INFINITE

by Cecy Robson

  “Not everything,” he says. He flicks off the jets, the gesture as stiff as his tone. To his right there’s a towel and a robe. He doesn’t bother with the robe. Why would he? Clearly, he doesn’t care that I’m here or what I see.

  I turn around, giving him my back as he starts to dry off. For all that he’s naked, I’m the one who feels exposed.

  In the quiet that lingers, I hear every rough pass he makes with the towel as if he were on top of me.

  On top of me. Excellent choice of words, Becca.

  I fuss with my hands. It’s a gesture my mother often made when she was nervous and worried about how my father would react. I hated it. It made her look weak and him more dominant. Mostly, I hate that I’m doing it in front of Hale.

  Hale’s feet slap against the tile, his steps closing in. In the reflection of the glass wall separating the bathroom from the bedroom, I see the robe where it dangles from the bamboo rail. It’s not on the hook. He’d taken it down, but then had second thoughts . . .

  Without warning, the heat from his body strokes against my back in a boorish caress, rough, its only care to feed its desires and need.

  My heart rate speeds up as the warmth increases to a raging fire.

  “You’re wringing your hands,” Hale murmurs, his breath tickling the ridge of my ear. “Do I intimidate you?”

  I squeeze my eyes closed, just barely managing not to curse aloud. I’d told him about my mother’s nervous habit. He had to remember now.

  Slowly, I open my eyes, gathering the nerve I’d evidently kicked aside. “This is what I mean, Hale. You know me. Just like I know you and how to help you.”

  The way he snaps his towel has me jumping out of my skin. The fabric shuffles and I think he’s wrapping it around his waist. It’s what I’m hoping. Seeing Hale naked again will be the knock-out punch I don’t need.

  “People change, Becks, and it’s not always for the better.”

  He eases away from me and walks away. From the front of the penthouse I hear Neesa giggle and the faint sound of Mason’s chuckle. Somebody closed the door to the suite only partly. My money is on Mason. He knows we needed to talk. He also knows he may need to step in if things grow heated between us.

  With a deep breath, I follow Hale into the bedroom. He’s donned a pair of black briefs. I should be thankful. I would be if he didn’t look like he should be on a giant billboard in the middle of Times Square with a giant bottle of vodka shoved between his thighs.

  In a way, the briefs are more alluring than seeing him naked. My inner sex kitten would love to snap the waistband with her teeth.

  “Hale, about New Year’s . . .”

  Jesus. I don’t mean to start where I do. I’m not even certain I know where I’m headed. But I can’t stop. Not now. “The last few months haven’t been good,” I finish, not bothering to explain that the last few years haven’t been great, either. Not when it comes to us.

  He tugs on his jeans, the waist falling just below his hips to give me a grand view of the “V” at his waist. Incidentally, it’s just as tempting as the rest of him.

  He snaps his jeans closed. “What about the New Year’s before that? You sorry about what happened then, too?”

  My hands slap at my sides. I’m frustrated with him. But I don’t fault him. Not when all that frustration stems from my mistakes. “I’m sorry about everything, Hale. I never wanted to hurt you.”

  He meets my eyes. For a moment, I catch a glimpse of the young man I used to lay my blanket beside, whose head of hair would illuminate like a halo in the sun and whose irises would twinkle when we couldn’t stop laughing.

  Hale places his hands on his hips. The jeans he’s wearing are one of those that appear old and well-worn. His favorite kind. Aneesa knows him well.

  I’m not certain what he’s thinking, but he doesn’t bother speaking until he pulls on a black long-sleeved T-shirt. “It’s not just about New Year’s or what happened that night at your father’s place.”

  I stop breathing. I didn’t want to bring up that night, not yet anyway, even though my apology was a part of it.

  “You haven’t been there for me, Becks. Not in long time,” he accuses.

  “I know I—”

  Hale cuts me off with a look. “Did you know my daddy died soon after I got here?” He walks forward, his stride easy, unlike the memory pummeling his features. There’s pain among those hard planes, despite the softness his skin promises. Pain he’s reminding me I wasn’t there to witness.

  He pauses in front of me, this time keeping at least two feet between us. “Did you know my Momma followed a few months after that?”

  “Yes,” I reply. He doesn’t mention she drank herself to death. He doesn’t have to. Everyone from the area soon knew.

  “Mason told me,” I explain, once more fussing with my hands. But then I stop, simply stop. He’s not the only one who’s been hurt. When I meet his gaze, I don’t blink. I allow my torment to reflect in what I say and how I say it. “He also told me you didn’t want me there and that you didn’t want me to know.”

  “Doesn’t matter what I said,” Hale says. “I knew he’d tell you.”

  He squares his jaw, like any man expecting a fight would do. But I don’t take that verbal swing he expects.

  I tilt my head, my brow knitting tight. “Were you hoping I’d show?” I ask. I shake my head, knowing his answer when he doesn’t reply. “Things were so screwed up between us, Hale. I was humiliated about what happened.”

  He laughs without humor. “Yeah, well, your daddy never did think I was good enough.”

  “I wasn’t upset by what happened between us,” I snap, my sharp tone surprising us both. “You were never the problem, Hale. He was.”

  “And yet you still chose him,” he fires back, every syllable clipped.

  “No,” I say.

  The word is too simple to carry the weight I feel behind it.

  My mind flashes back to that night.

  My cousins on top of Hale.

  The crunch of fists colliding against bone.

  The grunts.

  The cries of pain.

  And my father’s large hand striking me down.

  God, if I hadn’t gone to Trin, if her parents hadn’t helped support me, I would have lost my position with the Carolina Cougars and been living in squalor.

  And still I would have done it.

  “I chose me,” I say, my voice quivering as I remember how hard Daddy hit me. How much he wanted to hurt me. How much that sadistic bastard enjoyed watching me bleed.

  With Hale so close to me and all those memories striking me as hard as my father had, it becomes too much. I start to leave, but instead of walking out of the penthouse and once more out of his life, I head in the direction of the window.

  A million-dollar view. That’s what the architecture magazines would call the landscape of cement and metal I see. Where Hale and I are from, there’s lots of money, but in the outskirts of Kiawah, we see poverty that’s existed for generations. That will continue long after I’m dead and buried. Throughout my life, my friends and I have done our best to lift up such communities. Yet, despite our best efforts, the majority won’t ever leave the area. Some by choice, but most because it’s not an option.

  They dream of having better, sure, many likely willing to kill to spend one night looking out to a city that promises the success Hale found. I don’t have such dreams. I’ve never liked New York. It’s too loud. Dirty. Angry. But for them and all the blessings I have, I take it all in, because I can.

  Beyond the landscape of tall buildings, the sun has begun to set, casting rays of red and amber to paint the sky. It’s beautiful, temporarily drawing the eye away from the chaos below. There’s a reason New York is known as the City of Lost Souls. Compared to where I’m from, the wealthy here are a different class of people. So are the poor. And so is anyone lured deep into its throes. Some make it. The majority don’t,
barely scraping enough to survive.

  I know why Hale is here, and why he stayed for so long. What happened between us and with his folks made it easy for him to bury himself beneath the grit and grime, the bedlam, and maybe even its glory.

  I want the Hale I know back. But to have him and the way we once were, I have to give him a bit of my soul and my pain in return.

  “My father beat me up that night. Right after you left.”

  Hale’s head jerks up. This time, I’m the one who laughs. It’s not funny. The damage was so extensive, it took two surgeries before I could properly breathe through my nose again. A little bump remains near the center, despite the surgeon’s best efforts to smooth it. Every time I slide my finger down the length, I feel it. I used to hate it. Now, I see it as a well-earned war wound and a stern reminder of all the misery I left behind.

  “He beat you up?” Hale says.

  “That he did,” I reply almost robotically. “He broke my nose and gave me a concussion—”

  Hale is suddenly there, cupping my face with his large hands. I don’t expect this response or for his touch to be so gentle. My heart stalls, resuming its pace in painful thuds as I melt away in his gaze.

  Carefully, Hale tilts my face, examining it closely. It’s been years. I don’t know what he expects to find. Yet, I feel every touch and every delicate stroke.

  The door is thrown open and Sean is there. “Food’s here,” he says. He cocks his head, barely acknowledging the lack of space and intimacy between us. “Y’all want to eat? Neesa ordered a lot.”

  “Give us a moment. Will you, Sean?”

  Sean shrugs and leaves. It’s not until the door closes again that Hale lowers his hands.

  I feel as if we were caught naked or doing something we shouldn’t. I adjust the collar of my suit for all the good it does me. I’m not certain what happened just now. Whatever it was, it left me feeling vulnerable, yet craving more. I’ve been lonely for years.

  I wasn’t lonely just then.

  “Hale . . .” I’m not sure what’s racing through his thoughts. What I don’t want is for him to dismiss our conversation and pretend it didn’t happened.

  He crosses his arms. “Why didn’t you tell me he was hitting you again?”

  I take a breath. Okay. Here we go.

  As a child, Hale never failed to notice my bruises. The one time he and Trin convinced me to tell a teacher, nothing came of it, unless you count my mother slapping me across the face for embarrassing the family. It was the only time Momma ever hit me, but it hurt more than my father’s blows ever had.

  As for the incident, it was disposed of like most indiscretions committed by wealthy families. The way I see it, my father’s hands should be permanently tainted green with the amount of money he’s used to pay people off.

  Money has the power to silence anyone, including a well-meaning teacher. Miss Medera was her name. She placed unicorn stickers on our papers when we did well and made us popcorn when rain kept us inside at recess. I never saw her after she was “encouraged” to find a new place of employment. It was probably a good thing for her. For me, it was another example of my father’s twisted and manipulative character, and one more reason to hate him.

  My focus drifts to the hollow of Hale’s throat, realizing he’s still waiting for me to explain. “Daddy hadn’t hit me in years,” I admit. “But he made up for it that night.”

  “You should have told me, Becks,” Hale says, his voice rising. “You should’ve called me. We would have come back for you and kept you safe.”

  My eyes burn with impending tears. Yeah. They would have.

  “My phone was gone,” I explain. I don’t realize how tight I’m hugging myself until I try to shrug off the memory. “You had left and . . .”

  Don’t, I tell myself. Don’t you dare cry now.

  I return my focus to the soaring skyscrapers trying to out-wow each other. It’s easier than facing Hale and every bit of emotion that day continues to stir. “I walked back to Callahan’s place. He was gone, but Trin was there. She and her folks took me to the hospital. They helped me get settled in Charlotte and gave me money until I could stand on my own.”

  “I repaid every cent,” I add, feeling the need to explain. “I wouldn’t have taken their money if I had a choice.”

  “It should’ve been me,” he says, cutting me off.

  I don’t think he means to sound accusatory, especially given his soft tone. Like me, he carries his share of guilt and shame from that night. Both feelings . . . damn. I learned a long time ago they can do strange and awful things to a person.

  “Why didn’t you come to me, Becca?” he asks. “Instead of Trin and her family, why didn’t you go looking for me?”

  “Hale,” I say, feeling that familiar clench to my heart when it comes to him. “If I’d asked you for help, I would be exchanging one man for another.”

  “Don’t,” he says, the word as sharp as his features. “Don’t you dare compare me to your father.”

  “I’m not,” I say, my voice quaking with what I wish was only anger. “I would never do that. But you and I weren’t—I mean, it was the first time you kissed me. The first time you touched me.” I push my hair away from my face, feeling the gamut of that awful memory overwhelm me. “We weren’t anything yet.”

  “We were friends, Becca,” he reminds me. “The real kind, who always helped each other out.”

  “We weren’t friends that night,” I say almost silently. “That night we were more.”

  Hale straightens, squaring his shoulders. “I would have taken care of you,” he rumbles. “I would have cleaned you up, taken you to the hospital, fixed everything, and made it right.”

  I swipe away the tear I can’t manage to hold back. “I know,” I say.

  “Then why didn’t you call me when you reached Trin?”

  “I couldn’t do that to you,” I stress. “You were starting your new life and I was supposed to start mine. So, I let you go. It was hard and terrible being without you. More than once I wanted to call you and make sure you were okay and to tell you what happened. Jesus, Hale, you have no idea how many times I picked up the phone to call you.”

  “You’re right. I don’t. ’Cause you never did,” he says. “All you had to do was tell me and I would have dropped everything to be with you. Becca, I would have done anything for you.”

  I don’t know how to respond. His initial aggression had startled me, as well as his anger. But what he says and the honesty behind it, hurts more. Hale would have taken care of me. I don’t doubt it for one second. But I also couldn’t allow it.

  “I had to prove I could make it on my own, that I’d never have to depend on another man again.” It’s hard to look at him. Somehow, I manage. “No matter how much I wanted to.”

  Hale swallows hard, forcing his gaze from mine to glare at the sea of imposing structures. “You had to show up, now.”

  “I did,” I say. He scowls when he catches my soft smile. “Like I told you, we were close once. We were there for each other.” I place my hand gently on his shoulder. “Let me be here for you now.”

  His gaze drops to where my hand lies. “You want to be friends again?”

  “More than anything,” I promise. “I want to help you out of this mess the best way I know how. Will you let me?”

  Chapter Six

  Hale

  The limo we’re in zips across the asphalt. I can’t see the ocean from here, but I can smell it, even over the overwhelming aroma of freshly polished leather. There’s no pole. Not this time. Partly because Becca’s “people” arranged our ride from the airport and partly because Mason didn’t want to spend the ride talking about Sean’s latest and greatest stripper protection devices.

  Becca yaps away on her phone, Mason on his. They’re both forming their own sets of plans. One publicity. The other strategy.

  Twenty professionals. That’s who makes up my defense te
am. They range from former white-collar investigators to accountants to lawyers. It took a long week of sleepless nights for Mason to form this high-powered team, and another two to go through all the evidence against me, postponing our plans to come down to Kiawah by almost a month.

  Apparently, the Feds were tipped off by an unidentified informant. I guessed as much, but I was still pissed. Mason didn’t care and neither did the team. “We’re getting you off,” he promised. “You’re innocent and we’ll make sure the truth comes out.”

  I wasn’t as certain. Not at first. Until James, the former white-collar detective, provided his first shred of evidence on our side. “Something doesn’t sit well with me and my staff,” he said. “You’re accused of seven counts of insider trading.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Tell me something I don’t know.

  He smiled. “Where’s the money? Me and my boys have gone through all your holdings. You’re not married. You have no kids or close family. You have no other names or accounts linked outside your business. Nor did the prosecution provide any aliases. Aside from your apartment and your office, you own no other properties. Where is the thirty-five million you supposedly made off the trading? Me and my men can’t find shit.”

  No. They couldn’t, because there isn’t any.

  Which is why Mason and the legal team are going to go butt heads with the prosecution next week. Their hope is for the prosecutor to drop at least half the insider trading accusations, but also to flex their collective muscle. “Flimsy.” That’s how my top attorney, Vern Simmons, described the evidence against me. “This resembles a political move by the head of the federal agency more than an actual case against you, Hale.”

  Maybe. But my reputation is still demolished to shit. Even if every last damn charge is dropped, my firm—the one I built from the ground up—doesn’t stand a chance without some major image repair, which is why Becca remains at my side.

  I adjust my sunglasses, allowing them to shield my eyes so I can take my time taking in Becca. Have I flirted with her? Maybe. Just not as much as I’d like to. The whole thing sounds crazy, given that less than a month ago I could barely watch her on TV. Now, I can’t keep my eyes off her.