“What’d she know?” Benson pried.
Annie sat down on the edge of the bed. She wasn’t inviting him over; she looked tired as she slumped backward and stared at the ceiling.
“Nothing, really. But Linda did something strange the day before last.”
“Oh yeah?” Benson went and sat down by Annie on the bed. He put his hand across her stomach and bounced his knees into hers. “What?”
“She rented a helicopter and took it out to Terrible Tilly.”
“That decommissioned lighthouse?”
“She left the rock, but then she hasn’t been seen in town since.”
“Shit,” Benson breathed. A long pause extended between them. “What do you think it means?”
“I think it means you should’ve told me sooner that she met with you. I think it means you fucked up, Benny.”
His heart caught in his chest—he had a moment to come clean fully, to tell her everything, but he held back. He didn’t know why. And yet, he couldn’t leave her fully in the dark. And he couldn’t lie to her. No relationship could start that way.
“Look…” he exhaled.
“Jesus,” Annie said, knowing the look. “Tell me. I can take it.”
“I went on a date. Linda physically removed the date and told her I was dangerous…then gave me my deposit back and basically said…leave it.”
“This is all really important—” Annie said with her eyes flashing between anger and intrigue.
Benson put a finger to her lips.
“Missy worked for Linda…for a week…before the murder.”
A pause erupted and sustained for sometime before Annie took a noisy breath and asked, “Worked for her how?” in a near-whisper.
“I didn’t ask,” Benson replied and lowered his head.
“You…the journalist…didn’t ask.”
“I didn’t feel,” he started and cleared his throat, “that she was in answering questions mood…she scared me. There were bodyguards and shit.”
He pointed to his broken wrist and looked at her pleadingly.
“This is all very real and very important to me. And I don’t know I never brought it up…probably because we just kept…”
“Don’t you even try to sell me some Sex Goddess bullshit,” Annie said. She crossed her arms over her chest and stared him down. “Own it.”
“Will you forgive me?” Benson asked with as much authenticity as he could muster. Sure, he felt like shit, but he didn’t know when he could have course-corrected his mistake. And was it that big of an omission in the scheme of things? Could the entire case ride on this?
“Maybe,” Annie replied. But she turned her head and kissed him. “If I’m feeling generous.” She kissed him again. “And if you didn’t just blow the entire thing by not telling me all this earlier.”
He touched her face. She ran her hands down his chest.
They kissed and he ran his tongue over hers, building up to the inevitable—Annie running away.
With a hand on her inner thigh, Benson looked at Annie and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.
“I’m going to stay the night,” he announced.
“That’s why I got the hotel room,” she said.
“But I don’t want to stay hidden away,” Benson tried, knowing he was asking for trouble. “You’re a fighter and you’re fighting for the same things as me…” he waited to see if she would argue. She didn’t. “In a few days, I’m heading back to Cannon to get my things. You gonna ignore me?”
“No,” Annie said, knitting her brows. She shook her head reluctantly. “Of course not.”
“You’re giving me a chance?” Benson asked hopefully.
“I don’t know.”
“I wish you weren’t afraid,” Benson said and he kissed her again, putting his hand on the back of her head, moving her with him, feeling her hands on his back, his pants. She was moving to engage him again, maybe suck on him a bit, ride him, let him enter her standing up. Those were the mechanics of their lovemaking and it felt good, it did. But Benson didn’t give a shit about the orgasm. This was clearly a distraction.
He just wanted Annie to stay.
“Don’t run away,” he said.
She still hadn’t responded.
“Don’t run away,” he said again and looked at her, straight-on, forcing her to answer.
“You kept the Linda stuff from me.”
“I didn’t mean to hide things from you,” Benson apologized again. “I never thought to bring it up and I’m sorry. I am, Annie.”
The girl in front of him collapsed her body and rested her head against his chest. They stayed in that tableau until he moved her back and helped her remove her shirt; he took the time to kiss every inch of her arms and her stomach, avoiding her groin, making her wait for it all.
“The only thing that matters now,” Annie said, unbuttoning his pants, “is that you and I remain a team. No matter what.”
“No matter what,” Benson repeated. “Does that mean you’re not running away…”
Annie smiled. She looked close to tears. “I’m not running away, Benson.”
Then he let the woman have her way with him. The thoughts of Schubert and Remington, his lies and omissions and the future of his relationship pushed into obscurity as Annie made love to Benson until the wee hours of the morning.
The lights of Portland glowed around them even as the cars stopped and the city went quiet, but Benson, inside Annie again, watching her mouth twist in pleasure and release, couldn’t help but think that he’d won. He’d won the marathon, not the sprint. He’d stayed with the girl and he’d made her forget her stupid matchmaker and her insecurities.
She frowned less. She laughed more. The confidence she brought to her words and her body, he started to see everywhere.
“I love you,” Benson breathed into her ear.
Annie froze.
He thought he’d screwed it all up, fucked up the one thing going well.
“I love you,” she answered. “I love you.”
And there they rocked together, giving in to everything that felt good and perfection between them, pushing aside all differences and questions.
“I love you, more than the universe,” Benson said at one point, punctuating the declaration with a slap of her ass.
She’d never answered, but he didn’t mind—the night belonged to them and he didn’t want anything to take away from the moment. After they came, spent and exhausted, he fell asleep beside her, their naked bodies melding underneath the heavy hotel sheets.
“I heard this place is haunted…” Annie whispered as they both fell asleep; Benson with his arm wrapped around Annie as her body nestled into his, sticky with sweat and heat.
“….I don’t believe in ghosts,” Benson mumbled. Nah, he knew too many endings of stories based in the paranormal to suspect anything other than active imaginations. He was a man who wrote his stories based on fact, not conjecture. The quote could paint a different picture, sure, but he by nature needed to express cynicism.
“Good,” Annie sighed, slipping off toward sleep, her body settling into a steady rhythm. “You can stay up and protect me from them, then.”
And before he had any say, Annie drifted off and he was left contemplating their union and the ghosts, his mind wandering with thoughts of a life full of Annie. She would come home from a hard day and he’d have dinner ready. Veggies from their garden, secure inside a raised garden bed. He’d relocate. Write from there. Maybe he’d ditch the paper entirely and write something of importance. He imagined mornings with the sun shining through the window, Annie bringing him a coffee, the steam drifting into the room.
He closed his eyes and imagined a life with Annie. Her naked body under his; the love they’d share; the moment they both knew would come—watching each other fall apart, grow, mature, crash and burn and restore. This wasn’t a waste; this wasn’t a dalliance or detour. Annie stole his heart and his mind and his everything, and even if he had
to set his life to the side, he wanted to be with the girl at the end of it all.
“I love you,” Benson whispered as he began to fall into sleep. They were easy words to say—easy to let slip, but not easy to understand. And yet, yes, he loved her. He did. He loved the way she argued, the way she settled into a day, the way her mind was always working to help someone. He loved the way she loved him, wrapping herself in their story, forgetting her own for a while. He loved how she showed her teeth when she laughed and how she tapped her foot when she was nervous.
“I love you, too,” Annie breathed, falling asleep.
“I mean it,” Benson answered, wanting to make sure his intentions weren’t lost in the moment.
“Shut up and let me sleep,” Annie said and she snuggled her bottom into his crotch, closing her eyes and trusting that sleep would come. “Night, Benny,” she mumbled.
“Night,” he said, unaware of what was to come.
They made love in the morning. It was slow, wordless, wake-up sex. He found himself with morning wood and nudged her with his cock, only to find her far too willing to indulge his fantasies of finding a woman wet and ready at seven in the morning.
He entered her from behind and she rubbed herself. They came just like that, hardly moving, and she let out a sigh and a squeal, slapping the room service menu on to his chest while she requested a shower. “What do you think?”
“Stay in the hotel?” Benson asked. “Or stay for a shower? What do you mean?”
She nodded and bit her lip. “Yeah. I guess. I mean…breakfast. Then I have to get back to the coast. I have a date tonight at Twoly.”
Benson bristled and started to make a move to the bathroom. He hadn’t expected her to announce that particular decision casually. She was still going to pretend the program worked for her? After she’d experienced the best of what he could offer her?
“Really?” Benson asked, not even trying to disguise the hurt.
She flinched and her shoulders drooped, and he had to admit he wasn’t sad to see her feeling the pressure of a decision.
“I don’t know,” Annie said. “I mean…I’m going to cancel it. Maybe. Cancel after tonight.”
“You’re going to cancel Twoly?”
“Maybe,” she said, aware. She studied his face. “Maybe not.”
“Wait.”
“Why don’t you shower,” Annie said and she nudged him out of bed. “I’ll order some breakfast. We’ll talk.”
“Hold up,” Benson said. But Annie wasn’t going to hold up. She prodded him into the bathroom, starting the shower for him, running it hot, and shutting the door, kissing him, naked, and getting him all aroused before disappearing back into the belly of the haunted hotel room.
He listened to her turn on the television and he let himself loose in the moment, the hot water pouring over his body. Benson washed off the sex and the sweat of the night before and the morning after. He washed himself and sang a quiet song, drawing a heart into the steam on the shower door and forgetting the most important thing about the moment—that Annie was alone.
Ready for sex and ready for love, ready to convince her to give up her date and give him a chance, Benson emerged into the hotel room, hoping to find an exuberant Annie curled up waiting for him.
Instead, the room was empty.
It took him a second to register that Annie was gone.
Gone. Not hiding behind a curtain or inexplicably in a closet. When he walked forward, his excitement waning, he realized a newspaper was folded open on the bed. With a pit in his stomach, Benson walked over. Without touching the pages, he read the headline and he groaned audibly.
Now there was no mystery: Annie took off and she had every reason to. He read the title, the byline, and the date, and he wrapped a towel around his waist and took off down the hall, hoping to catch her.
Each door along the way boasted a USA Today and on top of that: the most recent issue of Front Street.
Still naked, the hotel towel his only covering, he ran into the lobby and out into the carport, no Annie and only a few snickering glances. When he meandered back inside, he asked the woman at the counter, “The woman I arrived with? Have you seen her?” But the answer was no. Annie ditched him and left him vulnerable, confused and wanting. His heart racing, he sprinted back up the steps and collapsed on the bed, breathing deep.
He held the early edition of Front Street in his hand.
Teased off the header was the name for his column: Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places. Then, on the inside, the very first column he wrote for Peggy. It was the work he’d pounded out for her when he was first trying to convince her of the Twoly storyline. She’d run it without his permission, but there it was—and he couldn’t do anything to stop it. She’d had the courtesy to change Annie’s name, but there it was—all his stupid thoughts, all the tender moments, all the privacy of their intimacy smashed against the rocks.
“I’m so sorry, Annie,” he whispered as he read his ridiculous column, so outdated, so wrong. “I’m so sorry.”
She’d read about herself.
And she was gone.
Written on hotel stationary and ripped off the tablet, thrown on the front of the story, left open for him to see was a note in quick cursive. It read: Off the record? You’re the worst fucking asshole.
He couldn’t blame her.
Annie Gerwitz read the words he’d written in secret, the words he never intended anyone to see. Peggy published his example of what he could write, not what he actually wanted to convey about the girl he had fallen in love with. Disturbed and angry, Benson crumpled up the paper and Annie’s note and tossed it to the floor.
“Fuck,” he grumbled to himself.
She’d finally chosen him and Benson had done everything he could to screw it all up. Fumbling for his phone, he sent her a text. But it went unanswered. As did the next text and the next one.
“FUCK,” he said. “Fuck.”
And he sunk to the hotel floor, still wrapped in a towel, head in his hands. Benson couldn’t unpublish Front Street and he couldn’t go back in time and un-write the article either. He had to wallow in the shit storm he’d created and then he needed to try to find a way to win her back. If it wasn’t already too late.
Chapter Nineteen
She figured he’d have the sense to check out of the hotel. She dressed and grabbed her bag and was out in the lobby in less than a minute. He was singing some jaunty love song to himself as the water poured down in the bathroom; unaware and feeling pretty confident in himself.
When she saw his name and picture underneath the loopy script of the headline, Annie didn’t want to read it. She didn’t want to experience the betrayal, even as she saw it barreling down upon her. The first two paragraphs were all that mattered to Annie…enough to see that he’d taken her and skewered her on the page, transformed his actions into bravado and her into a weakling, moved only by a quest for a rich man, not love.
She left Front Street there, open to the story, wrote an angry note and bolted. Sixty seconds. That’s how long it took to flee. A young valet retrieved her car and she waited to cry until she was behind the wheel and speeding mercilessly toward Highway 26.
Annie hit a button on her steering wheel.
“Call Love is Murder,” she told her phone. The phone dialed the numbers of her friends, each one answering if they could, to join the party line. When most of the group connected to the call, Annie wiped away her tears and said in a garbled voice, “Anyone have a copy of Front Street this morning?
Millie read the article over the phone. She was interrupted by swearing and gasps of the others but preserved to the end, each of them erupting with well-placed confusion and shame. Shushing them all and adopting her best radio voice, Millie started at the top and read Benson’s words to the group:
**Name has been changed, along with other distinguishing features
She had a one-drink test for unsuspecting men. Impress her or be gone before the last sip
of beer because she is a lady on a mission. A mission to find a husband. During the twenty-seven years of her life, she’s failed to make a true love connection. But this year for Christmas, while her brother’s family opened a trip to Cancun under the tree, Lucy** opened a matchmaking service.
Based at the coast, the matchmaking company Twoly specializes in coupling the very rich or the very determined. Packages that promise marriage start at ten-thousand dollars, but for Lucy, who knows a husband has to be at the end of the process, the money is a promise of commitment.
She can choose to be picky and she can use her matchmaking therapist to weed out anyone who doesn’t fit a perfect criteria. The company is obligated to find her a match and Lucy won’t settle—the steely determination in her eyes, the same she uses with clients as a highly respected lawyer, communicates her intentions. No tardiness, no weakness, no bad politics accepted.
With Lucy the Lawyer you have one beer to prove your worth.
After all, someone has paid a lot of money to see her with a husband at the end of this and that money has purchased the power to be picky. Net worth matters as much as niceness, or more so, it would seem. [Editor’s Note: Benson attempted to use the service at Twoly, but was denied because he lied about his assets. In short, he wasn’t rich enough to use the service. Sorry, middle-class, this won’t be your Cinderella moment.]
Lucy’s motto during her Twoly attempt is to Trust the Process, a canned piece of advice offered to every person traveling through their matchmaking program. But it seemed as if it were more important to trust her parents’ process of hiring the service and not her own internal compass. Arranged marriages feel like something out of a different culture, but the practice is alive and well in America, too. Rich men unwilling to let someone from a different class infiltrate the possibility of wealth. Lucy—caught in a trap of feeling like marriage would solve many of her problems—pushes forward unaware of her own powerful élan, a tide and a force, ebbing and flowing. She is captivating, but she is not interested in the messiness of early dating.
Savage Distractions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 3) Page 23