Tryst

by S. L. Jennings

  As soon as Rebel Wilson introduces them, I’m on the edge of my seat, struggling to breathe through my undefined angst. The lights go up, revealing the band, and their singer positioned front and center, his head down. The music begins, and he lifts his chin slowly, dramatically pulling the audience in to his world. God, he looks good. Black jeans that fit him like a glove, charcoal gray tee, and a black leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. The silver hoop in his nose matches the rings on his fingers and the crucifix hanging from his neck. He briefly spoke of the faith he was raised in, and how it affected his family ties. Maybe religion is his last link to his parents. Or maybe it’s merely a fashion statement.

  The music curls around the first lyrics of the song, and I audibly gasp when I realize what song they’re performing. It’s the song—the song—he sang to me that night. The song that fell from his trembling lips as he surged inside me, filling my body and soul with his lustful submission.

  I never thought I’d be able to hear that song again.

  Yet, here I am, glued to the screen, watching him sing it with so much zeal and conviction that I swear I hear the rasp of his voice quiver with emotion. Not sadness or distress. Maybe longing . . . desire. As if he’s remembering the last time he sang it too. I’ve never heard it like this before. I’ve never listened with ears that have felt the brush of his soft lips and the tingle of whispered words. And now that I do, I’m right back to where I started. Drowning in denial, falling in the farce that I could somehow be over him.

  The crowd erupts into wild cheers at the end of the song, and the show cuts to commercial. I force myself to turn off the TV. If I watch any more, I may find myself hailing a cab to Rockefeller Center.

  I take a hot shower, and slip on my new pajamas, and resign to call it a night. It’s late, yet Tucker still isn’t home. I don’t expect him to be. The way he ran out of here, wearing that solemn look that spoke of death and despair, I doubt I’ll see much of him for the rest of the weekend.

  Sleep comes easier than I expect, and I’m caught within the deepest, warmest parts of my mind when something startles me awake. I blink rapidly, wondering if it was a dream, when I hear the piercing ring of my phone.

  “Hello?” I answer, my voice choked with sleep.

  “You need to get down here.”

  I clear my throat and push myself up on tired limbs. “What? Who is this?”

  “Caleb. Now get your ass out of bed and get to the Monkey Bar, pronto.”

  I look over at the red-lit numbers on my bedside clock. “Caleb, it’s 3 A.M. What the hell is this about?”

  “Our client, that’s what this is about. And right now, he is pissy fucking drunk, high out of his fucking mind, and asking for you. I was able to get the bar cleared out, but the rest is on you. You wanted the job . . . now it’s time to work.”

  “Caleb . . . I can’t . . . I don’t.”

  He heaves out a frustrated breath, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and gravely. “If I could deal with this shit on my own, do you think I would call you? Obviously, you’re needed. So wipe the drool off your lip, and get down here before this kid completely ruins his career.”

  With that, he hangs up, not even giving me a chance to ask for directions, or even an address. Luckily, the cab driver knows the place, and once I throw on some clothes, I’m whisked away into the wee hours of the morning to play babysitter to a shit-faced Ransom Reed.

  “There she is!” I hear as soon as I walk in. I look around the dark, dingy place and cringe. Thank God, I’m up to date on all my shots. The bar top looks like it’s been spit-shined in Hepatitis. There’s music playing—piano—but it’s not from a stereo system. And while the place looks relatively empty, there seems to be some commotion toward the stage.

  Caleb approaches me first, and the alarmed look on his face tells me that he is in no mood for jokes. “Took you long enough,” he grumbles. “Look, try not to stay here too long with him. The papzz are bound to show up any second.”

  “Stay here with who? What the hell is going on, Caleb?”

  “Ransom. He’s . . . having one of his moments. We’ve done everything we can to get him to come down, but nothing is working.”

  Before I can inquire anymore, the ear-splitting racket of glass shattering sounds from the front of the room. There’re shouts, then laughter, just as Cash Colby comes stalking up to us.

  “Is this her?” he barks, clearly pissed off. He runs an agitated hand through his sandy blond locks and sucks his teeth.

  “Yeah,” Caleb answers. “Cash, this is Heidi DuCane. Heidi, Cash Colby.”

  I extend a hand, but he completely ignores it, looking back to Caleb with eyes the color of polished steel. “I’m fucking sick of this, man. Every week, there’s something new with him. We can’t keep covering for his ass.”

  “I know, I know,” Caleb assures, his expression anything but confident. “He just needs time. Maybe if he takes some time off—”

  “Fuck that. We have an international tour in a matter of months. If he doesn’t get his shit together, I’m done.”

  Cash stalks toward the entrance and disappears into the night without so much as a goodbye to the rest of his bandmates. Rude ass. Maybe he does have Bieber’s cuntiness, as well as his looks.

  Soon after Cash leaves, Gunner Davies comes to stand beside Caleb, placing a hand on his shoulder. Caleb drops his head and nods. “I know, Gunner. I know. I’m just not sure what else we can do.”

  With that, Gunner presses his hauntingly light blue eyes into me so intensely that I nearly gasp. They’re so pale that the stark contrast of his black hair and clothing make him seem almost otherworldly. He gives me a single, stiff nod and walks away without even uttering a word.

  “What was that about?” I whisper to Caleb, unnerved by their one-sided conversation and the force of Gunner’s stare.

  “He doesn’t want you to get involved in this. He doesn’t think it’s fair to make this someone else’s problem.”

  “Not fair to who?”

  Caleb shrugs. “To you. To the band. They’re a tightly knit group. Involving someone else is risking exposure.”

  “Exposure? What would I possibly expose?”

  Before Caleb can answer, Striker Voss approaches us, his silver adorned face looking more distraught than I’ve ever seen it. He always seems so playful in public, so energetic on stage. Now he looks exhausted, drained both mentally and physically. Kinda like a father who has just had to bail his teenage kid out of jail in the middle of the night.

  “I got him to take a few swigs of water, but he still refuses to eat anything. Caleb, I hate to leave you with him, but I’ve gotta get home. The wife will already have my balls for this.”

  “Yes, of course. Get home to your family, Striker. We can take it from here.” He extends a hand toward me and gives a weak smile. “This is Heidi. Hopefully she can talk him into getting into a cab and heading home.”

  “Heidi,” Striker says, holding out a large hand for me to shake. He looks so different up close, even taller than I imagined. And although he’s inked and skewered to death, there’s a certain gentleness in his eyes. “Good to finally meet you. Sorry it’s under these circumstances.”

  “Likewise,” I reply, taking his hand for a short second. “What exactly are the circumstances?”

  Striker looks toward the darkened stage and exhales heavily before looking back to me. “Ransom,” is all he says, as if that’s all the explanation I’ll need. And truth be told, it kinda is.

  He bids us both good night, waves to the barkeep, and follows his brothers into the night.

  “Well, Blondie. You’re up,” Caleb says once we’re alone.

  “Up against what?”

  “Go see for yourself. I’ve gotta fix this shit before it gets any worse.”

  Right on cue, Caleb fishes out his cell and barks a greeting into the receiver, stepping away for privacy. I roll my eyes. I didn’t even hear it ring. He probab
ly just wants to escape like the rest of them.

  On tentative legs, I make my way to the front of the bar. It’s dark and smoky, yet there’s a single spotlight focused on the stage. The room is tiny, but I couldn’t get a clear view from the entrance since it was blocked by a partition meant to ward off prying outside eyes. As I round the corner, I’m grateful for the visual obstruction. And sad that I can never unsee what sits before me.

  Ransom Reed is slouched over a piano, the top of it littered with beer bottles and empty glasses. There’s an overflowing ashtray that looks to be filled with at least a full pack of butts, some of them still emitting wisps of toxic vapors. And that’s not even counting the stuff he can legally smoke.

  My heart lurches at the sight of his disheveled clothing and mussed hair, so far from his usual fresh-sexed look. Now, he just looks sloppy, and a bit dingy. Still, he’s beautiful. Inebriated or not, I can’t fathom a world where he isn’t the most alluring man alive.

  I’m only a few feet away from him when he finally looks up from the piano keys he’s been staring at. At first, his glossy-eyed gaze doesn’t register, but after a few blinks, he focuses on me. Twin flashes of pain and anger contort his features, before he quickly smoothes them into a lazy smile.

  “Well, well, well . . . if it isn’t my hardworking publicist. Always there to answer my calls and show up to my appearances. Just like the good girl that she is.” His tone is casual, but I don’t miss the venom in his words.

  I force myself to close the distance between us until I’m standing before him at the piano. The rest of the place appears to be empty now, but I don’t want to risk any eavesdroppers.

  “I’m sorry, Ransom. Something came up, and—”

  “Something came up? Something more important than me and what I need?” He barks out a harsh laugh, throwing his head back dramatically. “Of course, it did. Let me guess, your husband came up. Didn’t he, Heidi? Oh, he was up for you, all right.”

  “Stop it, Ransom,” I grit out, looking around to see if anyone heard him. “That’s enough.”

  “Is it enough, Heidi? Have you had enough of me? Because, baby, I assure you, I have so much more to give you. And that is what you want, right? For me to give you . . .” He reaches down between his jean-clad thighs and grips himself, gently squeezing more than a handful. “. . . this. All this. Every last long, thick inch fucking you crazy until your eyes roll to the back of your head. That is what you want, right?”

  “No!” I retort, my face hot with frenzied anger. “How dare you. How dare you fucking speak to me that way.”

  “Speak to you that way?” He leans forward, clumsily placing his hands on the keys so that it creates a composition of chaos. I look down to see that they’re all scuffed up, the top layer of skin on his knuckles caked with dried blood. What the hell? “You like it. You begged for it. Don’t try to act like I sought you out. And now that you’ve gotten what you want, you just throw me away, is that it? Just use me like a fucking dildo and throw me back in your lingerie drawer with all your other dirty, little toys.”

  This time, he doesn’t even try to mask the truth on his face. There’s pain there. Rejection. Remorse. Even through the haze of alcohol and God knows what else, Ransom is hurt. I hurt him. And I don’t even realize how.

  I take a deep breath and steel what’s left of my nerves before sitting down next to him on the piano bench. He reeks of booze and stale cigarettes, and I resist the urge to turn my head away. An action like that would only further alienate him, and the objective right now is to get through to him. To make him feel like he is wanted and respected, even in his debilitated state.

  “Ransom, I’m sorry. Whatever you think I did, I’m sorry. You’re right; I should have answered your call. I should have been there for you when you needed me. How about you let me take you home and we can talk more?”

  “Why?” he sneers. “Will your husband be there? Does he want to watch that too?”

  “No, Ransom. I promise, just you and me. Let’s get you out of here, get you cleaned up, and have a cup of coffee. Doesn’t that sound much better than sitting in a grimy bar in the middle of the night?”

  He almost smiles, but shakes his head instead. “Not yet. I want to play a song for you first.”

  “A song?” I take a beat to erase the annoyance in my voice when he gives me a pointed look. “Don’t you want to play it for me later? After you’ve gotten some sleep and let your hands heal?”

  He looks down at his battered knuckles and frowns, as if he’s just realizing that they’re raw and reddened. “No,” he replies, shaking his head. “I want to play it for you now.”

  “Fine,” I sigh. “But then home after that, ok?”

  “Ok.” He flexes his bruised fingers before lithely placing them on the keys. Even intoxicated, his hands are incredibly graceful. With the first few notes, his eyes close and his head dips back to face the ceiling, surrendering himself to the music. Giving over to pure, raw emotion that can only be translated through song. He begins to sing, and soon I am just as wrapped up in the ballad, completely swaddled in the sound of his voice.

  Your lips taste like lies

  So sweet that they sting my eyes

  I lift my face to the sky

  Drown in the sorrow of angel cries

  It’s amazing, every note, every inflection of his voice accompanied by the piano . . . pure, unadulterated magic. But it’s sad. Much too melancholy to accompany such a beautiful melody.

  I let him finish his song as I sit in silence, contemplating the inspiration of those lyrics. Where does such sadness stem from? How can a man who appears to have it all—youth, beauty, fame, fortune—exude so much pain?

  When he slides his fingers from the ivory keys, his whole body slumps over and half of his weight topples on top of me while the other lands on the piano. I yelp underneath the heft of his frame and struggle to get him upright. Luckily, Caleb emerges from some hidden room and helps to get Ransom off me.

  “I need to get him in a cab and get him home,” I grunt, trying to transfer the much larger man’s weight.

  “I’ve got a car waiting out back. Take it. The driver’s discreet. I’ll grab a cab.”

  He helps me to the back entrance where a black Lincoln MKT awaits. After maneuvering Ransom into the backseat, who appears to have passed out, I slide in next to him, allowing his heavy head to fall across my lap.

  “Heidi . . .” Caleb begins from the doorway. He looks away into the black night and then back to us. “I told you to be careful with him.”

  “What makes you think that I wasn’t?” I frown.

  He purses his lips knowingly, flattening them into a thin line. “Just get him in bed. And call me later.”

  He slams the car door on my blank expression and taps the roof of the car, signaling the driver to go. When we turn onto the main road, he asks, “Where to, ma’am?”

  Shit.

  I don’t even know where Ransom lives. And I damn sure can’t take him back to my place. And rolling up to a hotel at this time of night will definitely have the blogs talking by dawn.

  I look down at Ransom’s sleeping form. He looks so sweet and small right now. So peaceful in his chemically induced dreams. I lightly slap his face, and of course, he doesn’t respond. I do it again, adding enough force to create a smacking sound. When that doesn’t work, I slap and shake his heavy body until he begins to groan.

  “Ransom!” I shout directly in his ear. “I need you to tell me where you live.”

  He groans again, as if every cell in his body aches. Considering the stench coming from his pores, I bet he’ll be feeling even worse in a few hours.

  “You know,” is all he grunts out, before drifting off to sleep.

  “Huh? Ransom wake up! What do you mean, I know?”

  He mumbles something unintelligible before I pick up on a clue that immediately lets me know where to take him. Hell, I should’ve known.

  “. . . I fucked you on my bed.”


  I look to the driver with my face flamed with embarrassment, silently praying that he didn’t catch that last part. “Take us to the Royal, please.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  The Royal is not the usual haunt for celebrities, or even celeb wannabes. To be frank, the only thing royal about it is its name. It’s considered boutique in its size and amenities, and while the décor is posh and modern, it doesn’t scream opulence. And right at this moment, I could not be more grateful for that.

  The lobby is completely empty, with not even a doorman in sight. Our driver helps Ransom from the backseat, who finally has decided to wake long enough to walk inside. Thank God for that. There was no way I could carry him.

  By some miracle, Ransom successfully staggers to the elevators and stays upright long enough to press in his code to the penthouse suites. Funny. I don’t remember there being one last week when we were here. But then again, I was with Caleb, and far too high on champagne and nervous energy to really pay attention.

  When the elevator begins to lurch upward, he slumps back against the far end wall, opposite where I stand. Although we’re not even close to touching, his glassy-eyed gaze sweeps over me with what can only be described as pure fire and malice. He looks at me like he hates me, like I disgust him, yet I can’t find the nerve to abandon him. Not when I know that he needs me more than he hates me. More than I hate what we’re doing to Tucker.

  The doors slide open once we reach the top, and I go to help Ransom out to the hall. At first, he flinches at my touch, but his body can’t support its own weight, so he lets me lead him to the door of the suite. The odor of alcohol and smoke singes my nose, but it’s almost completely overshadowed by the heat of his body against mine.

  “I need your key, Ransom,” I tell him.

  He looks perplexed at my words for a split second before stuffing a hand down his back pocket and fishing out a keycard. He hands it to me instead of sliding it in the card slot attached to the door. When I take it from him, our fingers brush against each other, and while I’ve had him literally asleep in my lap for the last twenty minutes, this . . . this seems more intimate. Like maybe it’s a subconscious thing for us to want to feel the other’s skin. Be in the other’s skin.