. Tom was halfway to his car with the paparazzi crowding around him.
Yanking out my cell phone, I typed one word:
Me (1:41 pm): Wait!
He paused and pulled his cell out of his back pocket to check the message. He turned quickly and saw me through the clear pane.
Blocked ID (1:41 pm): ?
I smiled at him before responding.
Me (1:41 pm): I forgot to tell you something.
Me (1:41 pm): I love you.
He checked the message and grinned back at me boyishly.
Blocked ID (1:42 pm): i know
Chapter Fifteen
From: Lt. Ryan Sullivan
Reply-To: ryan.sullivan4@us.army.mil
To: Cris Pereira <7crisp@gmail.com>
Date: Tues, July 28, 2009 at 9:42 AM
Subject: (no subject)
Cristina, I’ve left three messages on your voicemail and sent you several emails. It’s not like you to act this way. I need you to call me back.
Since you don’t seem to give a damn, I’ll say my piece here.
I miss you. I love you.
Ryan
From: Lt. Ryan Sullivan
Reply-To: ryan.sullivan4@us.army.mil
To: Cris Pereira <7crisp@gmail.com>
Date: Fri, Aug 21, 2009 at 4:54 PM
Subject: (no subject)
Since you still haven’t returned any of my messages, I went to your office today—I got a pretty big surprise whi
le there. Your boss said that you were in New York for a “movie premiere.” Looks like you’re having one heck of a rebound. Funny, I didn’t expect you to go for a pretty boy. When you come down from that cloud and get serious, I really need to see you.
Again, I love you. I’m really sorry, and I miss you like hell.
Ryan
“We will begin boarding Flight 1732 to London Gatwick starting with our special needs passengers and those traveling with small children.”
I hunched down in my seat and pulled the baseball cap lower onto my forehead as the crowd queuing by the gate shifted to allow the first passengers to board the flight. The desire to convey nondescript anonymity was behind each of my movements. Carefully, I picked up my purse and carry-on bag. As I stood in preparation to take a place in line, I saw a group of soldiers dressed in military fatigues walk past me towards their respective gate. The sight of their duffle bags and camouflage reignited a feeling of discomfort that had been growing in me for the last month—since the day I received the first of many messages from Ryan.
My curious side had been dying to know what he could possibly have to say after a year of trying to banish our time together from both his memory and reality. It was amazing that he still had the gall to contact me with anything sounding even remotely like a demand. Some people. . . .
My practical side really didn’t give a damn. Ryan had betrayed me. He had hurt me in one of the worst ways a lover could hurt another. It wasn’t enough that he cheated and threw it in my face—he lied to all of us. He lied to my friends . . . my family. He promised my father he would love me as I deserved to be loved.
He wasn’t worth the time it took to read those emails.
I had not responded to a single one of his messages, nor had I even listened to any of the voicemails. I simply deleted everything. If he could erase me from his life with such ease, then he certainly had no right to decide when and how he would reinstate my presence. What a selfish ass.
I considered telling Hana and Gita about his attempts to contact me, but quickly decided he didn’t deserve even a moment more of our consideration. As a result, no one knew anything about it, and that was the way I hoped it would stay.
Unfortunately, I could not press the Delete key on my curiosity.
“We will now begin boarding Business Class passengers and Executive Club members.”