“Truly,” Drake said, his tone growing more serious. He had somewhat better success than I did in curbing the slurring of his words. “It wasn’t because I thought you’d be offended by her profession when I suggested you should not meet her.”
“Oh?” I encouraged him to explain, ignoring the men we walked past who eyed us with disapproving frowns. Their daunting presence and snobby glances alerted me that we were in a much better part of town than we were at the bar. For a brief second, I wondered where the hell we were.
“Non,” he said, and any hint of smile vanished from his face. He opened his mouth, but paused as if he were trying to think of the right words. “I know how it feels… The incapacitating pain over seeing your true love showing and feeling affection for another.”
The last remnant of the light-hearted, good cheer that existed between us, thanks to our success in discovering the identity of Thomas Dickerson and our drunken states, evaporated at his words. I didn’t know what to say. Even worse, I didn’t know how to feel. But it should have been better than what I was feeling. All I could imagine was how Drake must have felt being constantly bottled up in my head, watching my life through my eyes. I was crushed with guilt for being so selfish as I remembered how many times I indulged Drake when I wanted to, and lived my own life by literally shutting him out whenever it was convenient for me to do so. I had Drake all to myself, trapped in a bubble that seemed so separate from my own life. And now I didn’t anymore. Now he was back in his own time, amongst the people who knew him, whom he cared about, and who obviously cared about him.
Feeling guilty about Drake was one thing; I should’ve felt guilty about Ryan! And I learned something else: Ryan was spot on to react so defensively toward Drake. The intensity of that realization made me lean into the solid warmth of Drake pressed against my side. Ryan seemed so far away. A wave of utter confusion descended on me. What was real anymore? I always dismissed my feelings for Drake because nothing could have existed between us. He was a spirit, a ghost haunting my body. That allowed me to push any other feelings away without exposing myself to the dangerous temptation of exploring them. But what now? Here we were, breathing the same frozen December air of 1910, and both of us very much alive. Meanwhile, Ryan, who hadn’t been born yet, didn’t even exist.
FOURTEEN
I looked up at Drake, who gave me the briefest of smiles before stepping in front of me to open the door. We were in front of our hotel, even though I didn’t even realize we were. How far had we walked? I wondered.
Drake nudged me inside with his hand at the small of my back in a familiar, possessive gesture that warmed me more than the heated air that greeted us as we entered the building.
“Sir, you cannot bring that in here,” the man at the front desk said. He was pointing at the nearly empty bottle, which Drake had not-very-discreetly tucked into his jacket.
“Regrets and apologies,” Drake said rather drunkenly.
“Sir, are you a hotel guest?” the man inquired with a frown.
“I am,” Drake answered with a hiccup. “Though I seem to have forgotten my room key,” he continued as he searched inside his pockets for a key that wasn’t there, owing to the fact that we’d never had one. When we’d arrived in 1910, we’d simply landed in our hotel room but once we were out of the room, there was no getting back in without a key.
“Your name, sir?”
A giggle nearly escaped me, but I managed to contain it with a smirk. Well, I did for a second anyway. I muffled my subsequent giggles behind my hand, which turned into raucous snorts.
“I do apologize,” Drake said hastily, “but it is our honeymoon.”
Whether it was from the booze, or the way Drake pretended it were so, or simply because I was living in the moment, my head was swimming in happiness at the thought that we could be on our honeymoon, Drake and me—two people that never had a chance to be together. Well, we were together now.
The receptionist looked unimpressed. “Your name, sir?”
“Drake Montague.”
The man’s posture changed instantly. “Montague? Related to Frank Montague?” His tone was instantly warm and conversational, no doubt to make up for his previous snootiness.
“My uncle,” Drake answered with a pleasant smile.
“I apologize sincerely for the mix-up, Mr. Montague.”
“No trouble,” Drake said as he reached across the counter and accepted the skeleton key the man handed to him. Then Drake faced me and held his hand out in front of me. “Darling?”
Once we reached the elevator and the door closed, I could finally release my laughter. I was straining to hold it in when I observed the man’s complete change in demeanor as soon as he heard Drake’s name. “What the hell?” I laughed as I playfully nudged into his shoulder. “Who are you anyway?”
“Here, you will find my reputation precedes me, mon amour,” he said with a wide, confident grin. His hat was on lopsided, his hair unkempt, and he stank of booze. “It is for that exact reason that we were able to get back into our room at all!”
The elevator stopped at our floor and we stepped out.
“Seriously though,” I said, sniffling as I continued trying to compose myself as best I could in my inebriated state. “What’s going to happen when he gossips to all his friends that he saw the Drake Montague on his honeymoon?”
He responded too quickly, “I’m sure they’ll just assume I made it all up to preserve your honor.”
He laughed and flinched when I smacked him on the arm. Then he smoothly unlocked and opened a large, regal door that had a placard next to it with the numbers 311 chiseled into it.
“I have to pee,” I said.
Drake sighed audibly. “Yes, of course you do. This way, mon chaton,” he said, gesturing toward the door he hadn’t yet closed behind us.
I followed him through it, and went into the hallway.
“Am I going to have to pee outside?” I whispered loudly, suddenly more than aware of the probability that I was surrounded by distinguished guests who were all sleeping.
Drake chuckled at the trepidation in my voice. “Non, but the toilets are located on another floor.”
“And what do you mean ‘of course you do’?” I asked with indignation.
We stood waiting for the elevators and Drake looked at me with his deep brown eyes, and his lips drawn up in a smile. “All I meant, ma minette, was that one usually needs to pee after a good bash.”
“Bash?” I said, my nose crinkling at the word. The elevator door opened and we stepped inside. “I wouldn’t exactly call what we did having a party.”
“Our drunken spree?” Drake clarified. He waited when a fit of giggles overtook me. “A ‘bash’ in my time was a drunken spree. Like a party, and yet, still very different.” He gave me a pointed once-over as I tried to regain more control.
I didn’t know why, but when Drake said “drunken spree,” he made me giggle uncontrollably.
“I hold you entirely responsible, by the way,” Drake said, his voice slightly accusatory.
“Me?” I asked, a little too loudly. Then my forehead crinkled. “Wait, for what? The… bash?”
Drake’s eyes twinkled when I said “bash.” When the elevator door opened, he stepped back to indicate I should go in front of him.
“Yes, the bash. You initiated it when you insisted on proving a point at that bar.” I could see the doorway that said Ladies so I didn’t need further navigation, but Drake rested his hand on the small of my back anyway. “And I could not allow you to out drink me, mon chaton. Not while that smitten Irishmen was on the make after you.”
I stood in front of the door to the bathroom, again confused with foreign phrases. “On the make?”
“Flirting,” Drake translated. Despite the cool smile on his face, I caught a hint of annoyance that I recognized in his voice from when he was formerly tucked inside my head.
It was comforting. Drake had been nothing but bold and confident since our ar
rival to 1910 and I couldn’t hide my delight or the smile that spread across my lips. “It’s cool. I’m not into redheads anyway,” I said with a snort.
“Go pee, mon chaton.” Drake gave me a playful nudge toward the bathroom.
I giggled at him using the word “pee” again, then I went into the bathroom.
Everything was white: the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the stalls. White and cold. I was surprised that it looked so similar to the bathrooms I was used to, although the toilet was shaped a little different. I struggled with my antique layers of clothing, but finally managed to get into a position to do what I came to do. However, I also had to put myself back together. After much strain and effort, I finally succeeded in re-dressing myself, although there was no hope for getting my hat back on correctly. The hell with the hat, I decided. But seeing my reflection in the mirror, I tried harder to cover the mess that was my hair. My sad-looking hat had lost more than a few flowers from when I first put it on.
An eternity or more later, I wandered back out to the hallway where Drake was leaning against the wall, his head back, eyes shut, with a pipe in his mouth.
“You’re going to get lung cancer,” I grumbled as I plucked the pipe from his lips, and made him smile. That was one thing I really missed about modern times—our smoking bans.
Drake cleared his throat and followed me to the elevator. We were quiet as we waited; the only sound to break the silence was the elevator when it finally arrived. Riding up to our room, we were again doomed to silence, except for the soft noises of the well-oiled pulleys taking us up. Whether it was from the coldness of the bathroom, or the length of time it required to disrobe and pee before redressing, I knew I was slowly sobering up.
Or maybe it was because I was about to be completely alone with Drake Montague in a hotel room! I swallowed as we exited the elevator, and found ourselves in front of room 311. Drake opened the door, and his demeanor had calmed significantly compared to the first time we stepped into the room. This time, I caught the view outside the window.
Lights illuminated the streets and buildings, and a couple of men dressed in period clothing walked along the street, their forms growing smaller from the distance. It made something inside me long for the familiar clothing of my own time, and the higher buildings, even the neon signs. I wasn’t sure why I became so homesick in that moment, but I was. And following the heels of that thought, I realized this must be how Drake felt all the time when he was trapped inside my head.
“Your coat,” Drake said softly.
“Yes,” I said, startled out of my trance by the sound of his voice. He wasn’t trapped in my head anymore.
I shook off my coat and he took it, hanging it on the hook by the door alongside his. He removed his hat, and a smirk appeared on my face when I glanced at his badly tousled hair.
“I hardly think you are in a position to judge, mon chaton,” Drake said with a chuckle.
My eyes crossed when I spotted the blond strand of hair that seemed to fall on cue from under my hat before it dangled in front of my face.
Drake and I both laughed, then he crossed the room. For a moment, we just stood still and looked at each other. His soft brown eyes were filled with affection. Then he slowly removed my hat, and tossed it on the vanity behind him before turning back to my hair. His fingers delicately traced my hairline and he pushed the loose strand behind my ear. His gaze was steady and searching. I found myself staring up at him in utter fascination.
I’d often stared at Drake—it was hard not to. Ever since I’d found the faded black and white photo of the young police officer in my new house, I’d been captivated by him. Our shared collection of memories, from the dreamscapes to the past, only managed to make him more real. And now I found myself staring up at him imploringly.
As he looked back, his fingertips were still hovering over my cheek, and I found myself growing hotter under his gaze. His eyes didn’t waver once. I was self-conscious, but I couldn’t bring myself to look away. His fingers touched my cheek and he slowly slid them back into my hair. His thumb rested on my cheekbone until he allowed it to travel over my temple. Ever so gently, he bent his head and rested his forehead against mine. I could feel his breath, warm and clear, and the smell of spirits mixed with my own.
He sighed heavily and I brought my hand to his wrist. I was trying to offer him an expression of comfort—a way to convey my mutual desire. My chest was rising and falling quickly even though I wasn’t exerting myself. I brought both hands to his chest as if it were a halfhearted attempt to push him away. I didn’t know whom I was trying to convince. I was completely powerless. I knew if I moved I would kiss him. I was only conscious of the space between my lips and his.
The silence pressed on, becoming long and protracted, and I was terrified to leave the space we were standing in. I knew I couldn’t kiss him. But the thought of not kissing him was equally daunting. My eyes fluttered closed but I could still feel him, and so acutely that it burned. His strong chest rose and fell beneath my hands, and the electricity grew unbearable. Finally, my resolve shattered and I tilted my face up toward his.
As if on cue, his stilled body came to life. His other hand came up to cup my face and he pulled me towards him, almost hungrily. I found myself responding instantly, as if I were no longer in control of my own body. He came at me passionately and forcibly, but his lips met mine with surprising tenderness. He tasted me cautiously with his tongue and I returned his passion eagerly. I opened my mouth wider with a low moan, unable to stop myself as my senses were overloaded with pleasure. My hands traveled to his neck where my fingers found the soft curls of hair that collected at his nape. He dropped his hands from my face and grabbed me beneath my arms, lifting me slightly from the floor. I moaned again, pulling him even closer.
Suddenly, in a flash of lucidity, I saw Ryan’s face behind my eyelids. My stomach, which had been filled with butterflies, quickly turned to revulsion and I twisted my face until I was free of Drake’s amorous liplock. I pushed his chest until he released me and I stumbled away from him, my hand springing to my mouth in horror.
What have I done?
I felt sick.
“Oh, no,” I said, cursing myself for my stupidity. The slushiness of my stomach was replaced with guilt and I had to concentrate on a stationary table leg to keep from throwing up.
Drake ran his hand through his thick hair and along his jaw. His expression was dark, but ultimately impossible to read. He let out a sigh before shaking his head and walking towards the bed where he sat with his face in his hands.
“I’m sorry, ma minette,” he said in a low voice, his face still turned down.
I looked up at him, my chest lurching as the desire meshed with sharp pangs of guilt. “It’s my fault,” I started, not wanting him to shoulder the blame for this. “I got carried away.”
“Oui, me too,” he said softly, sadly.
“Drake… we can’t.” The numbness in my fingertips and mouth didn’t affect my mind, which was suddenly on high alert. The last minute totally sobered me up.
“Oui, ma minette. I know.” I shifted away from my spot on the floor and shakily forced myself to stand. I sat down next to him on the bed.
“I…we need to establish… some rules maybe,” I said, trying to sound definitive but I didn’t get there. By saying that, I really meant that I needed rules. Although I was extremely aware that Drake would capitalize on any weakness I was careless enough to reveal, the real problem was: Drake was my weakness. His back straightened and his familiar playful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Ah, but all rules were made to be broken, mon chaton!” he said. I was happy that he wasn’t too upset by what just transpired. Much of the guilt I felt was because of Ryan but it was even more intense for Drake—for having to say no even though I wanted to keep kissing him, desperately.
“Rule number one,” I said, ignoring him (and myself), “you have to sleep on the couch.”
“What
?! You’re relegating your dear husband to sleeping on the couch? Even after he battled a drunken fool for your honor?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. He was just so dramatic sometimes. And cute. And sweet. And funny. And… ugh. “Fine. I’ll take the couch, but no matter what, you and I are not sharing this bed. Capiche?” I tried to instill some levity, but my tone was much sharper than I intended.
He took a moment to eye the bed where I was sitting next to him. Seeing the lumpy mattress made him cock an eyebrow as he gave me a broad and boyish grin that completely melted my insides. I quickly stood up.
“As you wish,” he said but his playful smile faltered. “But I insist on taking the couch, such as any good gentleman would do.” The banter was all gone. He moved mechanically away from the bed and headed toward the short sofa that was woefully inadequate for his large frame.
Part of me was relieved that he didn’t argue. He needed to understand the gravity of the moment we just shared, and to promise me it could never happen again. I needed to realize that too.
Once again he was looking up at me with a steady, even gaze. But this time, his expression included confusion and hurt. Or maybe I was just projecting my feelings onto him. I broke his gaze and a new tension settled over the room like bad news. The awkwardness lingered. Clearing my throat, I shuffled away to search for a spare blanket and pillow. The range of emotions I most recently experienced left my stomach hollow with anxiety. Something tickled the tip of my nose but I made sure to turn out the lights before Drake could see me cry.
FIFTEEN
Sunlight streamed in through the large windows of the hotel room. I squeezed my eyelids tightly against the morning light. My head erupted in an explosion of throbbing pain. The bridge of my nose felt the heat of the morning sun, and I turned and shoved my face deeper into my pillow—forgetting temporarily that I just spent a night in 1910 New York with Drake Montague. For a few seconds, my pounding head and exhausted body could only recoil at the reality of being awake. My stomach churned dangerously.
Brown Eyed Ghoul: A Ghostly Paranormal Romance Series (The Peyton Clark Series Book 3) Page 19