He greets me with a big grin, shakes Paul’s hand and then claps Adam on the shoulder. “I’m heading to the can,” he proclaims. “You better get back to the table before there’s a meltdown.”
Adam’s jaw flexes minutely, but that’s the only indication he gives of his annoyance. “All right, man. Thanks.”
Brooks passes through the open doors into the restaurant, and Adam looks back down at me, his gray eyes light and dark at once. Warm and cold like the night. Like the way I feel.
Then he shifts his attention to Paul. “Put her in a taxi, all right?” It’s definitely not a question.
Paul nods. “I’ll make sure she gets home in one piece.”
Adam hesitates, like he wants to say more. And I wait, because I want him to say more, too, though I’m not sure what I want to hear.
“Okay, great,” he says. “Goodnight.”
I watch him return to the table and engage in some kind of whispered exchange with Julia, who gestures like she’s conducting an orchestra and spits what seems like a nonstop string of words at him. I’m glad I can’t hear them though I’m burning with curiosity, too.
“Someone is in trouble,” Paul sing-songs.
“Most definitely.”
The waiter delivers another round, and Paul and I clink glasses. Some far-off part of me weighs in with disapproval—both at the drinking and at the way I treated Adam. But it’s easy to shrink that part to the tiniest dot. Another sip makes it disappear completely.
Paul and I finish our meal, sharing plates of chicken enchiladas and lobster macaroni and cheese, which taste like absolute heaven to me now. We chat a little bit about our work, and Paul talks my ear off about his job as an environmental activist. His passion gives me a giddy feeling, it’s so infectious.
When it’s my turn, I find I can’t talk about my father’s investment company or Boomerang or Adam. So, instead, I talk about Suede, about finding just the right caretaker for her and about Persephone and our first successful ride along the beach.
“Oh my God,” Paul breathes. “I’m terrified of horses.”
“You shouldn’t be,” I tell him. “Next to an LA County Commissioner, a horse is a kitten.”
“True.”
Our conversation turns to Philippe, and of course I make him sound like the absolute best thing since Kate Spade clutches, which he is. I promise a date soon, in payment for this evening.
“No need to repay me,” he says, and leans in to give me a sweet kiss on the cheek. “I’ve had an awesome time.”
He insists on paying the bill, and we weave our way toward the street, passing Adam’s table. I feel his eyes on me as Paul hooks his arm around my waist, shoring me up. A cab is a great idea.
Paul and I stand on the street for what feels like hours, watching cars crisscross the busy road—but no taxi.
“Why don’t you go on?” I tell him. “I’ll grab my cell phone from my car and call someone for a ride.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I promise, I’ll be fine.”
He nods and gives me another kiss on the cheek and a long hug. It feels amazing to be touched by someone, and I find myself holding on for a second. But I’m also so aware of how close all my feelings are to the edge, of how unseemly it would be to peel aside a gay man’s jacket and burrow in like a mole.
We part ways, and I wander down Alden toward my car. The ground tilts a bit, and I stop for a second, pressing a hand to my eyes to try to stave off my dizzy feeling.
“You have great taste,” says a voice right beside me.
I turn to find Adam standing on the curb, hands thrust into his pockets, smiling at me.
“What?”
He motions to the sleek, smoke-colored sports car a foot or so away. “That’s mine.”
I straighten up, taking in the car’s aerodynamic lines. It is exactly the car that Adam should have—powerful, sexy, and in a color that matches his eyes.
“I thought you were getting a cab.”
“I am,” I tell him. “I thought you were placating your date.”
“That ship has sailed, sorry to say.” But he doesn’t look sorry at all.
“Where’d everyone else go?”
“I sent them with Brooks. They’re fine. Let me drive you.”
Not one part of me feels like launching even a token protest, so I just say, “That would be great, thanks.”
The car alarm chirps, and he leans down and opens the passenger door.
I fold onto the seat. The inside of the car smells like leather and like Adam’s cologne. Again, the scent of him hollows my stomach. I want to curl into it, but I buckle my seat belt and focus on keeping my hands to myself, instead.
We discover we’re both in Malibu, which seems impossible and perfect at the same time. I imagine Adam walking along the surf at sunset, water drenching the hem of his pants, breeze blowing his shirt against his lean frame.
God, he better get me home.
We wind along the side streets, zipping around traffic. Adam lives on the beach north of Point Dume, while I’m up on the canyon side, with all the ranch properties. We compare notes on our favorite restaurants and the best coffee spots. I hear us talking, and we sound so normal. But I don’t feel normal. I feel drugged, swimming in the feeling of just being close to him.
I sense something gathering inside Adam, a tension in his forearms, his face. His focus hones as the road starts to clear. When there’s nothing but winding open asphalt ahead of us, he looks at me. “You ready?”
The next thing I know, my back thuds against the seat.
Zero to sixty in less than three seconds feels like taking off in a rocket.
The car cuts left and right as we weave along the coast at a speed that I didn’t think was possible, the ocean blurring on my left, the canyon walls on my right. It’s a thrill, a thousand times more exhilarating than any rollercoaster ride. I squeal with the pleasure of it and then laugh because I’ve never been the squealing type.
I glance at Adam. He’s so zoned in, so lost in what he’s doing. Watching him, I feel like I’m seeing something deeply revealing, almost intimate, and the sight lights every part of me.
He decelerates after a few more seconds and looks at me. “Highway Patrol always sets up around the next bend,” he says. The intensity leaves his eyes, and he smiles. “So what did you think?”
“I think I’ve never had so much fun in a car.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Really?” he asks, grinning. “Never?”
My face heats as I remember.
I have had more fun in a car. A lot more fun.
I don’t answer, because there’s no need. I know we’re both thinking about it, both remembering our bodies together, the perfection of our hands and lips on each other. I smile to myself, because even though we can’t have that again, we can have this—this wild, exhilarating ride.
Chapter 24
Adam
As we fly through a yellow light passing Malibu Inn, I downshift and glance at Ali. I find her watching me with an expression like she’s dreaming with her eyes open.
“What’s on your mind, Ms. Quick?”
“You love this, don’t you?”
It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about driving the Bugatti—not about being with her.
I nod. “Cars are something my dad and I always did together. He runs a few restaurants and bars back East. He was always busy. I didn’t see him at all during the week or on Saturdays, but Sundays we spent together. We went on drives or to car shows. We took care of his car collection.”
She’s still watching me, like she wants to hear more. I let myself keep going.
“When I was thirteen, he bought a Shelby Cobra kit, and we spent that entire year building the car from scratch on Sundays. It turned out perfect. Well, almost.”
“Oh, no. What happened?”
“My younger brother, Grey. He was around eight at the time and he didn’t have the attention span to help out. I don’t thi
nk he has that attention span now, at almost nineteen, but anyway. Dad and I had just finished the car. The paint was barely dry when Grey flew into the garage on his skateboard and wiped out. The board popped out from beneath him and smacked the Cobra’s driver-side door. The jury’s still out on whether he did it intentionally. He never copped to it.”
Ali laughs. “Poor kid.”
“Poor Adam. I busted my ass for a year on that car.” I shake my head, remembering. “I was so pissed at him.”
“What about your dad? Wasn’t he angry?”
“Oh, he went red. But he never punished Grey. See, our dad was always telling us it’s good to leave evidence of your impact on the world. It’s why he’s into restaurants and real estate . . . ‘Get out there, make your mark,’ he’d say to us. ‘It means you’re living.’ Well, Grey quoted those words right back to him. He stood there and told our dad he’d left evidence of his impact on the world on that Cobra. He got off scot-free. The car’s still in our garage back home. Still has the dent, too.”
Ali giggles. “Your brother sounds like a handful.”
“You have no idea.” I realize I’ve been talking her ear off. “What about you? Tell me about the horses you love so much. Do you do dressage—that kind of thing?” That’s about as knowledgeable as I can sound on the subject of horses.
“When I was younger, I did.” She turns in the seat a little, to face me better. “Show-jumping. Competitions, horse shows. All of that.”
“You don’t anymore?”
“No,” she says. “We had to put down my horse, Zenith, a few years ago. I loved him. I’ve never found another horse I trusted like that. Who trusted me. Now I just ride. And rehab them. I’ve grown to love that just as much.”
“What does rehabilitating involve?”
She tells me about how it varies, case by case. Some have poor health, or injuries that require nurturing that’s primarily physical. Others need treatment that focuses on their behavior, or rebuilding trust. She tells me she’s only been rehabbing horses for about a year, but she sounds sure of what she’s saying and passionate about it.
“The ones who’ve lost the ability to trust are the hardest,” she says, “but those are my favorite to rescue. They’re the most rewarding.”
Some invisible force pulls my eyes to her; I couldn’t stop it if my life depended on it. The canyon walls rise higher, and shadows bleed across the dashboard. All I can see is her shining white-blond hair and the sparkle of the charm bracelet on her wrist. I want to reach for her hand.
“Will you show me?” I ask instead.
“You want to see my horses?”
“Yes.” But the truth is I want to see her with her horses.
I have to focus on the road again as we reach the turnoff to her home. The engine rumbles deeper as I decelerate, a reluctant, displeased growl that’s a good reflection of my mood. This drive went too fast. My time with her is almost over. What an idiot. I should’ve driven fifteen miles an hour all the way here.
“How about tonight?” Ali says. “If you wanted to . . . How about right now?”
“Sure,” I say. “Now works.”
We reach her house, and Ali gives me the gate code. Heavy wrought-iron gates swing open, and I drive into the property.
I rarely come up to this part of Malibu, with its sprawling ranches. Suddenly, it feels like we come from different sides of the track, even though my house is only a mile away and on the beach side of the highway. My place is house, sand, ocean. Simple. This, I see as I pull inside, is an estate.
A long crushed-oyster-shell driveway leads to a main house, which sits up on a slope. Even from a distance, I can tell it’s massive—a Mediterranean villa, all stone columns and topiary hedges. To my left, I see the white fencing of a horse enclosure. To the right, well-lit paths weave through landscaped gardens.
Wealth doesn’t intimidate me. I grew up rich and got a lot richer on my own. I like finer things. More than that I like the ability to execute on just about any desire I have. It’s not the extravagance on display here that unsettles me. I can’t really place what it is. But I feel a sudden protective urge to whisk Alison away from this place.
She directs me to a tidy white building with a red tile roof. She’s practically out of my car before I put it in park, but she waits for me to join her.
“I know it’s hard to believe,” she says, “but I usually don’t ride in dresses.”
“That’s not what my sources say, but okay. I believe you.”
She laughs and slips off her heels, slinging them over her shoulder. “Hope you’re okay with a little hay and horse smell.”
“I’m okay with making hay. Does that count?”
“Blackwood, are you flirting with me?”
“Sorry, Quick. I’m here strictly for the horses.”
“Then you won’t be disappointed.” She drops her heels by a shrub and unlatches double doors. They’re heavy, and I’m mesmerized by the sight of her, barefoot, in an elegant dress, using all the strength of her slender body to slide the doors open. She steps inside, hits the lights, and twirls around, flourishing a hand. “Behold! The glory of a real-life stable.”
Everything, I think as I follow her inside. Everything she does when she’s playful this way is perfect.
Inside, there are four stalls on either side of a central dirt corridor dusted with strands of hay. Leather gear hangs from hooks along the walls, and the smell of horse and hay is potent. I glance at Ali, who’s pulling on some boots by the door that are way too big for her.
“That’s Persephone,” she says, smiling. “She’s my girl.” A horse peeks out of the first stall on the right. She’s a stunning animal, big blue eyes, a powerful neck, and a golden coat that shines in the light.
“She’s . . . extraordinary,” I say, stepping closer.
I don’t think I’ve ever looked at a horse the way I am now, through Ali’s eyes. Knowing what she told me on Halloween night about how much she trusts them. Knowing how much they mean to her.
Persephone looks from me to Ali, ears flipping back and forth. She’s curious, but she looks intelligent and somehow regal.
“Thank you,” Ali says, patting her neck. “I think so too.”
She takes me to another stall, where a horse is hidden in shadows at the far end. “That’s Suede. We’re just at the beginning of a long road, but I know it’ll be worth it. I just picked him up a week ago.”
“I know,” I say.
Ali looks at me. “You do?”
“I’ve heard you on the phone. In our office.”
“Oh,” she says. “Sorry. I try not to take personal calls—”
“It’s okay. Don’t apologize. I like hearing you talk about horses. It’s sexy. All that talk about teaching softness by being soft,” I repeat her own words back to her. “Knowing just how much hard is required.”
Ali smiles. “Soft just means responsive.”
“Still hot.”
“In horse talk, a hot horse is one that has plenty of energy to burn.”
I open my hands. “I rest my case.”
She laughs and clomps over in her sexy dress and huge boots to a wood locker in the corner, rummaging inside. “Here, Suede,” she says, coming back to my side with two carrots.
Slowly, the horse moves forward, and I see an animal that’s in much worse shape than Persephone. Suede’s eyes are glazed, he’s less muscular, and his coat doesn’t have the same luster.
“He’s a little nervous,” Ali says, “but give him a second. Here. Give him your bare hand first so he can smell you. Then you can feed him.”
Ali hands me the carrots, then makes a kissing sound. “Come here, gorgeous boy.”
I step closer to her. “How’s this?”
Ali rolls her eyes at me then turns back to the stall. “It’s okay, Suede. You can trust him.”
Finally, Suede comes close enough. He doesn’t peek his head out of the stall like Persephone, though, so I reach carefully i
nside.
“Hey, there,” I say, holding my hand out. Suede’s horse lips flutter around on my palm for a few seconds. “No pressure, buddy, but it’s really important we get along. I need to stay on your owner’s good side.” Suede smells the carrot, his head bobbing toward it, so I give it to him. “There you go. Good for the eyesight, carrots. But don’t eat too many or you’ll turn orange.”
I feel Ali smiling beside me and find that I’m smiling too.
“He likes you.”
“Well, he’s my favorite horse. I think he senses that.” My eyes go to her bare shoulder. She has goose bumps.
Before I can think about it, I reach out and run my hand along her arm. Her skin is smooth, softer than anything I’ve ever felt.
Alison goes perfectly still. I keep going, drawing my hand over her shoulder and burying my fingers into her hair. “Are you cold?”
Her lips part as she inhales. “No, I’m . . . I’m fine.” She shakes her head a little, then she lets out her breath, long and slow. Her blue eyes stare into mine, open and gentle. I’m so here with her. I want anything she’ll give me, but it’s more than that. I’m going to lose my mind if I can’t have her.
“Tell me you want this,” I say.
She’s been drinking. I can’t forget that. She’s sobered up since the restaurant some, but there’s no denying it.
Her hand brushes along my chest and stills on my neck. “I want this.”
That’s all I need. I crush my lips to hers, and it’s fast—and hot. I can’t take it slow. Our tongues are darting, doing an urgent dance as I pick her up and lift her against the wall. She wraps her arms around my neck and I yank her dress up to get her legs around me. Her heavy boots clunk to the ground, one, then the other. Then her ankles lock behind me, and she pulls me in tight. I let out a groan at the feeling, her pressed to me, open for me.
Alison feels me and moans low, kissing my jaw and my neck. I shift, freeing up one hand, and try to draw the sleeve of her dress down, but it won’t budge.
“Ali. I want to see you.” I don’t have to explain. Both of my hands are occupied, holding her up.
She straightens and tugs at a zipper along her ribs. Her blue dress loosens and slips to her waist.
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