by Lara Adrian
I don’t realize I’m pacing again until I glance out the window and see her looking my way while she speaks with Kathryn’s private nurse. It’s the only thing that halts my steps—that look that says she’s just as concerned about me as she is the friend who’s slowly perishing day by day before her eyes.
I know she senses my discomfort in being in this godforsaken place.
I hate that I can’t hide that from her the way I can with anyone else.
No, Avery knows me too well. And if I don’t pull my shit together, I’m only going to add undue worry to an already painful day for her.
I force myself to take a seat in the metal guest chair at the foot of the bed. Try to tune out the noise of the monitors beeping with Kathryn’s vitals and the various diagnostics that run automatically from a computer hooked up to wires and lines attached to various parts of her diseased body.
I tell myself not to think about another hospital room, and another frail, deteriorating body.
But the memories are already resurrected. They’ve been haunting me ever since Avery and I arrived.
“Are you gonna die, Mom?”
“Oh, honey.” Sad, dove-gray eyes look up at me where I stand at the side of her hospital bed. “That’s the last thing I want you to worry about. I’m sick, but I’m fighting this with all I’ve got. You believe me, don’t you, sweetheart?”
I nod, but I’m not sure what I believe. She’s never lied to me before, but each time I’ve come to see her in this place she looks smaller. Weaker. As if she’s disappearing breath by breath.
Her fingers feel cool when she rests them on mine. Dark blue veins spider across the back of her hand, old bruises from IV lines mottling the skin that used to be creamy golden-brown from days spent in the Florida sun.
She turns her head on the mound of pillows that prop her up in the bed, the sparse post-chemo cap of fuzzy mahogany hair reminding me of a baby bird I once tried to rescue after it fell out of its nest. I couldn’t save that bird. I woke up one morning and found it stiff and cold in the shoebox I fashioned for its cage.
Mom glances at the backpack slung over my shoulder, which I’ve carried here straight from school. “Do you have something to show me today?”
“Yeah.” I reach into my pack, fishing around the books and homework from my fourth grade classes until I find the large spiral pad secreted at the bottom. I open to the page I made for her today and tear the pencil sketch out.
I don’t want to notice the way her hands tremble as she holds it. Her graceful, artist’s hands, almost too weak to hold a single sheet of drawing paper now. Her eyes mist as she gazes at my work for a long time.
“Oh, Nicky. It’s beautiful.”
I want to lean toward her, yearning to be close, but I stay still. I don’t like the odor of antiseptics that hovers around her, nor the faint ammonia tinge from the tube that runs from beneath her blanket into the bag of dark yellow fluid hanging near my feet.
When she looks at me with pride beaming in her eyes, I feel ashamed of my discomfort in being near her. I should be stronger than this.
I should be brave, but all I am is afraid.
“This is your best one yet, sweetheart.” Her cracked lips spread in a tender smile. “Do you have any idea how special you are, how talented you are?”
I shrug, aware even at ten years old that she’s the talented one. Or she was, until the cancer took all of that away from her a few months ago.
“Promise me you’ll keep at it, Nicky. You have to. You’re too gifted to let a gift like this go to waste.”
“Dad doesn’t like it when I work on my art.”
I sound sullen, but I can’t help it. He and I have never gotten along. We never do things together, which is okay with me because when we do he just seems angry with me. Sometimes I think he can’t even stand the sight of me.
“Dad says art is for girls. And sissy boys.”
She scoffs, an airless sound that seems to scrape her throat. “He doesn’t mean that. Your father had a hard life, honey. His life is still hard, trying to support the three of us with what little he and your grandpa bring in from the boat.”
A boat he refuses to let me step foot on. I’m too young, he says. Too soft for his line of work. Always mocking me.
He doesn’t know what I’m capable of because he’s never there to watch me try.
“He loves you, sweetheart. Don’t ever doubt that.”
I nod and smile, if only to let her continue to believe that. A question burns in the pit of my stomach. A selfish one that leaps off my tongue before I can bite it back. “What am I going to do when you’re gone?”
“My sweet boy.” She let my sketch fall against her sunken breast as she reaches for me. Her fingers grasp mine in a firm hold now, her gray eyes stormy with resolve. “I’m not going to leave you. I’m going to fight this and get better. Then I’ll be home and everything will be back to normal again.”
When I start to cry, she gently tugs me down, gathering my head to her shoulder. Then I don’t care about the smells or the sounds of the many machines that are connected to her. I weep like the sissy boy my father thinks I am, terrified of losing everything I love—and the only person who’s ever loved me.
“You’ll see,” she whispers as she kisses the top of my head. “I’m going to beat this stupid cancer. I’m going to get out of this hospital and then you and I are going to turn that old shed out back into our studio, how about that? We’re going to draw and paint whenever we want to, just you and me. Is that a deal?”
I nod shakily, my tears slowing under the ferocity of her resolve. “Yeah. It’s a deal.”
“Everything’s going to be all right, Nicky. I promise.”
In the end, it was a promise she couldn’t keep. She didn’t get better. She didn’t ever come home.
And after the cancer took her later that same month and she was gone, my life at home became the worst kind of hell.
Then nothing was all right ever again.
“Dominic?”
The raspy voice startles me out of the past. My head snaps up to find Kathryn staring at me from where she lay on the bed. She licks her lips as if her mouth is too dry, then she starts to cough.
“Hang on,” I tell her, getting up to pour some water from a pink plastic pitcher on a rollaway tray near the bed. “Here you go. Don’t drink too fast.”
I hold the straw to her mouth, tipping the cup carefully while she takes a small sip. It’s all she can manage; she closes her lips and turns her head away on a winced groan.
“Better?” I ask.
“Not really,” she murmurs, her tongue sluggish from the opioids dripping into her veins from the IV. “I’d be better if I wasn’t dying.”
I nod, knowing there’s no need to pretend with Kathryn. She’s always been blunt and practical. Fearlessly so.
“Can I get you anything else right now?”
She doesn’t answer for a moment, just blinks up at me with bleary, listless eyes. “Is Avery with you?”
“Yes. She stepped outside for a minute.” I place the paper cup down on the tray beside the water pitcher. “I’ll let her know you’re awake.”
“Dominic . . . wait. Let me say something to you. Please?”
Lingering in this room is the last thing I want to do, especially now that my mind is swamped with a lot of old memories I thought I’d left behind in Florida. But I figure I owe it to this woman to finally hear her out. Hell, I owe Kathryn Tremont more than I’ll ever be able to repay.
A look of mild surprise—and relief—settles over her face when I remain standing at the side of the bed. “Will you always hate me?”
I scowl, realizing just how deeply my anger hurt her. “I never hated you, Kathryn.”
“You never loved me, either.” She states it matter-of-factly, then closes her eyes. For a long moment, she simply breathes. “Well . . . that’s all right. I’m not an easy woman to love.”
She motions for me to give he
r more water. I let her drink, then I use the edge of her sheet to dab at the small trail of liquid that leaks onto her chin.
“You were so young when I saw you that first time,” she murmurs, watching me tend her. “Were you even twenty?”
“Just,” I reply, recalling the older, beautiful, sophisticated woman who spotted me parking cars at a fancy event not long after I arrived in New York and proceeded to attach me to her arm like one of her flashy baubles. Not that I’d complained. She was mercurial and fascinating to be around. And she had wealth and connections I could never make on my own.
Simply put, we used each other, both of us happy with the arrangement because it served our own selfish goals.
“You had so much to look forward to, Dominic. I sensed that about you from the start. And I only wanted to be the one to help you get there. I wanted to—” Another racking cough seizes her, making her frail body convulse.
I slide my hand to her back, trying to assist her in finding a more comfortable position. Her spine is a knobby ribbon against my palm, her skin cool and clammy beneath her thin hospital gown. When the cough subsides, she takes another small drink then sags against the mattress.
“I never meant to hurt you. That party I arranged in the Hamptons for you—for your art—it was never my intention to embarrass you or make you uncomfortable. I only wanted the rest of the world to see your talent.”
“My talent was gone, Kathryn.”
I’m shocked to hear the words come out devoid of fury. The regret is still there, but it’s not Kathryn who’s to blame for what I’ve lost. It’s my father. And me.
I hold up my right hand, the one riddled and ruined with heavy scars. “I was never going to paint again, so parading my work in front of a bunch of people who would only look at me in pity afterward wasn’t the kind of help I needed. I sure as hell didn’t want it.”
“I know,” she admits quietly. A sound like a small sob catches in the back of her throat. “I understand that now. And I want you to know I’m sorry that I didn’t understand it then.”
I shake my head, recalling my self-destructive, unhinged reaction the day of the party when I discovered my art was about to be shown to a room full of critics and media and countless other of Kathryn’s society friends. In a blind rage, I savaged it all. Five paintings—the only ones in existence, the only things of value I took with me when I left the old man in my rearview mirror and headed for New York—demolished in a single, stupid act wrought by my own hands.
The irony of it hadn’t escaped me, even then.
“Forget it,” I tell Kathryn. “That’s all ancient history, anyway. It doesn’t matter.”
“No, Dominic. It does matter. I didn’t know what you needed back then.” She gazes at me sorrowfully, but without any trace of bitterness. “I wasn’t what you needed. But that lovely girl outside . . . she is.”
My eyes lift, searching for Avery in the corridor. She’s listening to Pauline, nodding, her face solemn. My heart constricts at the sight of her, feeling too full for my chest. Yet I can’t look away. Everything I want is standing in that hallway. Everything I could ever need.
“Yes,” Kathryn says, a note of satisfaction in her drowsy tone. “You know it too. So don’t let her down again. Be good to her, Dominic. Be the man she needs.”
I want to issue some confident promise that Avery will never need anyone but me. That I can somehow, eventually, prove myself deserving of the honor.
But the words don’t come.
I look at Avery and while she grounds me in so many ways, she also holds the power to unravel me. I felt that today, after I nearly ripped open other old scars—ones that can never be sewn shut again once their secrets spill out.
I look at Avery and I feel adrift, in need of her body’s soft anchor and the safe port that I haven’t found anywhere but in her eyes.
I look at her, miraculously back in my life after I was so certain I’d pushed her away forever, and I am drowning in emotions I never knew before I met her.
I feel utterly out of control with the depth of my love for her.
I reach for a suitably reassuring reply to Kathryn’s challenge, but the easy confidence I can usually cloak myself in eludes my grasp. The only thing I find is naked, vulnerable candor.
“I hope I can be what Avery needs.”
Kathryn says nothing. I’m not even sure she heard me. When I glance back at the bed, her eyes are closed and her breath is puffing softly through her parted lips.
Chapter 17
“Okay, Pauline. Thank you for letting me know.” I end the call and set my phone down on the cocktail table in Nick’s living room.
“Everything okay?”
He walks out from the kitchen barefoot, his white shirt still tucked loosely into his belted suit pants but unbuttoned to his chest and rolled up at the sleeves. Clutched in his hand is a cut-crystal tumbler of whisky. We arrived at the penthouse about an hour ago, our plans for a proper date tonight put on the back burner. With Kathryn hospitalized, the last thing on my mind is going out somewhere. I had planned to go home after the hours spent at Kathryn’s bedside, but it didn’t take a lot of convincing for Nick to persuade me to stay the night in the city with him in case her situation worsened.
Fortunately, that worry seems to be abated at least for now.
“They’re moving her out of ICU tonight. Pauline says the doctors want to observe her for a few hours tomorrow, make sure she’s strong enough to go home. There’s a good chance Kathryn will be discharged following the afternoon rounds.”
“Sounds encouraging.”
“I suppose so, all things considered.” I fold my legs under me on the sofa. “Pauline thinks it’s time for Kathryn to start thinking about hospice.”
He doesn’t say anything as he takes a seat beside me, just nods then takes a swig from the crystal glass. “You sure I can’t fix you a drink?”
“No, thank you.” He’s on his second since we came home from the hospital, and this one appears to be a larger pour than the first. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He stares at me as if I just said I wanted to discuss my period. “Talk about it?”
“Kathryn’s cancer. The fact that she’s dying.”
“What more is there to say?”
Although he seems accepting enough on the surface, even calm, I study his face as he tips the glass to his lips again and downs another healthy swallow of liquor. There is a storm of dark emotion behind the shuttered control of his gaze. A world of hurt he’s holding far out of my reach.
“I know your history with Kathryn, Nick. Are you afraid to tell me that you still care about her?”
He swivels a hard, questioning look at me. “Is that what you think?”
“I don’t mean romantically. I know that was over a long time ago. I mean, are you okay with the way you and she have left things? What I mean is, are there things you need to resolve with her while you still have the time?”
He drains his glass and sets it down on the table. “We’ve talked.” I’m sure my confusion is evident in my face. Nick leans back on the sofa with a sigh, draping his arm behind me. His fingers toy idly in my hair, his touch soothing me while I wait for him to say more. “You were in the hall with Pauline. Kathryn woke up. We spoke for a few minutes. I don’t know . . . I guess she felt the need for some kind of absolution from me. Closure, maybe.”
“Did you give it to her?”
“I told her there was nothing to forgive. I never hated her, even though I let her believe I did for far too long. She didn’t deserve that.”
I reach up and stroke his beard-shadowed cheek. “She’s been waiting years to hear you say that,” I point out gently, well aware of how deeply it hurt Kathryn to feel she’d made an enemy out of him only because she did something motivated by her love for him. I lean into his side, drawn to his warmth, his strength. “Thank you for showing her kindness today, Nick. She needs that kind of peace now more than ever.”
; His arm comes down around me, tucking me close. “What do you need?”
“You. This.” My fingers find their way to the back of his neck and into the silky edge of his black hair. “All I need is us. I see Kathryn so alone at the end of her life and it scares me sometimes.”
He frowns, brushing the backs of his fingers along the side of my face. “You’re afraid of being alone?”
“No. Afraid of going through my life without you.”
“Angel.” The word is a rough whisper just before his lips meet mine. His kiss is deep and possessive, flavored with need and the sweet, smoky flavor of the whisky on his tongue.
I didn’t come here tonight with the intention of making love, but when Nick is kissing me like this, there’s no room for anything else. He makes me feel safe. He makes me feel cherished and protected, as if nothing bad can ever touch me so long as I’m in his arms.
I need to feel those things now—more than I realized.
After being in that hospital around so much talk of sickness and dying, I need to feel alive.
I need to feel secure in Nick’s love.
His kiss turns hotter before I’m fully prepared. With his tongue stroking against mine, devouring my soft moans and panting breaths, he pushes me down onto the sofa beneath him. As much as I ache to feel him against me, his need seems even more urgent. He draws back on a groan, then makes quick work of my loose top and denim shorts. His mouth is hungry on me, traveling over every inch of bared skin, his teeth nipping me sharply when he reaches my hip.
“I have to taste you,” he growls, already dragging my panties down my legs.
If I craved a slow burn tonight, it’s clear that Nick has other ideas.
He spreads me wide, then descends, his dark head buried between my thighs. There is no prelude, and no mercy in the assault he wages on my sex. It’s wet and hot and fevered.
There’s no slowing him down, but then it’s easy to get caught up in the storm of his intense passions. And seeing him so consumed with lust for me is a pleasure all its own.
I cry out in protest when his mouth leaves me just when my climax was building toward its peak. Straddling me with one foot on the floor and the other knee bent on the side of me, he strips out of his shirt and tosses it aside. His eyes are turbulent with need as he unfastens his belt and draws down the zipper of his bespoke slacks. He pulls his cock out, his hand wrapped around the hard length, stroking it all the way to the plump, glistening head as he moves nearer to my face.