“I know what you’re thinking,” Caleb claims before I have to say it out loud. “And you’re wrong. Music is the only thing that kid is serious about. He never performs less than completely sober, not even a drop of beer. It’s the one pure part of him that he keeps for himself. The one thing that he can offer with one hundred percent honesty.”
I stare at Caleb for a long beat, waiting for the rest of the joke, but he only gazes back with total confidence. He’s telling the truth. He really believes that the only time Ransom isn’t high is when he is on stage. Humph. Interesting. Maybe what they say about artists is true. Maybe their art truly is the source of their sanity and the villain of their demise.
We watch the show from backstage, jamming out to The Roots and laughing at Jimmy’s witty banter. He slow jams the news and plays Password with Reese Witherspoon and Josh Duhamel. It’s great, all lighthearted fun and games. But when Jimmy introduces tonight’s musical guest, Ransom, to the stage, I instantly know that shit just got real.
“Fuck,” Caleb spits out under his breath as the lights go up to reveal the foursome, all decked out in black. The music starts, and the roaring crowd simultaneously calms into hushed silence.
“What?” I know something isn’t right, but I’m just not sure what it is.
Caleb pulls out his phone and starts texting furiously. He doesn’t look up when he answers. “The motherfucker changed the song they rehearsed. This isn’t what they prepared at sound check.”
“Fuck,” I say, mimicking Caleb’s earlier sentiment. “He can’t do that. He can’t do that, right?”
“He just did.”
I look around, my mind working double time to find a way to fix this debacle, but it’s too late. The sounds of electric guitar are already echoing throughout the studio, along with the hypnotic rhythm of drums. Even though the band could play just about anything on their own, The Roots accompany them to add an extra dimension of sound. Luckily, they know this, which is surprising, since it’s not a Ransom original. I can’t even place what it is exactly.
Until he sings.
I should have known. I should have fucking known. Of course, he’s still pissed at me and wants to let the world know just how much of a mind-fucking slut I am. And maybe he should. If this is what it takes for him to let this go, then better to do it in song than let it play out on TMZ.
But as he belts out the first verse of Prince’s “Darling Nikki,” a cover they featured on their last album, I know that this is so much more than musically venting. Ransom isn’t . . . right. He looks good, and he’s engaging the crowd in that wildly sensual way that gets them screaming for more, but there’s just something off about his movements. Even his voice isn’t as crisp as it usually sounds. There’s something lying underneath it, be it pain or desire or shame. I just know this isn’t the Ransom Reed I saw kill it in front of the massive audience at Madison Square Garden just two Fridays ago.
Still, the band finishes to a cheering crowd and a standing ovation, which is a good sign, despite the glaring truth staring us in the eye. Ransom wouldn’t know it though. As soon as the music stops and Jimmy appears on stage, holding a vinyl copy of their last LP, Ransom drops the mic on the stage and walks off, brusquely pushing past the host and his bandmates. And me.
“Never performs less than sober, huh?” I say to Caleb, both of us too stunned to do more than just stand there.
“Holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck,” he groans.
“Yeah. My sentiments exactly.” I look over at the shell-shocked agent and sigh, releasing my last bit of resolve. “So about getting him out of town . . . I think I might be able to help with that.”
Chapter Nineteen
Convincing Ransom of getting out of the city is much easier than Caleb and I anticipate, and we’re left wondering if the young rocker was already getting burned out of “the life.” We knew that confronting him after his grand performance would only lead to tragedy, so we waited until Tuesday—today—to give him the ultimatum—take some time out or we walk. Both of us. I can’t understand why that would be a big enough incentive, but apparently, it works.
Now, convincing Tucker? That’s a different story. One that I’m not quite prepared to hear.
I get home from work at my usual time, knowing that coming in late would only agitate him and make it harder to plead my case. He’s sitting at the bistro table, sipping a cup of tea and reading a document from a stack of papers in a file folder. The scents of fresh herbs, tomatoes, and lemon waft from the kitchen, and my stomach growls. Even though Lucia has already left to go home for the evening, she always leaves dinner in the oven. Tonight smells like her famous citrus herb chicken.
Tucker looks up as soon as I approach and smiles, although I can tell it’s forced. He looks tired . . . even older. I can’t imagine what must be troubling him, and I make it a point not to ask. That’s our thing—work stays at work. Still, I can see the past few days have worn on him, and I am yearning for him to let me comfort him.
“Hey babe,” I say, wearing a genuine grin. “Something smells good.” I kiss him on his full lips and go into the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. I’ll need it for the conversation we’re about to have.
“Lucia made chicken and a Caprese salad.”
“I was talking about you.” I turn to give him a wink and see him soften just a fraction. Ugh. I hate to spring this on him, especially with how up and down things have been for us this past week. “Want a glass?” I ask holding up a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.
“No thanks,” he sighs, looking back down at the papers. I watch him for a beat, sipping my wine, when he looks back up at me, the defeat in his eyes so strong it takes everything inside me not to run to him and fall at his feet. “I lost someone. I lost a patient.”
“What?” This time I don’t hesitate. I put down my glass and go to him.
“Yeah. Young kid, seventeen. There was nothing I could do, but still . . . I feel responsible. I knew him. I knew he was struggling, and I tried everything I could to reach him outside of moving him in and making him sleep on our couch. He was alone . . . he was lonely. His parents were in Monaco when he was brought in after he OD’d. Took them two days to get back here to see about their son. Two days. Apparently, they had been planning that trip for months.”
Without a word, I slide onto his lap and wrap my arms around him, just trying to absorb his pain. He cared for that kid, just like he does all his patients. He knows he’s not supposed to, but Tucker can’t help it. He’s one of those genuinely good, kind souls. He went in to psychiatry because he wanted to help the people whose wounds weren’t visible to the outside world. He understood that suffering inside the prison of your mind was far worse than any iron shackles inside a jail cell. And he had helped people . . . tons of them. But sometimes, he lost them too. They were just too far gone . . .
“I was thinking . . . maybe it’s time we took a vacation. I need a break, Bunny. This one . . . this one was difficult. Think you could take a week or two? I could just really use some time away from here . . . from this. I just need to escape reality with you.”
I sit up in slow motion, and look at him with all the understanding I can muster. Oh no. This isn’t what I needed. I just don’t have two weeks to give him right now, not after the deal I made with Ransom.
I shake the thought from my head. Tucker is my husband. Husband. And he needs me. My loyalty lies with him. He comes first. And my career . . . Shit.
“What were you thinking?” I ask him, trying not to picture the image of my reputation going down like a sinking ship.
“I don’t know. Somewhere far from the city. No traffic, no social media, no paparazzi. Just peace and quiet. And us.”
I smile and nod. That sounds nice. In a perfect world, that would be all I’d ever need.
“So can you make it?” The optimism in his voice is undeniable. I can’t crush him—not now. Not when he’s already in ruins.
“See . . . the thing is . . . I have t
o go out of town for a little while, but maybe I can just cut it down to a few days and be back by this weekend to leave with you.”
“Out of town?” he frowns. “Since when?”
“Since today. I just found out and planned to tell you tonight. I have a client that needs to lay low for a while and stay out of the press. I told . . . them . . . I’d ensure they were set up and comfortable. But honestly, I don’t see why—”
“A client like who?” I hear it—the accusation. The skepticism. Still, I play dumb.
“Huh?”
“Your client. Who is it?”
This was not how this was supposed to go. He was not supposed to already be on the edge when I told him. I was going to wait until after dinner and a couple glasses of wine. Then I was hoping we’d break our recent dry spell and make love. I wasn’t even going to ask him for anything remotely kinky. Hell, if he wanted to do me in a floor-length gown, I’d let him.
He sits there waiting for me, growing more and more suspicious with every second of my silent unease. I just have to tell him. If I want a snowball’s chance in hell at gaining his trust and support, I just have to tell him.
“Ransom Reed.”
He opens his mouth, yet snaps it closed immediately, as if he doesn’t trust his words. I wait for the jealousy, the rage, the disappointment. But they never come. And part of me—a rather large part—craves them. At least I’d know he cares. At least I could feel like he loves me just as furiously as he cares for his patients.
“So, Ransom needs to get out of town?” he finally asks.
“Yeah, um, he’s been in some trouble; Caleb and I think it’d be a good idea for him to gain some perspective, away from the craziness of the city.”
He nods, maybe out of empathy. “And where were you planning on taking him?”
“Um, well, I’m not . . .” I’m stammering. Stammering is not a sign that I’m confident in my decision. “I was, uh, thinking of Oasis. Since Justice has beefed up security and gone public, the appeal for the papzz simply isn’t there anymore. No one wants to do an exposé on a couple’s spa.”
He nods again. “Good idea. I’ll come too.”
“You’ll . . . what?” I surely did not hear him right. Did he just say he’d come with me to take Ransom to a former sex school for bored, undersexed housewives, aka just about every married woman in Manhattan? (Ahem.)
“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to see that place and meet the guy. Plus it’s a five star resort and spa in the middle of nowhere. Sounds like fun.”
Sounds like fun? Does he know what he’s signing up for?
“Well, I haven’t actually talked to Justice about this yet. He’s sure to shut me down, seeing as it’s a couple’s resort. And plus . . .”
I can’t finish my thought. I can’t admit that I confided in Justice in something more than business, and divulged details of our personal lives, even if they were vague. The guy isn’t stupid. He knows exactly why I quizzed him about open marriages. And once I show up with Tucker and Ransom, I won’t be able to dodge that narrowed look of condescension. Because, let’s face it, no one does condescending like Justice Drake.
Tucker shifts and grips me by the hips, lifting me from his lap. “Why don’t you call and talk to him. I need to make a few calls myself and arrange for the rest of my patients to be taken care of.”
“Really?”
He kisses me on the forehead and smiles softly. “Yeah. This’ll be good. For all of us.” Then he shuffles away to his study, leaving me behind in an obscure cloud of what the fuck?
Ransom agreed easier than I expected. Tucker was borderline alien in his acquiesce. But Justice? Shit. I might as well pack my cutoffs and flip-flops and tell the guys we’re going to Disney World.
“You want to what?” he snaps after I present the idea to him. Most would wither under that clipped, cold tone, but not me. Justice is all bark, very little bite. Especially now that Ally has got him as tame as a teacup Yorkie.
“I want to bring Ransom there to Oasis to lay low for a week. Two weeks tops. The press won’t think to look for him there, and around all those old, boring ass married folks, he’s sure to stay out of trouble.”
“I’m still not seeing how this has dick to do with me and mine. This isn’t a fucking hotel, Heidi. I have clients—clients that pay me well to maintain a sense of safety and serenity. And how am I supposed to explain some young, single kid walking around when we have a strict Couples Only policy?”
“Well . . . tell them he’s with me.”
Silence, save for the sound of his unspoken accusations. He opens with a snort before continuing. “You? You’re coming too? And what does your husband think about that?”
“He thinks it’s a good idea. He actually suggested he come along too.”
Another snort, this time one of aggravation. “I said couple, Heidi. As in two. Not three, not four. Two.”
I purse my lips as I walk into the bedroom for more privacy. “And since when have you been the patron saint of monogamy?”
“I’ve always promoted the idea of it, Heidi. It was just in a slightly misguided, convoluted way. However, you can’t deny my success rate. You don’t become Justice Drake without knowing your shit.”
I roll my eyes, even though he can’t see it. “Oh, Justice. What a big ego you have. So are we doing that now? Talking about yourself in the third person?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Actually, I don’t. Is it cool for us to come or not? Or would you like to continue to judge me as if your closet isn’t bursting with more skeletons than a Tim Burton film. Please . . . tell me again how you met and seduced your current love interest aka your sister-in-law. And tell me again how she found you hiding out in Abu Dhabi, when someone went out on a fucking limb—sacrificing her own time and resources—to track you down for her. I particularly love that part of the story.”
I can almost feel the heat of his temper flaring from over two thousand miles away. And while his voice is arctic, he’s saying exactly what I want him to say, as I knew he would. I always get my way.
“Fine. Bring him. But space is limited. He stays out of the way, and he doesn’t pry into my business. Understand? And if I catch one single fucking inkling that he’s using, he’s out. Got it?”
I nearly gasp, but bite it down. “Using? What makes you think he’s using?” I hadn’t told anyone. Not even Tucker.
“I have basic cable, Heidi. God forbid the rest of the world outside of Manhattan has the use of modern technology.”
I manage to smile. He’s agreed. And while he may be pissed, I know Justice can’t stay mad at me for long. Above all, he owes me. He’ll always owe me. I’m the one who helped bring him back from the dead.
“You’re such a hater. Admit it—you miss it here.”
“Like a hole in the head.” I almost hear him chuckle, but being the hard ass that he is, he refuses to show any other emotion outside of pissed and horny.
“So, we’ll be there within the week. I’m shooting for Thursday if Tucker can get things squared away with work.”
“Fine. Shoot me your info and I’ll have your ride waiting.”
“Seriously?” I scoff. “I know how to get there. All that security bullshit isn’t necessary.”
Justice pushes right back, ignoring my attitude. “You’re bringing two strangers to my home and business. So yes, the security bullshit is necessary. Take it or leave it.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
We both hang up. And I smile. I kinda love that guy.
I don’t waste any time contacting the travel agent and Caleb and pass along the travel info. He’s stunned that Justice would agree to let us come, but downright flabbergasted that Tucker would suggest he come along too. I don’t let on that I’m just as shocked. I like Caleb, but not enough to share with him. There are industry friends and regular friends. Caleb is an industry friend. My regular friends can be counted on one hand with a couple fingers
to spare.
Initially, I think I won’t be able to rest until our flight on Thursday morning, but both Tucker and I are so busy with tying up loose ends that the day comes sooner than expected. We don’t even get a chance to talk about what to expect. I know that Tucker thinks this will be good for us, but why? Because he thinks it will provide us some much needed alone time? Or because he can keep an eye on Ransom? Or is it that the prospect of having Ransom there for . . . a repeat performance is what he’s craving? And if that is the case, what the hell does that mean for us? That he only gets off on watching another man fuck me?
I can’t even think like that right now.
Caleb insists on bringing Ransom to the airport to ensure he actually shows up and I’m grateful. I need as much time alone with Tucker before we get on this plane. After today, who knows what will remain sacred between us?
“I can’t understand why you’d choose to fly commercial,” Caleb sneers, approaching us at the First Class ticketing line. He air kisses me, and continues bitching about everything from tiny bathrooms to Ebola. “I swear to God, Heidi DuCane, if either you or Ransom get some type of deadly virus, I will kill you myself before you contaminate me. Those quarantine moon suits do nothing for my figure.”
At the mention of his name, I straighten, mentally and physically preparing myself to see him again. It always takes me a moment to acclimate when in his presence. It’s like he sucks the air right out of the room. He doesn’t just take my breath away; he deprives my brain of precious oxygen, leaving me a blubbering, stuttering mess.
As expected, Ransom is dressed in jeans and a tee, this one heather gray. He also has on dark aviators and that gray slouchy beanie over messy hair. I don’t know if it’s the same one from that night or if he has a dozen of them, which probably boasts some ridiculously expensive label that costs a fortune for merely a bundle of wool. Still, he looks amazing, even in that disheveled, just-rolled-out-of-bed way. It’s like he doesn’t even have to try. Sex appeal is about as natural to him as blinking those dark, sinuous eyes.
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