The Commitment (The Unrestrained #2)

by S. E. Lund

  Drake finished up quickly. "I have to run," he said, putting on his coat once more. "I have another meeting so can you get a ride with your dad?" I nodded and he leaned down and kissed my cheek softly. "I'll let you know when I'm finished. We can discuss our plans for tonight."

  He caught my eye, and I knew what he was referring to – the scene. Was he going to go through with it? A little thrill went through me at the prospect.

  "You two have plans tonight? Going somewhere?" my father said, his face bright.

  "We have something special planned," Drake said, smiling.

  "Understandable," my father said, nodding his head in agreement. "You two take it easy. Will you be staying at Drake's place?" he said to me.

  I glanced up at Drake. He nodded and wrapped his scarf around his neck.

  "Maybe 8th Avenue tonight," Drake said. "There are a few boxes I want to go through."

  "Of course." I smiled up at him and he bent down and kissed me once more, this time on the mouth.

  I watched him leave the restaurant, threading through the tables and lines of eager patrons, hoping for some of the world-famous pastrami. I felt excited about tonight, having imagined it now for months. I turned back to my father and Elaine.

  "Probably wants go through Liam's things. He's very sentimental."

  "He's a keeper," Elaine said to me, raising her eyebrows.

  I smiled back. "That he is."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I went home with my parents and sat at the table in the formal dining room and worked on my sketch. When my father came in and wanted to look over my shoulder, I hid the drawing. I didn’t want my father to see it.

  "Aww, can't your old man see it?"

  "No, Daddy," I said, closing the sketch book. "When it's done. You know how artists are…"

  "Yes, your mother was the same. Never wanted me to see what she was working on until it was done." He clicked his tongue in mock disapproval and kissed the top of my head.

  Much later that afternoon, Drake texted me that he wanted us to meet at 8th Avenue, maybe have a very light supper and talk about our trip.

  I know you were probably hoping we'd do our scene tonight, but frankly, I'm not really up to it. I thought a quiet evening at 8th Avenue would be in order. I want to go through my father's things. There's something I want to get for Liam, just in case… Maureen might not agree to it, but I'll try anyway. I think Liam should at least have something from his namesake.

  I texted him back, agreeing and that was that. Finally, I said my goodbyes to my father and Elaine and took the limo to the apartment on 8th Avenue because of the weather. When I arrived, Drake was waiting for me, dressed in a white linen shirt, which was untucked over faded jeans, his feet bare despite the cold. He looked beautiful, his shiny black hair a bit wild, scruff on his jaw, his eyes bluer than blue because of the white shirt.

  "There you are," he said and took my coat after I closed the door. I shucked off my boots and went inside the living room. Something soft was playing on the music system – something folksy, which I didn't recognize. It had to be one of Liam's songs from the sixties. I stood next to the music system and checked the playlist on Drake's new iPhone, which was hooked into the system.

  California Dreaming by the Mamas and Papas.

  "This is an oldie," I said. "One of your dad's?"

  He nodded and searched through albums that were lined up in a shelf on the wall. He pulled out the album cover, and I saw it was an original from 1965 showing the band sitting together fully dressed in a bathtub.

  "Appropriate, given we're in the middle of a storm in New York," Drake said. "John Philips wrote the song in 1962 during a New York snow storm. I love New York, but wait until you see Kenya. It's so beautiful in places and the weather is always warm."

  "You sure you still want to go in March?"

  He shook his head. "We'll stay here for a few weeks until I can see if the transplant takes. Maureen doesn't want me involved. I'd have nothing to do but sit around moping, waiting for news. If we go to Kenya, I'll be busy teaching and doing surgery. There's nothing I can do here anyway and I could always fly back if anything happened with Liam."

  He put the album down and went to the sideboard where he had a couple of shots of Anisovaya waiting.

  "Here," he said, handing one to me. "I need this. I think I want to get drunk tonight. What do you say?"

  I smiled at him. "Sounds perfect. We can be hung over tomorrow. I have nothing planned besides working on my canvas. I can do that hung over."

  "Me neither. Za vas!" he said and held up his shot.

  "Za vas," I replied and together we shot back the vodka. Then he pulled me into his arms and kissed me as if he wanted to catch the taste of the liquor on my tongue. I wrapped my arms around his neck and he lifted me up as he kissed me, his kiss warm and deep. He held me up like that for a moment and then let me slide down his body.

  "First," he said, brushing hair off my cheek. "I thought we'd make a nice light dinner after that mountainous sandwich at lunch. Then, we can talk about our plans and get sloshed."

  "Sloshed?"

  He grinned. "My father's term for floor-licking pissed."

  "I like it," I said and leaned my head against his chest. "I don't know if I intend to lick any floors though…"

  He laughed at that and embraced me more tightly, nestling his face in the crook of my neck.

  "Sweet Ms. Bennet. What would I do without you?"

  "I don't even want to think about us not being together," I said softly. He started to rock me in his arms. Then another song came on, this one by the Beatles. I didn't know the title, but I grew up listening to my father play his old albums and I knew Paul McCartney's voice.

  "What's this?" I asked, slipping out of his embrace and turning to the sound system. I picked up the iPhone and checked the playlist. The Beatles, the album titled Rubber Soul. Dated 1965.

  "In My Life," he said, coming up behind me, his arms slipping around my waist. "Another appropriate song, because I do love you more," he said, kissing my neck. I put the iPhone down and laid my arms over his, which circled my waist. "I love you, Kate," he said softly.

  "I love you," I said, my throat choking up a bit. We stood like that for a while in each other's embrace, listening to the beautiful song, so lovely, yet sad in a way or maybe it was the sadness I felt for Drake and his son. We stood and listened until the end of the song, our arms around each other and then when it finished, and another song started to play that I didn't recognize, he let go of me.

  "Come to the kitchen," he said. "I've got some vegetables for a salad. I thought we'd have some chicken."

  I smiled as he led me out of the living room to the kitchen, happy that he seemed to want to be so domestic with me. It was such a change from only a few months before when he promised we would never do romantic couple things – cook meals together, go out for lunch.

  The agreement we wrote up and that I was so obsessed with had never really been enforced. In truth, I was glad. It was never necessary. Drake would never push too hard. Not only was he not that kind of Dom, he really didn't want anything but my own pleasure.

  While I prepared the produce for a salad, Drake was in charge of the chicken. When I finished arranging the salad, I watched as Drake prepared the chicken breast, dredging it in flour and then sautéing it in a pan on the stove.

  I sipped a glass of wine and watched, smiling as he hummed to himself, amazed at how domestic he appeared, a white apron around his waist.

  "It won't take long," he said and turned to me. "I have a nice baguette that we could have as the starch."

  "When did you get so domestic?"

  He laughed and reached into a bag on the counter, removing the long thin loaf.

  "I lived by myself for five years after the divorce. It was either learn to cook decent food or live out of restaurants."

  Together, we set the table in the dining room, using some old linen Drake found in a box. He put a couple of l
arge pillar candles on a plate and lit them, and we served ourselves and sat down at the table. I was just about to dig in when Drake took my hand.

  "I'm not really religious," he said, squeezing my hand. "But I want to say how thankful I am about the tissue match."

  I nodded, emotions filling me. "Me, too."

  He smiled and let go of my hand. "I'm also thankful that I found you. Such a delicious morsel of prime womanhood."

  "You're hungry," I said, grinning back. "You need to eat."

  "I do need to eat," he replied and wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "But dinner first."

  Of course, that sent a thrill through me, but I pushed it aside. Who knew what kind of mood Drake would be in later. If he really did want to get 'sloshed', as he called it, I doubted much would happen between us. Maybe a drunken grope, and giggly missionary position…

  We ate our meal, and despite delaying our trip, we discussed the itinerary and the logistics of the move that would happen once we knew how Liam was.

  "We'll be staying at the Hilton for a while until I can find a nice home for us. A colleague has suggested Kitusuru Village as a place to rent where there are a lot of expats living. Most of them are families with children, but there may be an area where singles and younger couples live. We'll see once we get there." He looked at me. "Do you have a preference for where to live? I mean, apartment or house?"

  I shrugged. "I don’t really care. I have no idea what to expect because I spent all my time in the relief camp in Mangaize or in hotels."

  "I have a contact in Nairobi who's already looking for a nice house. I think it would be great to actually live in a house for a change, instead of an apartment."

  "I've always lived in an apartment, except for our cottage in the Hamptons. It would be nice. Whatever you think, Drake."

  "From what people who have lived there say, once you're inside the compounds, you won't know the difference between Nairobi and Los Angeles. They're gated communities. They're where most of the expats live. Very safe. Large estates with parks and shopping."

  I nodded. Part of me wanted to see the real Nairobi, but the other part, the part who saw too much reality in Mangaize, didn’t. It was exciting to imagine where we'd live, and of course, searching for a place with Drake. It would make our relationship more real. We weren't merely fuck partners who got together for sex. We'd be living together, eating together, sleeping together. Just being ourselves with each other.

  I almost had to pinch myself as I sat there, fork in hand, watching Drake eat his meal. He was busy talking about the hospital and the university. He finally glanced up from his plate, his eyes catching mine.

  "What's going on in that mind of yours, Ms. Bennet? Something good, I hope, from that wistful smile."

  I smiled more broadly. "Was it wistful?"

  He nodded and reached out to take my hand. "Yes, very."

  I shook my head, trying hard to put what I was feeling into words. "I've never done this kind of thing before," I said.

  "What kind of thing?"

  "Lived with a man. Planned to move somewhere with him. Planned to pull up roots and move to another continent."

  "You went to Africa with Nigel."

  "Not quite the same thing…"

  He chuckled at that. "Not quite." Then he put his fork down and inhaled deeply. "I know this is a huge commitment, withdrawing from your semester, letting your apartment go, coming with me to Nairobi, living with me. Now with the delay, I know it seems like I haven't given you what I promised."

  I reached out and took his hand. "You don’t have to feel bad about that at all. Of course, we'll stay here – as long as you want and need. I just want to be with you, wherever that is and whatever we’re doing."

  He leaned over and kissed me. "I don’t know what will happen between us, Kate, but I can't imagine doing anything without you."

  I smiled, emotion building inside of me. "Me either."

  We turned back to our meals and ate for a while in silence, nothing more needing to be said.

  After we tidied up from our meal, Drake brought a bottle of vodka and two shot glasses to the living room, where we sat by the fireplace. He poked the logs into renewed life and we sat in front of it, the bottle of vodka on the coffee table.

  "Now, Ms. Bennet, I intend to get you drunk."

  I laughed, and snuggled in closer to him. "Are you sure you want to? You have no idea what kind of drunk I might be. And besides," I said, poking his arm. "As a physician, shouldn't you be advocating for moderation?"

  "Moderation in most things, yes," he said and poured two shots. "But in love and when it comes to vodka, there's a time for indulgence."

  Then Drake proceeded to get me drunk, as we did shot after shot of vodka. Luckily, I had eaten and so the alcohol was slower to affect me than if I had been drinking on an empty stomach, but I felt it.

  "I'm not much of a drinker," I said after the third shot. "I can't do anything more or I'll throw up. How romantic would that be?"

  He laughed and put the bottle of vodka down. "OK, OK," he said, his voice betraying reluctance. "I'll let you off the hook for now. I really need to relax and forget everything for a while. Doing a scene requires my total concentration and I have to be sober. I feel like getting drunk tonight. I hope you don't mind too much."

  "Whatever you need or want, Drake." I laid my head on his chest, his arm around me, pulling me against him as we sat on the couch.

  In the end, he didn't get too drunk, at least that I could see. He wasn't a huge man. At six feet tall and a medium build, he could drink a lot more than I could, but he didn't strike me as a hard drinker.

  The alcohol did make him slur his words a bit. He had a karaoke app on his phone and got up in front of the fireplace and sang along with an old song that played on the sound system – "House of the Rising Sun" it was called. I felt tipsy enough that I laughed and clapped for him. He played the whole song out, acting the lines, his face overly dramatic.

  When it was my turn to sing, I tried to refuse, claiming I had a terrible singing voice.

  "No, no, no," he said, taking hold of my arms and pulling me up. "You have to sing something. What's your favorite oldie?"

  I tried to wrestle out of his arms, but he grabbed me from behind and wrapped his arms around me, laughing.

  "No escape, Ms. Bennet. You must sing or I'll have to go all Dom on you."

  "All Dom," I said, giggling when he tickled me. "Oh, all right!" I said, giving in. I had only sung karaoke a few times with my friends from college. "How about something by ABBA?"

  "ABBA?" he said, making a face of mock disgust. "The 1970s? Sacrilege…"

  Then he searched through the songs on his karaoke app and found 'Take A Chance On Me."

  "Here," he said, handing the phone to me. "This is perfect."

  "Oh, God," I said, standing in front of him while he took a turn sitting on the couch, acting as my audience.

  He sat back, his arms on the back of the couch, and nodded. "Sing."

  I sang the song, enjoying it after the first verse. I had enough vodka in me to relax and let go and started to dance to the music while I sang, remembering videos I'd seen of the band in all their 70s disco glory. He wolf-whistled and clapped when I was done and I was so pumped and enjoying myself, I sang the next song on the ABBA karaoke playlist. "Fernando."

  After Drake took one more turn singing, Born to be Wild by Steppenwolf, we collapsed onto the couch and listened to some 60s music on one of Drake's playlists. I was feeling quite tipsy by that point, a little giddy, and relaxed enough that I didn't really care what happened.

  Drake had kept up the shots of vodka for himself, and soon, he was so drunk, he fell asleep on the couch, his head back, his mouth open. I shook his shoulder and he blinked awake.

  "Maybe you should have some coffee," I said. He shook his head.

  "Water," he mumbled, getting up from the couch, pulling me along with him. "And aspirin."

  We went to the kitchen w
here he fumbled in the cupboard for a glass and then almost dropped it in the sink. I took over, pushing him gently out of the way.

  "Let me do this," I said and poured a glass for him from the Brita he had in the fridge. He drank the water down while I watched.

  "Nurse Bennet, are you taking care of me?" he said, an amused expression on his face.

  "You're lucky it's not Nurse Ratched."

  He laughed out loud at that and when he was done, he put the glass down and pulled me into his arms.

  "Let's go to bed," he said. "I'm not up to much good so I hope you're OK with us just sleeping."

  I squeezed him tightly. "Whatever you want, Drake."

  He took my hand and led me to the bathroom, where we both stood side by side and brushed our teeth.

  I turned to him, helping him undo his shirt buttons.

  "I'm sorry if you're disappointed that we didn't do our scene," he said, his voice low, his eyes on my face while I undressed him.

  "Shh," I said, helping him off with his shirt and turning to the button and zipper on his jeans. "We have all the time in the world for that. You needed this tonight."

  "I did," he said, watching me while I undressed him. "But seeing you undress me makes me a bit hard."

  "If you ignore it, it will go away," I said and grinned up at him. "I seem to recall you telling me that on a fateful night in November…"

  "That it will," he said and closed his eyes. "Oh, Katie, I am so drunk…"

  "You are." I led him to the bed and after I pulled the blanket and sheets back, I pushed him down onto it. He fell back, laughing, his eyes closed. He managed to get under the blankets and after quickly undressing, I slid in next to him. He turned just enough so that I could crawl into his arms and then we lay there in the dark and listened to the sounds filtering up from the street. There was a storm outside and the wind blew against the windows, wet snow pelting the glass.

  Within a moment or two, he was back asleep, his breathing deep and slow.