"Are we almost there?" I ask. Then I look up and see nothing but blue water in front of us.
"Uh huh," he replies while fiddling with one of the knobs on the control panel.
My stomach flips over. He can't be serious. There's not a patch of dry land anywhere in sight.
And it does nothing to ease my anxiety when I hear a giant, creaking bang.
"What's that?" I ask, nearly jumping out of my seat.
"It's just the landing gear coming down. Relax."
I swear he chuckles under his breath, but I'm not sure.
"Drake, unless you're part dolphin and you plan on swimming to your ocean home, there's nowhere out here where you can even think about landing this thing."
But my stomach dips again when he turns the plane at a forty-five degree angle, and a white, sandy beach suddenly comes into view.
"What about there?" he teases when he watches my mouth drop open.
"You own that?"
"Yep."
"The whole thing?"
"The whole thing," he says with a boyish grin.
"You really are rich, aren't you?" I gaze down in amazement when we fly over the palm trees lining the beach and a miniature landing strip appears below us.
He leans over the wheel in anticipation. "Get ready. The air currents off the ocean tend to be strong, so landings are a little bumpy," he says jovially, like he's hoping he does have to fight the wind, eager for the challenge.
He whistles cheerfully while timing his approach, and I sit back, trying to be as quiet as I can, my stomach plummeting to my toes. We get closer and closer until I think we're going to glide right over it, but then he lets out a grunt of satisfaction when the wheels sharply hit the pavement, causing me to bounce around in my seat.
"That's what I'm talkin' about!" he exclaims, slapping his hand against the wheel, a hint of his Southern accent coming through.
All I can do is sigh in relief, my nerves stretched razor thin. But we're on the ground. We made it.
He flicks a number of switches, dulling the roar of the engines and directing the plane toward a small hangar at the far end of the runway.
He glances over at me. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
I shake my head because there's no way I can talk as I take in the full extent of our isolated surroundings. I try to swallow past my trepidation as the conversation I had with my dad before we left fills my head.
"Eva, I really don't think it's such a good idea for you to be going down there with him. I can't believe Diane is on board with it. I'm afraid she's too concerned about what's best for him and not thinking about the danger she's putting you in. Isn't that where Drake supposedly holds all his wild and crazy parties? Anyone could pull up in a boat and supply him with what he wants. You'll be cut off. You'll—"
"Dad, it's okay. Trust me. I won't lose control of the situation. I've got this."
"I hope so, my darling girl. I truly hope so. I know you care about him because you care about everybody, but don't forget the rules. If he tries to lead you into something inappropriate, don't fall for it. I know you've had a little crush on him all these years, but don't do anything foolish. You can't get involved with him. He's an addict. He's your client. Remember that. Don't let him throw away his recovery by allowing him to seduce you."
I knew that Dad would freak out, but hearing his worry for me seep through the phone really rattled me. Despite the dream I just had, I would never get into a romantic entanglement with Drake at this point. A recovering addict shouldn't even think about anything serious until at least a year after completing treatment. There's such a danger of replacing the chemical high of drugs with the emotional high of lust, sex, love—whatever you want to call it. Dad's right. I know the rules. I can't let Drake's flirting go to my head. I owe him more than that. I'm not his enabler. I'm his lifeline back to sobriety.
But since I've been working one-on-one with Drake, Dad's had no one at Harbor House to pick up the slack. He's the only licensed therapist available until I get back, and we can't afford to hire someone to fill in temporarily. I feel terrible that he's managing everything on his own with only the help of our tiny volunteer staff to see him through. They're usually only responsible for answering the phones and putting cookies and juice out whenever there's a Cocaine Anonymous meeting.
In fact, the only time I've seen Dad since that Friday night game at Kings Stadium was when he stopped by with my acupuncture kit while Drake was sleeping it off. He brought me a box of Krispy Kreme doughnuts to give me a much-needed sugar rush, a treat he knows I've loved since I was a kid.
Just thinking about him makes my heart ache. I miss him so much, and I know he misses me, too. We've never been apart from each other for this long before, and the separation's been hard on us both. We're a team. It's how we function best. It feels strange being out on my own, trying to convince myself that I can work outside a group setting and be someone's sober companion. It's daunting that I'm in the driver's seat when it comes to steering Drake down the road to recovery. Whether he succeeds or not is all going to depend on me.
I haven't lived with an addict since Jared died. I moved in with him because I cared about him, not because I was getting paid to do it. It was a personal decision, not a means to advance my career. But seeing Drake through his addiction is another story entirely. Diane placed me in a very unusual position by getting me to take this job. I've never been hired by someone to look after an addict before. I've never had a boss to answer to except Dad. And what makes it all the more confusing is that the professional boundaries I so painstakingly put in place are now starting to blur. I'm feeling things for Drake that go well beyond a strictly client-therapist relationship. I'm getting emotionally involved, just like I did with Jared, and I'm not sure I can survive having my heart ripped open again if Drake suffers a relapse. Or worse.
But the time to dwell on my misgivings is over when Drake jumps out of the plane and leaves me sitting there, all strapped in. I blink, trying to clear my head. I'm here to do a job, and that's what I'm going to do. I hastily work at removing my seat belt, but he opens the door and swats my hand away.
"Let me do it," he says, reaching across my lap to unbuckle the clasp.
He's so close, his body hovering above mine. He's standing with one foot on the tiny rail beneath the door, balancing himself over me. His other knee is bent on the seat, jutting into my hip. I feel him start to tremble when he slides his fingers around my waist.
"Are you okay?" I ask, peering up into those blue depths that are able to captivate me far more than the vast ocean we just flew across.
"Yeah. Just got a little woozy there for a minute." He backs away from me, holding on to the doorframe as he slowly lowers himself to the ground.
That was too long of a flight for him to pilot alone, but he'll never admit it. I know I put both of us at risk by letting him get all domineering with me and fly us down here. I can't let it happen again. He's a big, strong man, and sometimes, I forget the physical toll the weeks at the Roosevelt Building took on his body. His color's back. His eyes are clear. He's getting there, but he's not a hundred percent yet.
I scoot to the side, working the stiffness out of my legs. I'm ready to climb out of the plane myself when I notice the hand he's holding out to me. I'm not one for accepting help though. I'm a tough New Yorker. I'm used to having doors slammed in my face and holding on to the hand strap on the subway when no man will give up his seat.
It's what I'm accustomed to. No one gives anyone a free ride in life. A girl like me has to depend on herself. The only way I'm going to get by is through the sweat of my brow. I can't afford to start getting soft now just because the baseball player with the biggest contract in the majors is trying to cover his display of weakness by making me aware of my own.
I ignore his hand and jump down beside him. I wince when a shot of pain sears through my calves. Yep, that was a higher leap than I thought. He throws me a curious glance when I grimace.
"We're below the southernmost tip of the United States. What did you expect?" He raises an eyebrow at me, his wise-guy nature reasserting itself after I just brushed him off.
"Is that your house?" I ask, squinting off in the distance, my heart sinking at how far we have to walk.
"Yep." He wastes no time in opening the hangar and depositing our luggage on the ground.
The heat is rising off the blacktop, and I feel like I'm sweating through my shirt, even with the ocean breeze ruffling my hair. I don't even want to think about how I'm going to drag my suitcase through what looks like half a mile of burning sand.
"Here." He strides toward me, taking his sunglasses out of his front pocket and placing them on my face.
I'm so stunned that I let them slide right down my nose. They feel way too big, and they must look it, because he just grins at me, using his finger to position them where they belong.
"Stand under the wing. It'll give you some shade. I'll be right back." He taps the tip of my nose with his finger before walking behind the hangar and out of view.
He's gone quite a while, and I start to get antsy. I gaze up at the white-washed walls of the house, and I wonder what he has stashed inside there. I really should do a sweep of it before I let him go in. He could be up there right now for all I know, taking a hit. I thought he'd be right back, but it's been almost fifteen minutes now. How could I've been so stupid to let him leave my side?
I rush across the landing strip and struggle up the sand dune in my open-toed sandals. My feet feel like they're on fire, but I keep going. I look around at the nearby palm trees. If the doors to the house are locked and I can't get in, I can always use one of the branches and smash through a window. If he's all alone in there, God only knows what he's up to.
I roughly comb my hair out of my face and kick my shoes off once I hit the stone walkway leading to the house, but I still have a ways to go. Perspiration trickles down my back, and I trudge on, needing to get in there before he does something we'll both regret.
Beep…beep…BEEP!
I halt when I see a large shadow looming up behind me. What the—?
"You didn't think I was going to make you walk all the way up here, did you?" He's laughing at me, his wet T-shirt clinging to his body, as he sits behind the wheel of a golf cart, our bags strapped to the back. "Sorry I took so long. I had a quick dip in the ocean to revive myself since I didn't get a chance to dream hot, sexy dreams like you did on the plane."
He winks at me, and I'm grateful that my face is already red and sweaty, hiding the blush that's creeping up my cheeks. Oh no…please tell me I wasn't talking about him in my sleep. But even if I did say his name, the only way I'm going to regain the upper hand is by fighting fire with fire.
"Well, if you have another bulk-sized box of condoms in your bedroom drawer up there, trust me, you won't be needing them."
"Is that right?" He throws his arm across the back of the seat, smiling at me before getting out of the golf cart.
I take a step back when he stalks toward me, unsure of where this is going. I have to hold him off. Do whatever is necessary. So I stick out my hand.
"Keys."
"Keys?" he asks, crinkling his brow at me. "For what?"
"For me to search your house before I let you inside." I stand firm, even when the water droplets from his hair fall onto my outstretched fingers.
"Jesus, Eva. There's nothing in there." He flings his hands out, getting distraught.
I examine him closely. Did he take anything before he jumped in the water? Did he have a supply hidden in the hangar?
"I'll be the judge of that." I tap my foot on the flat stone in front of me, letting him know I'm not going to stand around all day in the hot sun, waiting for him to make up his mind.
"C'mon," he says, taking my hand and guiding me toward the golf cart.
"Drake, I'm not going anywhere with you until you give me your keys." I struggle to free my hand, but he won't let go.
He spins around, bends down, and scoops me into his arms. The slick curves of his muscles through his tight, wet shirt send a delicious tingle right through me. The hair on his chest is starting to grow back, and the roughness of it pokes through the thin, drenched cotton. Subconsciously, I lift my hand to rub away the goose bumps that are popping up on my arms and I end up grazing the area right above his heart.
He stops, his whole body shuddering at my touch. He exhales sharply before taking my hand in his and drawing it away from his body.
"Don't," he says, his voice rough and deep. "I've been hidden away with you for weeks. I haven't had time to get it waxed."
I want to giggle because it sounds like he's apologizing to me for not keeping up with his "manscaping" appointments. I don't care that he's not all silky smooth. To be honest, I kind of like him better this way. The first time he bared his chest to me, he was too unbelievably perfect, like he'd walked off the set of an underwear ad. For a guy, he seems to have all of these little grooming hang-ups I don't think I'll ever understand. I run my gaze over his hard, chiseled muscles outlined by his skintight tee, and all I want to do is run my hand over them again and again.
That's why I need him to put me down.
I clench my jaw, willing myself to do whatever it takes to get him to do just that—even though it's only going to make me want him even more. But I got a response out of him the first time; my only option is to try it again.
I return my hand to his chest and glide it softly over him. His muscles ripple in response, and he lets out a low, tortured groan.
"Eva…" he mutters, loosening his grip on me.
But I was right. It works like a charm.
He deposits me in the front seat of the golf cart, where at least I stand some chance of resisting his advances. But his hands remain at my waist as he gazes into my eyes like he's trying to come to a decision. He splays his fingers over my thighs, going lower until he's gripping my knees with both hands.
"I'm going to take you to my only stash on the island, and I'm going to let you destroy whatever's there. But I want you to take me at my word and not go through the rest of my things. This isn't like my place back in New York. There are things here that are personal, stuff I don't want you combing through."
He's not playing fair when his thumbs begin to lightly stroke the back of my knees…because it feels incredible. He knows what he's doing. It only takes the slightest bit of pressure, and I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to stifle the moan of pleasure he's building inside me.
His eyes find mine, and it's like he's watching me, taking his time, guiding his hands over my body to see what I'll respond to. And it's that sense of an intimate connection I'm getting from him that makes what he's doing to me that much hotter. He's coming on to me big time, yet it feels like such a selfless act because he's not concentrating on what he wants. Instead, he's making it all about me.
I let my head roll back, unable to think straight. I have to tell him to stop. This isn't right. But I wish I didn't have to. His hands are so big and warm and… I close my eyes when his thumb skims my inner thigh, slowly working its way up.
Oh God, I have to stop this now.
"Sorry, but I have to search everywhere," I whisper, letting my breath out in a rush. "It's nonnegotiable."
He sighs heavily, releasing me and making me ache for the warmth his fingers were stirring within me. He moves his hands away from me, but I can tell he's not mad, just disappointed because he thinks I don't trust him. But I'm just doing my job. I can't let what he was doing to me get in the way of that.
I sit up in the seat as he gets behind the wheel. My panties are clinging to me, and I feel all flushed and bothered. I've never had a man take me that far that fast and then not finish me off—and it's so damn frustrating. All it would take would be one thrust from him between my legs and I'd shatter all around him.
But I can't think of him like that. I won't think of him like that. Not when he's talking about secret stashes…
I run the back of my hand across my forehead, trying to pull myself together. He's taking us to the furthermost point on the island. I can see a dock and what looks like a small warehouse set into the base of a cliff. He cuts the engine and gets out, not bothering to wait for me to catch up. He enters a complicated code into what appears to be a security keypad. There are multiple solar panels on the roof, and there's a definite humming noise coming from inside. He opens the door and coaxes me forward when a blast of cool air hits my legs.
"What it is? Some kind of meat locker?" I tease, but his blue-green eyes don't twinkle back at me.
"No, it's a temperature-controlled, pharmaceutical storage facility." He moves aside, allowing me to step inside.
And then my eyes fall on case after refrigerated case of human growth hormone. There must be hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of inventory stored behind glass. The immense scale of it is mind boggling.
"I told you I did some drug running for my family," he utters behind me, his voice sounding flat and dead to my ears. "I just didn't tell you they had me supplying all of Major League Baseball with PEDs."
Chapter Thirteen
Eva
I roll my sleeves up and dump yet another vial of HGH into the medical waste bucket beside me.
For the past two hours, Drake and I have been destroying nearly his entire stockpile of PEDs, mostly in silence. He knows he's going to get in a lot of trouble for doing this, but he's doing it anyway, and that shows me just how much he's grown since I met him.
The old Drake Schultz never would have willingly shown me this. In fact, I probably never would've known that this offshore storage facility existed back here. I would've remained blissfully ignorant of the whole operation. But he chose to tell me, and that says something.
Now, if I can only get him to talk about what this warehouse is doing here.
"Drake," I say through the noise of empty glass containers clinking against each other as he drags another full bucket over near the door.
Inside Game Page 9