LOVERS

by Roxy Harte

  Johnny shakes his head, looking from me to Adrian and back again. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  Photos are flashed from my past…partying pictures…a young me guzzling expensive champagne from the bottle, onstage in Luxemburg, the maid and newspaper headlines that touted I was in bed with a Belgium duke when he died, and a final picture of the duke. Air leaves my lungs in a rush.

  Adrian comes to my side and grabs the nape of my neck and pushes my head down to my knees. “Breathe!”

  I’m breathing. I’m hyperventilating.

  Adrian tells Johnny to get a paper bag, but by the time Johnny finally finds one and gets it back to us, I am breathing normal. “Oh my God.”

  Adrian and Johnny sit looking at me. I tell them, “I didn’t kill anyone. An autopsy was performed. He died of natural causes.”

  “Old age?” Johnny asks, and Adrian punches him to which he ducks and covers, defending, “I’m just saying.”

  “Heart attack,” I say, and then I start laughing, laughing so hard it is fairly obvious that I am hysterical. I say between jerked laughs, “I didn’t have sex with him. I just passed out in his bed drunk…and stoned…and just really A-plus fucked up.”

  When I finally sober enough to think straight, I tell Adrian that my lawyer advised me to get a bodyguard. He shakes his head. “You don’t need to hire a bodyguard, you have me.”

  It’s true, at six foot, four and two-twenty plus pounds of rippling muscle, he’s intimidating as hell. I resist though. “I don’t want to disrupt your life while we wait for this to blow over. In a day or two everything will be back to normal.”

  “Then I’m yours for a day or two.”

  Entertainment Tonight comes back from a commercial break with Mary musing that it’s quite a coincidence that murder is being whispered in the same conversations as Bebe’s rumored comeback album. “Is this all just a clever marketing ploy, Brad?”

  “I haven’t recorded anything in years!” I yell at the television, earning shushes from both men.

  Johnny is squatted directly in front of the television. “A new album!” He whispers, “Do you know how long America has waited for Bebé to release another album?”

  The televised debate continues. “Well, Mary, celebrities have resorted to worse, but there is rarely a dead duke involved.”

  I announce, “There is no album!” before racing from the couch to go back into Adrian’s bedroom. I call Jameson, not impressed I need to call Jameson, especially after his unannounced arrival on my doorstep with suitcases in hand…was that only a week ago? It seems like a lifetime.

  He answers his cell on the third ring and I don’t wait for him to say hello, I just start screeching, “What in the hell was Emma thinking? Whose life is she trying to ruin? Mine? Because this isn’t going to ruin my life. It may disrupt it for a few days, but she won’t ruin me. Does she even have a brain? Once reporters get involved and start interviewing people someone is going to point at you. It’s not like our relationship was clandestine. Are you ready to deal with the consequences when it is revealed that you are a member of both the poly and BDSM communities, Professor?”

  When I take a breath, Jameson asks, “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  I scream, “Ask your wife!” And then I hang up, not feeling even a little bit better.

  Adrian comes up behind me and rubs my back. “Did that help?”

  I shake my head, trying not to cry.

  “We need to figure out how to get rid of the reporters before I open tonight.”

  I nod, not having a clue how to do that…and then I remember, sure I do, if I’m the story, they’ll follow me. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “If you’re leaving, I’ll go with you. I’m your new bodyguard, remember?”

  I smile. “I won’t need you for this. I’m just going to lead them on a wild goose chase to get them to hang out somewhere else. I used to be a pro at ducking reporters, I’ll be back before you notice I’m gone.”

  He lets me leave. I can’t blame him. He has a business to run. And I really shouldn’t need protecting, my life isn’t in danger. They just want a story.

  I check my hair and makeup at the foot of the stairs, wondering, how in the hell did Emma see through fifteen years? I can’t even see the girl I was then.

  I walk into the alley smiling, ready for the strobe of lights that hits me. “I heard a rumor that someone out here wanted to talk to me.”

  Questions pummel me. “Where have you been? Did you go into hiding to escape the scandal of Duke Jacob’s death?”

  I field the questions like the consummate professional I used to be. “Los Angeles. No.”

  “Is it true you’re a professional Dominatrix?”

  “It depends on your definition of professional,” I tease, and then I climb into my SUV and take off. I expect them to follow, I don’t expect them to try to force me off the road…even knowing all the paparazzi horror stories this town amasses every year, I never expect that. I take the on ramp onto the interstate, just wanting the advantage of speed so that I can put distance between me and the lead driver of the psycho paparazzi.

  My cell rings and I see it is Jameson. I consider not answering, but I figure he’s had time to talk to Emma, not that hearing her excuse now will make me feel any better, but I deserve some insight into why this is happening. I answer.

  “Emma isn’t answering the phone, so I went by the house but she isn’t there.”

  “Great, just great.”

  “Tell me what’s going on, Bianca.”

  “It’s a long story, Jameson, maybe some other time.” I see the lead paparazzi on my bumper.

  “Can I see you?”

  I laugh. “Seriously? No. My life is on psycho drama at the moment, thanks to your wife, and I don’t want either one of you anywhere near me.”

  Traffic stops suddenly and the paparazzi use it to their advantage, circling my SUV, crowding close. Should I be worried? Scared?

  The old days were never this insane. I see the exit sign for LAX and don’t even think before hitting the emergency lane, crowding close enough to the lead paparazzi vehicle to hit his bumper as I make my escape. A semi pulls onto the shoulder, trying to prevent my escape to the exit. I blow my horn, flip him off and hit the grassy strip off the pavement, going around him. “Asshole!”

  A motorcycle and an SUV follow close behind, mimicking my insanity.

  I have to get out of here!

  I try to do Sydney math in my head, thinking I could ask Bishop to borrow his London house for a few days and deciding that even if I can’t…London it is. I’ll just get a hotel. That doesn’t take away my need to talk to Bishop. I do the math. Eight-fifteen at night here, seventeen hours ahead, equals one-fifteen PM Sydney time. At least he won’t be asleep.

  I shake away the cloud of guilt that wraps around my mind and speed dial, interrupting his life too.

  He answers on the second ring, saying, “What a nice surprise. I was just thinking about you.”

  “I hope you feel that way in a few minutes.”

  “What’s wrong?” he asks.

  “Just a little problem in LA.” I try to sound sweet, innocent, not scared or perturbed, because I really don’t want him to worry. “I wondered if I could lay low at your London house. I wouldn’t ask, but I just don’t want to be tracked to a hotel and if I use my credit cards—”

  “Bianca,” he interrupts. “Slow down. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  I choke back a sob. “I need to get out of town…now. I’ll be glad to explain but right now—” A motorcycle cuts in front of me hard and fast. “Goddamn!” I shriek, slamming on my brakes. A passenger hops off the bike and starts flashing photographs. “Leave me the fuck alone!”

  “Bianca? Bianca?”

  I hear Bishop’s voice calling to me through the receiver. I keep arguing with the photographer. “Get away from me!”

  “Bianca! Bianca!”

  I press my foot to the floo
rboard, squealing tires, burning rubber, and hoping the asshole trying to take my picture has enough sense to get the fuck away from a moving vehicle.

  “I’m okay,” I say into the phone, hearing Bishop’s panic.

  He growls, “Get your ass to LAX, I’ll have the jet waiting.”

  Thank God. “Thank you, Jameson. I promise I’ll explain everything as soon as I can.”

  Now if I can just get to the airport. I cut my steering wheel a hard right, back into the grass, around the motorcycle, although honestly, I considered running over the motorcycle, before flooring it all the way to the airport. I park in a no-parking zone, run into the airport, and manage to get through security without being arrested as either a terrorist or an insane person.

  I text Bishop: At LAX.

  Thirteen hours later, he meets me on the tarmac, a serious expression on his face. I’m glad to see him, wishing it was under any other circumstances. I walk into his arms. “What happened to that part about you would never bring me to Tokyo?”

  He kisses the top of my head. “If I’m going to protect you, I need you where I can do the best job of it.”

  I tilt my head to look at him. “Protect me?”

  He kisses my lips and I am immediately transported away from the drama of the last twenty-four hours, until he admits, “I saw the news footage of the paparazzi chase.”

  “The paparazzi chase? How?”

  “It seems a traffic helicopter caught the entire event as it unfolded, and it’s become international news. Do you know how many champions you have in LA?”

  “Champions?” I eek.

  “I’ll let you watch the news footage when you get to the house. It’s trending on all the major social outlets.”

  “Great. Did you say house?”

  He nods. “No luggage?”

  I shake my head as he takes my hand and pulls me toward a gray BMW. “I’m afraid I fled with the clothes on my back.”

  He looks me up and down. “You are so American.”

  I consider my torn jeans, t-shirt, and flip-flops. “Is that an insult?”

  He kisses me and tucks me into the passenger seat. I wrap my hand around the nape of his neck, repeating, “Did you say house? Because I hope you have two. I am not going anywhere near your wife and children. I am not disrupting anyone else’s life! Besides, how would you explain me to them?”

  “My house is a modern fortress. No one can penetrate it, let alone paparazzi, and once they figure out where you’ve fled to, I have no doubt that you will need twenty-four hour protection.” He kisses me, assuring me, “It’s going to be fine.”

  “What did you tell Hiroko?”

  “Everything.” He pulls away, closing the door.

  My heart, which I thought was completely incapable of speed-beating after my run-in with the paparazzi, takes off like a thoroughbred. Everything? He climbs into the driver’s seat. Concentrating on not hyperventilating, I ask, “What does everything mean exactly?”

  “That we are lovers…and that I am in love with you.”

  “Oh.” Oh, hell. “You do realize how close I am to a nervous breakdown right now, don’t you?”

  “It’s going to be fine. She wants to meet you. I was trying to figure out how to ask you to come here to meet her when all hell broke out around you in the States.”

  “I can’t meet your wife!”

  Taking my hand he leans toward me, and I know he wants me to meet him halfway to kiss me, to reassure me, and I don’t know that I can. He waits. The one thing I keep forgetting about Bishop is his level of patience. I’m fairly certain he would stay leaning and waiting for me all night to meet him halfway if need be.

  I offer him my lips. “This is insane.”

  He wraps his hand around the nape of my neck, dragging me tighter to him. He powers his way through all of my defenses, leaving me feeling weak and drained and needy. I relax against him, trying so hard to not cry. He softens the kiss, teasing my lips as he strokes my cheek. “I missed you.”

  “I missed you,” I echo.

  He kisses me gently, releasing my neck, but I stay leaned into him, kissing him back, instigating more soft kisses.

  He whispers, “The last two weeks away from you have been unbearable.”

  “Has it only been two weeks? It feels like a lifetime.” I kiss him back, knowing I won’t fight against following him anywhere.

  “It’s going to be okay,” he promises.

  “Meeting Hiroko?” I ask, and it seems like I am in a dream, the question doesn’t seem real. “Where will your children be? How will you explain me to them?”

  “You will meet Hiroko tonight and our children tomorrow, but please, stop worrying. Everything will be fine. You’re here now and you’ll be safe with me.”

  I nod, my forehead bumping his. He kisses me fervently, saying, “I love you.”

  I swallow hard, fighting back the tears that hearing those words always bring to the surface. “Please don’t say that.”

  “Trust me, Bianca. Don’t be afraid.”

  Chapter 34

  Adrian

  I’m worried about Bianca. I’ve called but go straight to her voice mail. What could I do for her besides offer her a shoulder to cry on? Thankfully, the paparazzi have moved on since I involved my lawyers.

  Orgasms is packed to capacity and the night is still young. I cruise the dance floor, making myself seen. It’s Friday and after being gone three nights, I want people to know the owner is here and put them at ease. I might be involved with Mistress Bee, but her scandal isn’t my scandal. Hell, I’m still in shock…

  Bebé? Really? Christ.

  Thank God my life separate from her holds enough drama at the moment to overshadow that. Phelps…Toby…

  Tonight we are having Whipped Crème Wrestling, because someone thought it would be a great idea. The plastic pool filled with whipped crème is sitting in the middle of what is usually the stage. Singles and couples are lined up filling out applications to get creamed. I smile, seeing some old friends that I haven’t seen in forever, knowing if they are here, Phelps can’t be far away. When the band moved to Seattle to make their debut, I missed them, but Phelps was lost, crushed. He didn’t seem to have a place in the world because before they left it was always them, Phelps, me…Los Angeles’s Rat Pack.

  I go over to their table. “Welcome to what used to be my 401K.”

  Chad reaches out to shake my hand. “Good to see you, man. When Phelps told us you opened a club, we couldn’t get here fast enough.”

  “I’ve been open over two years, did you just find out or you just drive like a grandma?” I tease, reaching around to shake hands with the rest of the guys. “Jordan, Mitch, McCall.” I look around but am disappointed to not see Phelps. “So what? My Boy didn’t come with you tonight?”

  Even before Chad’s eyes widen, I feel him standing behind me. He hits my shoulder. I turn around and grab him in a big bear hug. It’s only been hours since I dropped him off at his apartment, but damn if I haven’t missed him.

  Not knowing if he shared with the others our secret getaway, I play it up. “You! You’re still local. You should be here every night!” I don’t realize until the words are out of my mouth that is exactly what I want.

  I smile, knowing for a fact he dressed with my desires in mind when I see he is wearing a white wife-beater and super-faded, ragged, skin tight jeans that have an interesting configuration of fringed holes over his thighs and, as with all of his pants, seem molded to fit very well in all the right places. My dick goes hard just looking at him.

  I turn back to face the guys. “You got gear hidden up your asses? You gonna play for me tonight or what?”

  “Everything’s in the van. You want us, you got us.”

  “Awesome,” I tell them. “Wrestling starts in five but when they’re through, you’re up. Think the smaller stage will work?” I point over my right shoulder.

  Mitch and McCall stand up and look at the stage across the room. McC
all slaps my shoulder. “We’ll make it work. Think we can get some naked girls to dance in front of us? You know, for motivation.”

  I laugh, promising, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Walking away I grab one of my waitresses. “Hey Sheila, see those troublemakers in the corner over there?”

  She glances over her shoulder.

  “The rest of the night, anything they want, you’ll get it for them, right?”

  “Yes, sir.” She smiles and winks.

  I like Sheila. I know I can always count on her to do whatever it takes. “And Sheila?”

  “Sir?”

  “The first thing they’re going to want from you is for you to take off your top.”

  She looks down at the barely there latex halter that leaves the lower half of her breasts exposed. “Right.”

  I watch her walk up to the guys’ table and introduce herself. Within seconds she’s unsnapping the strap behind her back and whipping the halter over her head. “That’s my girl.”

  A second glance confirms that Phelps has already left the table.

  Striding across the room, I yell up at my deejay, “Hey Carl, I got stuff to do, let’s get this party started.”

  He makes the announcement. “Ladies and gentlemen, the first annual Whipped Crème Wrestling Tournament begins in…five, four, three, two, one!”

  Applause breaks out with the quick light show as I hit the corner of the bar. Heading toward my office, I see that Phelps is already there, waiting just outside my door. I grab his lapel and push him into my office, push him back against my desk and kiss him, hard and fast.

  He tastes like whiskey. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Ounce of courage.”

  I look at him questioningly as I unzip my pants and pull on a condom. He takes the hint and starts to undress.

  “It’s hard for me to be here, knowing Toby might show up at any time.”

  I press into him and start a slow in and out. This is where my dick belongs. “I’ve missed you, Johnny. Don’t stay away from me. I’ll work things out with Toby. Just don’t stay away.”

  I push deep and keep it there, feeling him tremble as I reach around to jerk him off while I fuck him. I wrap around him, putting my cheek next to his. I feel his sob as he says, “I love you, Adrian. I’m just so jealous.”