Reveal

by Bromberg, K.

  “I already told you what happened. I can explain more if—”

  “Empty explanations mean nothing. The damage was done the minute you thought it was okay to do it in the first place.”

  “Christ, I fucked up.” He pounds a fist on the railing.

  “Yeah. You used me.”

  “You’re right. I did. I had a split second to make a decision about how to get that bastard to confess what he had on you. The choice was boys-will-be-boys versus making demands I knew he’d balk at. I chose the first. It was wrong. I fucked up in the worst imaginable way by doing so. I can’t change what I did, and I know I’d do it again in a heartbeat if I knew for a fact I could keep you safe. That I could get him to tell me whatever it is he has on you so you never had to worry about it again. So keep raking me over the fucking coals if it makes you feel better, Vaughn. Keep making me pay whatever price it is you feel I need to pay. Or just keep pushing me away because it’s easier to do that than to realize that you and I are fucking incredible together. Your choice.”

  I stare at him—his words hit to the very core of everything I feel, and yet nowhere in there did he mention how his actions were beneficial to his client. Nowhere in there did he say he put me in more jeopardy than I already was. Nowhere did he explain how offering my body to the senator was going to win him whatever erroneous blackmail items he supposedly had on me.

  The words poor baby ghost through my mind but don’t pass over my lips, because this, him, us, is just all too much. It hurts to look at him. To still want him. To still love him.

  To finally want something I can’t have.

  To maybe believe him.

  “Excuse me.” I avert my eyes. “Archer must be looking for me.”

  I escape without saying more, uncertain how I’m supposed to feel and unwilling to forgive.

  And with my heart a lot worse for the wear.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Vaughn

  “Stop staring at him.” The warmth of Archer’s voice hits my ears, and I know he’s right, but I argue with him anyway.

  “I’m not watching anybody.”

  “Right. Your neck is just permanently angled twenty degrees to the right where one Ryker Lockhart happens to be seated.” He takes a sip of the merlot in his hand and emits a low hum in appreciation. “Does he ever not look good?”

  “You’re not helping here,” I mutter under my breath as some of the others assigned to our ten-person table glance our way, obviously irritated that we’re talking when the emcee is doing her opening spiel.

  “Is he good in bed? I bet you he’s fabulous. All rough and demanding and . . . durable.”

  “Durable?” I choke out and try not to spray my sip of red wine all over the expensive white linen tablecloth.

  “Made you laugh, didn’t I?”

  I turn to look at him for the first time since the program started and press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Yes, you did. Thank you for being so understanding and supportive and . . . my friend.”

  “I couldn’t let you be the hot mess you were about to become when you came back from the balcony.” He pats my leg beneath the table. “I saved you just in the nick of time.”

  And he did. He whisked me to the hallway, grabbed both of my hands in his, and told me that the best way to show Ryker he doesn’t matter is to not give him the time of day.

  “Anything that’s worth fighting for hurts sometimes, Vaughn.”

  I narrow my brows. “Who said he’s worth fighting for?”

  “You don’t have to. It’s written all over your face.”

  We’re interrupted as the first course is served, and just in time, because I was about to fight Archer to the death to prove there was nothing written on my face.

  Then why do I keep looking his way? Why do I keep making mental arguments in my head for when Archer brings the topic back up?

  Small talk ensues with those around us who are trying to figure out if Archer and I are a couple or not. But I’d be lying if I said my eyes didn’t wander to Ryker’s table more often than not.

  Not just to stare at Ryker, though, but also to glare daggers at his date.

  “Who is she?” I murmur without mentioning who I’m referring to.

  “Nobody who matters.”

  I gotta love a friend who is supportive and catty with me. But when I look from him back over to Ryker, Nobody is looking right at me. A smile slides onto her more than full lips, and she arches her brow at me as if she’s saying, Your loss, before running a hand up his biceps and leaning in to whisper in his ear.

  “I need some air,” I murmur and scoot back despite Archer’s protest that the main course is coming soon.

  My heels click down the hallway to the beat of my own chastisements.

  This isn’t you, Vaughn.

  Jealousy does not suit you.

  He’s bad for you. Stop needing him.

  Just as I reach the ladies’ lounge area, I yelp as a hand closes around my shoulder and pushes me past it into a small alcove off the hallway.

  Ryker’s lips are on mine the minute my back hits the wall. I shove against his chest to no avail until he cuffs both my wrists with his hands and just takes everything he wants from me with his lips.

  It’s bruising and carnal and everything I hate about him and everything I’ve craved from him, to feel anything other than the pain.

  And just as soon as he starts it, he tears his lips from mine.

  “You son of a bitch,” I sneer at him.

  “Never disputed it—”

  “You have no right—”

  “Yes I do. You’re mine, Vaughn. You have been since that first meeting. So you can play this game however the hell you want to play it. You can push me away. You can slap me across the face if you want. You can block my numbers from your cell. But there is nothing—nothing—that will make you forget what my kiss tastes like. What my lips feel like. How I make you feel. So try if you want . . . but I told you from the get-go, I don’t play games, and I won’t take no for an answer.”

  His lips brand mine again with a kiss laced with equal parts lust and spite. This time when the kiss ends, he leans back, and his eyes full of questions lock on mine.

  The muscle in his jaw ticks as he waits for me to speak, to tell him I accept his apology and that we can move forward. Call me stupid or obstinate or wishy-washy, but I know my worth, and it’s a hell of a lot more than accepting how he treated me.

  “So what’s it going to be, Vaughn?” He waits for a beat, and he hisses out in frustration when I don’t respond at his prompting. When I don’t let my body and heart win the war they’re fighting against my head. “Goddamn stubborn woman,” he mutters before striding off in the same direction he came from.

  I lean my head back against the wall in a sad attempt to let my racing pulse decelerate and my mind tell my heart to forget him.

  Funny thing is, I’m lying to both of them.

  Ryker Lockhart is right. He’s not a man who’s easily forgotten.

  “When I said get laid, I didn’t mean by him,” Archer mutters beneath his breath when I finally return to my seat.

  My cheeks blush automatically. “We didn’t. I didn’t—I—”

  “Well you’re all flustered, and he waltzed in here with that alpha-male, take-no-prisoners look on his face, so I just assumed there was some hot bathroom-counter sex going on somewhere in the lobby—”

  “No.” The single word shuts Archer down, but when I glance toward Ryker’s table, he’s not there. “He’s an asshole.”

  One whose kiss I can still taste.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Shh,” the lady at the opposite side of the table asserts just as the room erupts in applause. I mouth that I’m sorry and then look back to Archer, who has one eyebrow raised.

  “I spent hours last night writing and perfecting a speech about why you should all donate generously to this charity.” My head whips to look toward the front of the room when I hear Ryker’s voice c
arrying through the microphone. Smooth as silk but with that little bit of grit that affects me, no matter how hard I try to ignore it. “But being here, walking up to the podium, my words from yesterday don’t seem to fit now.”

  As he stands behind the lectern, his smile is engaging and he commands everyone’s presence in the room.

  “I didn’t know. I promise.” Archer reiterates the same thing he’s said to me several times tonight, but I no longer think I believe him. It’s the millionaires’ club up in here, and I’m definitely the penny princess who doesn’t belong.

  “I had planned to talk about obligation and duty. How those of us who are more fortunate should give more and complain less. Of course, I had some jokes peppered in there to help ease the checkbooks out of your purses and pockets as well . . . but then I realized that my speech doesn’t do anything to talk about the incredible people who have been touched by this syndrome in one way or another. So . . .” Ryker takes the speech in his hand and makes a show of tearing it in half, garnering a chuckle from the crowd.

  “He looks good in a tux,” Archer says, and I just roll my eyes.

  “All men look good in one,” I argue.

  “Nuh-uh.” He says something else following that, but my attention is already focused back on Ryker. On his quick wit and easy charm. On the square of his shoulders. On how every part of me remains attuned to him somehow, even when I don’t want to be.

  “I met a little girl a few weeks back,” he begins, and before he says another word, my heart lurches in my throat, because somehow I know where he’s going with this. He looks down for a beat as if he’s remembering something and chuckles softly. “She’d argue that she’s not little, but comparative to my years, we can all agree that eight can be considered little. We’ll call her Elle. This Elle . . . she has a never-ending smile, a zest for going fast, for accomplishing things others have said she couldn’t do. She’s funny and intelligent and kind and gives the best hugs out of anyone I’ve ever met. Many people would look at her and judge her. They’d think her distinct features depict a syndrome that holds her back, when what they really should be doing is seeing those gorgeous bright spots in her eyes. What they would remember about meeting her is how they couldn’t help but smile when she laughs and how after seeing her determination, knowing she’s capable of anything she puts her mind to.”

  I hate that my heart swells in my chest, while at the same time I want to get mad at him for loving Lucy. But how can I blame him? How can I use my anger and my hurt and hold it against him for doing good?

  “This girl”—he shakes his head—“is incredible. And just as incredible as Elle is the woman who takes care of her. The loving Elle part is something anyone who meets her would do, but the patience and dedication and drive to give her the very best is unmeasured by anything I’ve ever seen. But this woman . . . she works so hard, she worries too much about where the money to provide Elle with the very best will come from next, and she loves so hard that some nights I know she goes to sleep with tears in her eyes and a heart full of worry.”

  His words hit my ears and dive into my soul before wrapping their raw and real truth around my heart. I don’t want to acknowledge that I’ve let Ryker see this side of me. That I’ve lowered my walls for him like I have no one else. That he’s seen the ups and the downs, despite how much I’ve tried to hide them, when it comes to Lucy and has inferred how I feel some nights.

  “I know all this because I’ve seen it all firsthand. It’s the thing you pretend you don’t see when you’re walking down the street with your head down, your latest problem at work occupying your mind, and the next appointment you’re already late for hurrying your step. What you’re missing seeing is the mom struggling because, at that moment, the city’s too loud for her child, or the meltdown going on because someone like Elle wants to ride her bike with the rainbow streamers longer. Ignoring them is easier to do than wondering why she’s a little bit different than everyone else.”

  “He’s talking about Lucy, isn’t he?” Archer whispers and then squeezes my hand atop the table as the tears well in my eyes.

  I don’t nod, and I don’t respond, because I can’t. My eyes are fixed on Ryker, and my heart is trying to start beating again after he cracked and bruised every part of it.

  Why do I suddenly want him to put it back together again?

  “In the past—before Elle—I would have walked past the family. Maybe the next time I was looking for a place to donate to, I’d remember the mom struggling. I’d think how she might need some help and throw money toward her cause every once in a while. It would allow me to say, I’m charitable—to get the tax write-off—but it’s not like I really knew anyone who was affected by it.” He holds his hand up. “It was Elle’s caretaker who called me on the carpet about that. How most of us who can pay five thousand a plate to be here have no problem writing checks, but we never really take the time to see the good our money provides. Now don’t get me wrong—I’m asking you to write your checks tonight and transfer your funds. I’d be a horrible keynote speaker if I said otherwise . . . but Elle changed me.”

  He may shrug nonchalantly, but when he looks up from the podium, his eyes lock with mine across the distance. The moment is brief, but his look says so much more than his words. You changed me too.

  That’s what I see in them.

  That’s what I hear in the words he’s not speaking.

  If I thought my emotions had been churning nonstop from everything with Ryker, they are like a tsunami crashing through me now.

  “Shh. Don’t tell anyone else that the hard-ass man I am can also be a little soft too.” A muted chuckle filters through the audience. “So please, write your checks. Transfer those funds. But don’t forget to learn about the incredible things this organization has done and is doing for those who have Down syndrome and their families supporting them. This charity helps when no one else will. They provide support when others turn their back. They give assistance to those who can’t afford the specialists for their children. These kids aren’t suffering with this syndrome. They are thriving. They are laughing. They are living and smashing the preconceived notions that people have of them . . . and I, for one, am more than willing to support this organization that is helping them do that.”

  The room erupts into thunderous applause. People stand unexpectedly as I stay seated, a little stunned and a lot confused.

  And then I stand, too, but for completely different reasons than everyone else.

  I need to get out of here.

  I can’t breathe with all of this—all of him—so close and so real and so raw and so overwhelming.

  “I have to go,” I say to Archer. I’m not even sure if he heard me, but I hurry from the ballroom and the crowd and their praise . . . and from Ryker.

  His words have touched me in a way I could never have imagined. Words that normally I would be skeptical of. I’d pick them apart and force myself to see that he’s just using words—one after another—to trick me into forgiving him and taking him back.

  But maybe that’s the problem.

  Maybe I’m so used to people trying to be something they’re not—while I focus so much on trying to uncover the real person beneath the facade—that I’ve lost faith that some people are just who they seem to be. Good. Sincere. Real. So instead of seeing the truth, I’m busy looking for their deceit, even when it isn’t there.

  Ryker’s changed me, and that’s a tough pill to swallow.

  He’s made me want to see the good in him, even when I’ve already seen the bad.

  And that . . . that’s a truth I’m not sure I’m ready for just yet.

  I leave the ballroom and head toward Times Square—escaping into the night from Ryker once again, like Cinderella from her prince.

  It takes me a few minutes and several blocks to catch my breath and wrap my head around everything.

  Me: Thanks for asking me to go tonight, Arch. I had a good time, but I just needed some time and spa
ce.

  Archer: The girl who wanders to find herself.

  Me: You know me better than most.

  Archer: Lucky for you, lol. You needed to see him. Your reaction tells me he’s definitely worth fighting for. Whatever he did must have been bad. Just remember that it takes a strong person to apologize, but it takes an even stronger person to show forgiveness. Text me when you get home so I know you’re safe.

  Me: K.

  Staring at my phone for a few minutes, I let Archer’s words hit me about apologies and forgiveness. And I think of everything Ryker said to me tonight. Everything he said during his speech. The genuine sincerity in it. I can hear it all now, even though at the time he said it I couldn’t.

  I don’t know how much time passes, but I wander the streets like I used to do when I first moved to the city. The only difference is I’m in my heels and evening gown instead of my threadbare hand-me-downs.

  Just like back then, I can pretend I have no final destination, that I’m just trying to clear my head and figure out what to do next . . . but deep down I already know.

  When I was younger, I was going to head back home and try to help my sister.

  This time, though . . . maybe I’m finally going to try to help myself.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ryker

  “Where the fuck are you, Vaughn?” I mutter from the back seat of the car. The night isn’t getting any shorter, and this whiskey I keep refilling my glass with is definitely not making me feel any better.

  But the car parked in her driveway sure as fuck isn’t hers. Every part of me hopes that it’s Archer’s, but even I know better than to tell myself that lie. There’s no way the privileged party boy drives a grocery getter like that.

  Not a one.

  So who the fuck is here with her?

  “Sir?”

  I look into the rearview mirror and meet Al’s gaze. “I don’t fucking know,” I mutter and climb out of the car without another word. Of course my driver thinks I’m fucking crazy. Why shouldn’t he? He’s been with me for over five years, and not once has he ever seen me sit outside a woman’s house and stare like a lovesick asshole without a chance in hell.