by Lisa Kleypas
“Great. Thank you.” I glanced at the clock and saw that it was about one-thirty in the morning. “Um, did he seem okay? Did he say anything?”
“No, Miss Travis, he didn’t say anything. I guess he seemed . . . tired.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
I hung up and sat with the phone in my lap, willing it to ring. But the damn thing was silent. I waited until I was certain Hardy had had enough time to reach his apartment, and then I called his main line. I got a voice message.
Flopping back on the sofa, I stared at the ceiling with bleary impatience. Unable to stand it any longer, I called Hardy’s cell phone.
Another recording.
What was going on? Was he all right?
“Let him alone,” I said aloud. “Go to bed. Let him sleep. He’ll call tomorrow when he feels like talking.”
But I wasn’t listening to myself. I was too worried about Hardy.
I paced around my apartment for another fifteen minutes, and then I called again.
No answer.
“Crap,” I muttered, scrubbing my eyes with half-closed fists. I was tense and tired and uneasy. No way was I going to get any sleep until I made sure Hardy was okay.
Just a quick knock at his door. Maybe a hug. Maybe a cuddle in bed. I wouldn’t ask him to talk. No pressure. I just wanted him to know I was there if he needed me.
Sticking my feet into a pair of hard-soled slippers, I left my apartment and took the elevator to the eighteenth floor. It was cold in the elegantly sterile atmosphere of the hallway. Shivering, I went to the threshold and rang the bell.
Stillness. Silence. And then a scrape of movement inside the apartment. I waited, waited, and realized incredulously that Hardy wasn’t going to answer. My face tightened in a scowl. Well, that was too damn bad. I would stand at his door and ring the bell all night if necessary.
I pushed the button again.
I had a sudden, terrible thought that maybe Hardy wasn’t alone. What other reason could there be for his refusal to see me? But I couldn’t make myself believe—
The door opened.
I was confronted with a version of Hardy I had never seen before. It was mostly dark in his apartment, a faint illumination coming from the living room where the skyline bled an artificial glow through the row of long windows. Hardy was dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, his feet bare. He looked big and shadowy and mean. And I got a strong, acid-sweet whiff of cheap tequila, the kind you went for when you wanted to get really hammered, really fast.
I had seen Hardy drink before, but never to excess. He had told me he didn’t like to feel out of control. What he hadn’t said, but I had understood, was that he couldn’t tolerate the idea of being vulnerable, physically or emotionally.
My gaze traveled from his dark face to the empty shot glass in his hand. A crawly feeling went across my shoulders. “Hey,” I managed to say, my voice coming out in a wheeze. “I wanted to see if you were okay.”
“I’m okay.” He looked at me as if we were strangers. “Can’t talk now.”
He began to close the door, but I stepped over the threshold. I was afraid to leave him by himself—I didn’t like the blank, weird look in his eyes. “Let me fix you something to eat. Eggs and toast—”
“Haven.” It seemed to take all his concentration to speak. “I don’t need food. I don’t need company.”
“Can’t you tell me something about what happened?” Without thinking, I reached out to stroke his arm, and he flinched backward. As if my touch were repulsive. I was stunned. It was quite a reversal for me, after all the times I had done that to other people, jerking away from them in a startle reflex. I had never considered how it might have made them feel.
“Hardy,” I said softly. “I’ll go. I promise. But first tell me what happened. Just a few words, so I’ll understand.”
I could feel the anger radiating off him. It was too dark for me to see the color of his eyes, but the shine of them was almost malevolent. Anxiously I wondered where the real Hardy had gone. He seemed to have been replaced by an evil twin. “I don’t know how the fuck you could understand,” he said thickly, “when I don’t.”
“Hardy, let me in,” I said.
He continued to block me. “You don’t want to come in here.”
“Oh?” I forced a skeptical half-smile. “What’s in there that I should be afraid of?”
“Me.”
His answer sent a ripple of uneasiness through me. But I didn’t move. “What did you do tonight?” I asked. “What did your mother call you for?”
Hardy stood with his head lowered. His hair was rumpled as if he’d tugged at it repeatedly. I wanted to smooth those gleaming dark locks and settle my hand on the taut back of his neck. I longed to soothe him. But all I could do was wait, with a patience that had never been easy for me.
“She asked me to bail my father out of jail,” I heard him say. “He was taken in tonight for a DUI. He knew better than to call her. I’ve given him money over the past two years. I pay him to stay the hell away from Mama and the boys.”
“I thought he was in prison. But I guess . . . he’s out now?”
Hardy nodded, still not looking at me. His free hand clenched the doorframe. I felt a little curl of repulsion in my stomach as I saw how brutally strong those fingers were.
“What did he do,” I asked gently, “to get himself in prison?”
I wasn’t sure Hardy would answer. But he did. Sometimes the closest-held secrets in the world can be pried out by the right question at the right time.
Hardy spoke in the flat, hopeless whisper of a criminal in a confessional. I knew I was hearing things he’d never said to any living being. “He did fifteen years for aggravated rape. He’s a serial rapist . . . godawful things to women . . . never gave him parole, they knew he hadn’t changed. But the term was finally up, and they had to let him out. He’ll do it again. I can’t stop him. I can’t watch over him every minute. I can barely keep him away from my family—”
“No,” I said scratchily, “it’s not your job to be his keeper.”
“—my brothers are taking after him. Bad blood coming through. I had to bail Kevin out last month, had to pay off a girl’s family, keep them from pressing charges—”
“That’s not your fault,” I said, but he was beyond hearing.
“Evil bastards, all of us. No-good white trash—”
“No.”
Each breath scraped audibly in his throat. “Before I left Dad at a hotel tonight, he told me—” He stopped, shaking from head to toe. He swayed on his feet.
God, he was so drunk.
“Told you what?” I whispered. “What is it, Hardy?”
Hardy shook his head, backing away. “Haven.” His voice was low and guttural. “Get out. If you stay . . . I’m not in control. I’ll use you. Hurt you, understand? Get the hell out.”
I didn’t think Hardy was capable of hurting me, or any woman. But the truth was, I wasn’t completely sure. At that moment he seemed like nothing so much as a large, suffering animal, ready to tear apart anyone who came near him. And this was too damned soon after my divorce from Nick. I was gun-shy. I was still dealing with my own anger, my own fears.
But there were certain moments in life when you had to step up to the plate or lose your chance forever. If Hardy was capable of hurting me, I would find out now.
Every vein in my body was lit with the burn of adrenaline. I got dizzy with it. All right, you bastard, I thought with grimness and fury and love. Absolute scalding love, in that moment when he most needed it and least wanted it. Let’s see what you’ve got.
I walked into the darkness and closed the door.
Hardy was on me the second after the lock clicked. I heard the thump of the shot glass as he dropped it. I was gripped, spun around, pushed against the door by two hundred pounds of hard-breathing male. He was shaking, his hands too tight, his lungs laboring. He kissed me with bruising force, lewd an
d whole-mouthed, going on for minutes until the tremors had eased and his erection was grinding against me. Every emotion, anger, grief, self-hatred, need, had found an outlet in pure hundred-proof lust.
He pulled at my T-shirt and sent it flying to the side. As he ripped his own shirt off, I moved blindly toward the living room, not to get away from him but to find a more comfortable place than the entryway floor. I heard a possessive growl, and I was grabbed from behind.
Hardy pushed me over the back of the sofa, bending me forward. He yanked the waistband of my sweatpants down. Gooseflesh rose all over, and I felt the weight of panic like a block of ice in my stomach. This was so much like what Nick had done. Another flashback was hovering, waiting to strike. But I gritted my teeth and braced my feet, and stiffened every muscle.
As Hardy stood behind me, I felt the brush of burning skin, a heavy shaft against my backside. I wondered if he was too far gone to recall that I was afraid of doing it this way, that this was how I’d been raped. Maybe he was doing it on purpose, to punish me, to make me hate him. One of his hands ran over my frozen spine, and I heard his breathing change.
“Go on, damn you,” I said. My voice cracked. “Go on and do it.”
But Hardy didn’t move except for the hand on my back. His palm glided up and down, and then around my waist to my stomach. He bent farther over me, his other hand cupping my breast. His mouth came to my shoulders, my spine, and he was groaning and kissing me while his fingers worked down below, opening me. I could only breathe in gasps, my body relaxing, yielding. I pictured his hand with those star-shaped scars on them . . . the last time we’d been in bed I’d made a project of kissing each tiny mark. And remembering, I went wet, responding helplessly to the touch, scent, warmth, that had become familiar.
“Do it,” I said again, panting.
He seemed not to hear, intent on fondling the soft pleated flesh beneath his fingers. His legs pressed between mine, widening my stance.
The last traces of fear melted away. I pushed my hips back, quivering as I felt the stiff length of him. But he wouldn’t give it to me, only massaged with agonizing gentleness until I clawed the velvet sofa, my breath coming in sobs.
Darkness wrapped around us, cool and cradling, while he centered himself. I whimpered, my entire being focused on the place where he pressed me, inner muscles working in anticipation.
He thrust forward, and I came from the thick-skewering pleasure, and he rooted deep while his hand stayed on my sex, stroking and stroking. He took me down to the floor, kneeling, pulling me against his chest. My head tipped back on his shoulder. I was raised and lifted, moaning in rhythm with the full slippery pitch of flesh into flesh until the delight broke and spread and flooded me with fresh heat.
Hardy let me rest on his thighs, his arms locked around me. When my breathing had slowed, he carried me into the bedroom. His grip was tight. He was in a dominating mood. And it was primal and even a little threatening, but at the same time I was aroused beyond belief, which stunned me. I would have to figure out why . . . I needed to understand . . . but I couldn’t think with his hands on me. He knelt on the bed, reaching beneath my bottom to hoist my hips off the mattress.
I was filled in a slow plunge, one of his hands going to the wet triangle between my thighs. The steady pumping and teasing, while he kept me lifted and supported, sent me hurtling into new sensation, cresting, easing, surging again. When my pleasure had finally spun out, Hardy pushed me flat, my arms and legs spread wide, and he spent inside me with violent pulses. I curved my arms around him, loving the feel of his shuddering body over mine.
Gasping, he rolled us both to our sides. I heard my name carried on a taut breath. For a long time he held me to him. His hands compressed my body at slow intervals, molding me closer.
Resting my head in the crook of his arm, I slept for a little while. It was still dark when I awoke. I felt from the tension in Hardy’s body that he was awake too. I rocked slowly against the insistent throb of his erection, my temperature rising. His mouth came to my neck and shoulder, kissing the soft skin, tasting.
I pushed at his shoulders, and he went over easily, letting me straddle him. Gripping his sex, I positioned him and sank down. I heard the faint whistle of his breath through his teeth. He steadied my hips with his hands, letting me find a rhythm. He belonged to me absolutely . . . I knew it, I felt it in that moment of masculine surrender. I was riding him, giving it to him, and he groaned and arched his hips to meet every downward pump. His hands slid up my thighs to the center, caressing with his thumbs until I came, and that set him off too. He stiffened beneath me, the pleasure spiking. His hand closed behind the nape of my neck as he pulled me down to kiss him. A forceful kiss, flavored with desperation. “It’s okay,” I whispered afterward in the quiet room, feeling the need to comfort him. “It’s okay.”
MORNING WAS NEARLY over by the time I awoke. The covers had been drawn up carefully around me, and my discarded clothes had been retrieved and draped neatly over the back of a chair. I called out sleepily for Hardy, wanting him to come back to bed. But as I was greeted with silence, I realized he’d left me alone in his apartment.
I rolled to my stomach, wincing a little as I felt an accumulation of tiny strains and pulls. An embarrassed grin spread across my face as I remembered the previous night. I might have thought it had been a long erotic dream, except that my body was letting me know it had definitely happened.
I felt curiously light and buoyant, almost feverish with happiness.
The night had been different from anything I had ever experienced before. Sex on a new level . . . deeper, more intense, opening me emotionally as well as physically. And it had affected Hardy the same way, which had probably scared the crap out of him.
I realized Nick had always regarded sex as a kind of annexation. I had never been an individual to him, certainly not someone whose thoughts or feelings mattered. Which meant that when Nick had sex with me, it had really been nothing more than a form of masturbation.
Whereas Hardy, even in his wildness, had made love to my mind and body, to me. And he had let me in past his defenses, however unwillingly.
I no longer believed in the idea of soul mates, or love at first sight. But I was beginning to believe that a very few times in your life, if you were lucky, you might meet someone who was exactly right for you. Not because he was perfect, or because you were, but because your combined flaws were arranged in a way that allowed two separate beings to hinge together.
Hardy would never be the easiest man to have a relationship with. He was complex and strong-willed and rough-edged. But I loved those qualities about him. I was more than willing to take him exactly as he was. And it didn’t hurt that he seemed equally game to take me on my own terms.
Yawning, I went to the bathroom, found Hardy’s robe, and tugged it on. The coffeemaker was all set up in the kitchen, with a mug and a clean spoon laid out. I pushed a button, and the air filled with the cheerful gurgle of brewing coffee.
I picked up Hardy’s phone and dialed his cell number.
No answer.
I hung up the phone. “Coward,” I said without heat. “You can run, Hardy Cates, but you can’t hide forever.”
But Hardy managed to avoid me all Saturday. And while I wanted badly to talk to him, pride wouldn’t let me chase after him like a lovestruck skink, a Texas lizard which was known to lunge and circle around the male it was interested in. I figured I could afford to be patient with Hardy. So I left a couple of casual messages on his machine, and decided to wait him out.
MEANWHILE, I GOT an e-mail from Nick.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE WHOLE THING IS CRAZY,” I SAID WHEN SUSAN had finished reading Nick’s e-mail. I had printed it out and asked her to take a look at it during our Saturday therapy session. “He’s turned everything backward. Upside down. It’s like Alice in Wonderland.”
It was ten pages long and filled with accusations and lies. I had felt dirty and tainted after r
eading it, but most of all, outraged. Nick had recast our entire marriage, with himself as the victim and me as the villain. According to Nick, I had been an insane, histrionic, and unfaithful wife, and he had tried in vain to pacify me and my moods and rages. And in the end, when he had lost his temper with me, it was because I had pushed him to the edge, by rejecting his honest efforts to fix our relationship.
“What pisses me off the most,” I continued heatedly, “is how detailed and convincing it is . . . like Nick believes his own crap. But he doesn’t, does he? And why would he write this to me? Does he actually think I’m going to buy any of this?”
Susan’s brow was furrowed. “Pathological lying is the MO for a narcissist . . . they’re not interested in the truth, only in what gets them what they want. Which is attention. Supply. So basically Nick is trying to get a reaction from you. Any kind of reaction.”
“Like, me hating him is just as good a supply as me loving him?”
“Exactly. Attention is attention. The only thing Nick can’t tolerate is indifference. That creates what’s called ‘narcissistic injury’ . . . and unfortunately this e-mail is sending strong signals in that direction.”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “So what happens when Nick gets a narcissistic injury?”
“He may try to frighten you in some way, which to him is another form of supply. And if you refuse to react, it may very well escalate the situation.”
“Oh, great. Does that mean more phone calls? More unexpected visits?”
“I hope not. But yes, probably. And if he’s angry enough, he may want to punish you.”
There was silence in Susan’s small office while I digested the information. It was so unfair. I had thought that divorcing Nick would be enough. Why did he have to pull this crap with me? Why did he expect me to go on being a supporting player in the movie of his life?
“How do I get rid of him?” I asked.
“There’s no easy answer. But if I were you, I would save this e-mail and document every interaction with him. And try to go no-contact, no matter what he does. Refuse gifts, don’t answer e-mails or letters, and don’t discuss him with anyone who might approach you on his behalf.” Susan looked down at the e-mail, frowning. “If a narcissist is made to feel inferior to something or someone, it eats away at him until it’s relieved. Until he feels he can walk away as the winner.”