Time Out of Mind

  “He’s gone? Already? He didn’t say he was leaving already.”

  “Yeah. He texted me that he wished me well because you told him you and I were back together. Why would you fucking do that?”

  She seemed to be hugging herself. “Because I stupidly thought you loved me, asshole. That’s why!”

  “I…” He realized the massive atomic shitstorm about to crash. He reached for her but she jerked back, out of his reach. “Bonnie, I do love you. As a friend. I’ve always loved you as a friend. You never thought it was strange I encouraged you to date other people?”

  “I thought you were just trying to push me away.”

  “Bonnie. I introduced you to people. I played matchmaker for you.”

  “You used me all these years?”

  “Not like I heard you complaining.”

  “No shit, Sherlock. Because I thought I meant something to you!”

  “You do. You’re my friend and adopted family and my coworker, and I know I’m sounding like an asshole right now, and I’m sorry about that. But the guy I fucking love, the first guy in my life I’ve ever been in love with and fully honest with, is gone, and I have no clue where he is. And he thinks I fucking lied to him and cheated on him.”

  “How can you even know he wasn’t using you? Isn’t that like a violation of client stuff, sleeping with you?”

  “We already contacted Clark and told him that Doyle was ending the contract early. He was here on his own dime. Has been for weeks.”

  A frown furrowed her brow. “Clark didn’t tell us that,” she finally said, her voice soft.

  “Yeah, because I asked him not to.”

  “So Clark knew about this? About you two?”

  “Yeah. After Doyle and I talked to him.”

  She ran her hands up and down her arms. “So why the fuck didn’t you tell us any of this before?”

  “For starters, because my personal life honestly isn’t anyone else’s business if it doesn’t mess with my work. And because Doyle deals with a lot of A-list clients who prize him for his discretion and anonymity. The last thing anyone wants to see is a headline on TMZ.com stating that celebrity sober companion Doyle Turner was seen on a movie set or at a red carpet function, much less that he’s tied romantically to Mevi of Portnoy’s Oyster, who, surprise, is gay. Duh.”

  He ran his hands through his hair. “Doyle told me he was fine with me telling you guys, but I was terrified to out him. And then, fuck me, we found out about Erique, and I was proven right there.”

  She sank to the bed. He hated that she looked shell-shocked, but he’d mend that rift later.

  After he got hold of Doyle and straightened this out.

  “Wow,” she softly said. “I really thought we had something. I can’t believe you lied to me all these years. To us.” She stared at him. “Why didn’t you at least trust us?”

  “Because you know where I came from. My family. Hello.”

  “But you didn’t trust me?”

  Okay, maybe considering they worked together he did need to fix this now.

  He sat across from her, on the other bed. “Bonnie, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you. But once we headed down that road, part of me thought maybe I could just fake it. And I did, for a while. Then the drinking to help hide it, then what the asshole did to my finances…I’m sorry. I hoped you’d find someone and get married and then life would go on. I could be photographed out and about with different women and let the gossip rags talk about me. I never went out with guys.”

  She wouldn’t look him in the eyes. “How do you even know he really loves you?”

  “Because I do. He walked away from over fifty grand by cancelling the contract.”

  When he stood to head back to his room, she reached out to stop him. “What else haven’t you told me?”

  Heartsickness was still trying to set in, a functional numbness. At this point, if he lost Doyle, he knew the rest of his life looked pretty bleak indeed.

  “I’m submissive, Bon. He’s a Dominant. For the first time in my life, when things happened between us, I honestly felt like I was perfectly, exactly where I should be. I felt…free. He could shut down my brain and allow me time out of my mind. It was easy to stay sober because for the first time in my life, I was with someone who knew everything about me, my darkest secrets, and loved me for them. I didn’t have to hide or pretend with him. He loves me. At least, I hope he still does.” He continued to the door.

  She stood and followed, laying a hand on his arm. “So there’s no chance between us?”

  He let out a heavy breath and turned to face her. “I love you as a friend. I always have, and I always will. I’m sorry I lied to you all these years. I never meant to lead you on, not like that. I always wanted you to be happy and knew you couldn’t be happy with me because I can’t make you happy.”

  Drawing her hand back, she hugged herself again. “Now what?”

  “Now I try to find him and straighten this out.”

  “What about the tour? We have a show tonight. And we’re supposed to go over to the children’s hospital later today for that surprise gig.”

  “I know. I’m not backing out of my obligations. The band comes first. It always has for me. That’s why I put myself on hold and ended up a drunk.” He returned to his room and put out the Do Not Disturb sign.

  He tried calling the alternate number Doyle had left in his voice mail, but it referred people to call the private rehab center in Laguna Beach that he worked for when he was home.

  And he didn’t have Doyle’s e-mail address.

  He’d never needed it before.

  He called Clark and got his voice mail. After leaving him a message to call him, he set his ringer to loud and started stripping so he could get in the shower.

  That’s when he spotted the faint marks on his right wrist. Blinking away tears, he found the marker and re-inked them.

  Please don’t let this be fucked up now.

  * * * *

  “Did you want a drink, sir?” the stewardess asked.

  “Soda water, please.”

  “Any food?”

  “Not right now, thanks. Just pretzels or chips, if you have them. Something bland.”

  “Pita chips?”

  “Perfect.”

  They were only thirty minutes into the ten-hour flight, and being in first class meant a comfy seat and top-notch treatment.

  Tate had spared no expense in his gratitude. Fortunately, there’d been seats left on the early flight, meaning Doyle hadn’t needed to wait for a later one.

  Also meaning he had the perfect excuse to pack and leave the hotel immediately.

  To not risk having to face Mevi again.

  Ever.

  To face the fact that he’d ignored his instincts and training and had come perilously close to ruining his life.

  Well, his professional life.

  His personal life was nuked from orbit.

  She poured his drink for him, handing him the cup as well as the rest of the can when he asked for it, and two bags of pita chips. He’d had a bagel in the terminal while waiting to board, so he wasn’t starving, but his stomach was slightly upset.

  Tate would have a driver waiting for Doyle in Vienna to pick him up and take him to the filming location to meet up with his new client, actress Pippa Coarsely. She’d just finished a stint in a private London rehab facility for a painkiller addiction. Typical story, she’d had back surgery and gotten hooked on them.

  The A-list actress had voluntarily checked herself in before she’d had a train wreck. She knew from having drug addict parents that she was on a downhill slide and wanted to stop it before she went too far. Tate had also readily agreed to Doyle’s tripled fee—although Doyle had considered toying with Tate about his offer of a million pounds—because Pippa was eager to work hard for her sobriety.

  That meant she’d be an easy client to wrangle. She wanted to stay clean and sober, desperate to keep her rising career on track. She
wasn’t even required to have him there by the studio, since she’d yet to do anything to violate any of her contracts or incur penalties. It was still being treated as an ongoing health issue resulting from her back surgery, since Tate was one of the best in the business at what he did, including spinning stories.

  And they’d be shooting at various locales across Europe for the next two to four months, depending on the weather and production delays. Doyle might be needed past the location shooting to when they shifted to England, to shoot remaining footage on a soundstage. He’d already notified The Compound of that, as well as his cleaning service. Wi-Fi on location would be spotty, at best.

  His cell phone had been stashed, turned off, in one of his checked bags in the hold. He wouldn’t need it. Wouldn’t work over there anyway, except the Wi-Fi part of it. He’d pick up a cheap phone that would work over there once he was on the ground, but anyone needing him had his e-mail.

  He tried not to think about Mevi.

  He tried not to think about the fact that he’d broken the prime rule about not getting personally involved with a client.

  About the fact that turning his back on his professional responsibilities and ethics had not only broken his heart, but could have jeopardized his career had word of his relationship with Mevi reached the press. Not to mention could have jeopardized Mevi’s recovery.

  You stupid fuck, as Tilly would say.

  He settled in to nap. He hadn’t had a good night’s sleep last night, having showered and packed after returning to the room and texting Tate, who’d immediately called him and booked his flight.

  A little jet lag-induced exhaustion would do him good. It meant he’d be able to sleep when he finally laid his head down in a bed, wherever he ended up.

  Might be the last good night of sleep he got for a while, too.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “You want to tell me why this is so important?” Clark groused.

  “Because it is. It’s important to me.”

  Clark was behind the wheel. He’d found a good tattoo artist at a place in Pasadena who would do it during off-hours for a premium price, as well as sign a NDA in the process.

  Mevi stared at the spot on his right wrist, the markings that he renewed several times a day. He’d also carefully traced it into his notebook, and had taken pictures of it, just in case, so he could recreate it if something happened and it totally faded.

  After today…it would never fade.

  Just like Doyle wouldn’t fade in his soul.

  Maybe it made him stupid or a hopeless romantic. He didn’t care. Even if he never laid eyes on Doyle again, the man would always be in his heart. He never wanted the marks to fade.

  “Did you hear anything?” Mevi softly asked.

  Clark let out one of “those” sighs. “Not yet. If I do, I’ll let you know.”

  “I’m still pissed at Bonnie.”

  “You’re not her favorite person, either, you know. I had to talk her off the ledge last week.”

  “What?”

  “Metaphorically.” He glanced over at Mevi. “There’s a reason she opted to go three hours home instead of staying at a hotel near the venue, and not because she wanted to thumb through her junk mail.”

  “I know.” Bonnie had barely spoken to him since Chicago. She still put on a good act for the crowds and the VIP after-parties, but that was it. At the hotels, she always headed to her room without socializing.

  “You two need to settle this shit before you fly to Europe.”

  “I know.”

  “How come in all the years you’ve known her you’ve never had a discussion with her about this?”

  “Because after the first couple of years, I wasn’t sure how to tell her I was gay. Especially when I’d been sleeping with her.”

  “Wait…is she the only person you’ve slept with?”

  “No.” He studied his hands.

  “I meant besides Doyle.”

  “No.” His hands were reeeaally fascinating.

  “I meant women before Bonnie.”

  “No.”

  “Why do I not believe you?”

  “Fine. Bonnie was the second.”

  “What about your rep about you supposedly being a womanizer?”

  He felt his face heat. “I had a lot of sudden cases of intestinal distress from possible food poisoning and/or food allergies right before doing it with anyone.”

  “Seriously? And they bought it?”

  “Yep. Especially if I got them off first.”

  “Ah. Never leave them hanging?”

  “Well, I didn’t want to be inconsiderate. Want to hear my imitation of explosive diarrhea noises?”

  “Hard pass, sorry.”

  “How about my fake vomiting noises? I once had a woman start puking from hearing me do it in her bathroom.”

  “Uh, again, hard pass, thanks.”

  “So as far as they knew, I was great in bed. I always set it up to act like I wasn’t feeling very well before we got started, but I told them nah, I’d be okay. They had fun, I’d already baited the hook that something was off, and never even had to get naked. Made my early excuses and ran. They felt sorry for me and, since they weren’t stiffed, so to speak, they never said a bad word about me. As far as they knew, I’d gotten the short end of the stick.”

  “That means technically you were with more than two women.”

  “That I actually did the full deed with? No. Girl in high school. Senior prom, drunk in the back of my pickup truck when I was seventeen.”

  “Classy.”

  “For a senior in my income bracket and zip code, yes. We didn’t have to share the truck with anyone.”

  Clark finally chuckled, shaking his head.

  * * * *

  The sign on the front of the shop listed their hours and that they were closed today. When Clark knocked on the front door, a middle-aged guy with tat sleeves on both arms answered. The shop was not only clean, it looked to be a high-end parlor.

  “Clark?”

  “Yeah.” He held up a form. “Sorry, but I need to protect my client.”

  The guy shrugged as he stepped aside and waved them in. “The money you’re paying me, I’ll sign away my left nut if you want it.” He took the pen and form, scanned it, and quickly signed.

  The pictures on the walls, of artwork and finished tats, blew Mevi’s mind. This guy wasn’t just a tattoo artist, he was an artist, period.

  “So what are we doing today?”

  Mevi still stared at a large photo of a full left arm sleeve depicting a dragon in black and grey tones, so realistic it looked to be exploding from the woman’s arm. He held up his right wrist.

  “That.”

  “That’s all?”

  “That’s all.”

  “Dude. I almost feel bad taking your money. That’s literally going to take me about ten minutes. I thought you were going to want something way more complicated. Hell, I won’t even need to charge you extra like I told you I might.”

  “Then let’s get moving,” Clark said. “I want to beat traffic back to Anaheim.”

  First, Mevi had to sign a form of his own, waving liability for the tat and testifying that he was sober and over eighteen. Then the guy made a template of the marks before he cleaned them off Mevi’s wrist with alcohol and soap. “You sure you don’t want any other details? I could make them look 3D if you want. Shadows? Color?”

  “No, that’s okay,” Mevi quietly said. “I want them exactly like that.”

  “Your dime.” He placed the template while Mevi watched. “Love your music. You’ll need to be careful the next couple of days when you play. Wear a sweatband or long sleeves or something. Something that small will heal fast, but you don’t want to mess it up.”

  “How’d you know I play?”

  “Dude, I have all your albums. It’s cool. You were never here. I do a lot of celebs.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah.” He glanced up, smiling. “They ha
nd out my name, but if anyone asks, I never confirm nor deny. Not unless they tell me it’s cool to advertise. That’s how I get so many celebs. That, and I’m good.”

  “Are those pics out there all your work?”

  “Most of it. The chair over there, the artwork over her station is her stuff. She’s a friend of mine. What do these mean to you, if you don’t mind me asking? I mean, I know why people get the semi-colon. I’ve done a bunch of those.”

  “The rune is for safe travels, and the semi-colon means my story isn’t over.”

  “Cool.” He prepped his equipment. “You ever get ink before?”

  “No.”

  “This is going to hurt. Especially there. Imma need you to hold still. No room for error on something this small.”

  An involuntary snort escaped him. “I’m good at holding still for pain.”

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes later, they were back in the car and heading away from the shop. Clark dropped him at his condo, but Mevi wasn’t planning on staying there.

  His car was parked in its spot in the garage. It hadn’t been started in a couple of months, and Mevi wondered if it’d even run.

  Fortunately, it did.

  It felt…more than weird to be driving again.

  With traffic, it took him over an hour to get to Bonnie’s. He made a wrong turn on his way, and by the time he got straightened out and found the right street, it was close to dark. Bonnie hadn’t changed her gate code, either. When he drove in and pulled up in front of her house, she must have been alerted, because she opened the front door when he got out.

  He stared at her for a moment before walking up. “Can I come in and talk?”

  “Why?”

  “Please?”

  “You drunk?”

  “No. I’m sober. I haven’t had a drop since that night here.”

  She finally opened the door wide enough so he could walk in, closing it behind him.

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her blue eyes filled with mistrust. Today she wore her hair pulled back off her face with a hair band and stray locks fluttered around her temples.