Tryst

  “Hey, man,” Ransom mutters, extending a hand to Tucker. The two shake and Tuck returns the greeting. When Ransom turns in my direction, he’s less than cordial.

  “Heidi.”

  One word. That’s all I get. Not a nod, not a smile. Just my name on his tongue. And it doesn’t sound like music anymore. It sounds like a curse.

  “Well . . .” I say, looking down at our itinerary. “Flight leaves in an hour. We better get moving.”

  We go through ticketing and security without speaking, which isn’t a problem considering Ransom is stopped for autographs every five feet or so. If he had chosen to showcase his signature locks, I’m sure we would have needed security. By the time we get to our gate, the attendants are already calling for first class passengers. We board quickly to avoid further delays from fans and find our seats. To my disenchantment, Ransom is seated directly behind us, not across from us as I initially thought. He’ll be able to see everything—hear everything. And while I really shouldn’t care, or suspect that he does, I can’t help the pang of unease that seizes my gut as I take my window seat, giving Tucker the aisle.

  “What’s wrong, babe?” he asks, settling beside me. He takes my hand where it rests on the armrest between us. “You look a little pale.”

  I give him a weak smile. “Just tired, I guess.”

  “Well, just try to relax,” he responds, leaning over to press his lips against mine before tilting back into his headrest. “It’s going to be a long flight.”

  Long flight, indeed. Probably the longest one yet.

  The flight attendant comes over to take drink orders and I hurriedly request a glass of champagne. Tucker lifts a questioning brow, eluding to the early hour. I simply shrug.

  “Vacation.” And if I’m going to make it through alive, with my dignity and marriage intact, I’m going to need alcohol. Lots of it.

  The flight is uneventful for the first hour or so, and I manage to doze off after a couple more glasses of bubbly. That’s when I feel the back of my seat bow as if someone is gripping it. My eyes pop open and dart up just in time to see Ransom looming over me, his tired eyes gazing down at me with the intensity of a sniper.

  “Excuse me,” he mutters. Then he shifts over into the aisle and creeps into the lavatory. I look over at Tucker, who appears to be oblivious, completely engulfed in an audiobook he’s listening to through his headphones while tapping on his MacBook Air. It’s as if he didn’t even notice.

  A few minutes pass before a suspicion hits me like a baseball bat. Ransom should have been back by now. What if he’s sick? Or what if he’s in there getting high? Shit. I can’t have him on a public plane, blitzed out of his mind. And if Justice finds out? Yeah, I take my liberties with him, but he won’t budge on the No Drugs policy. His staff is randomly tested and even his clients have to submit to pre-enrollment screenings. Say what you want about him, but Justice is a standup guy. Total asshole, but a good man deep inside.

  I can’t sit still. I can’t be satisfied with just wondering what he’s doing in there, if he’s ok, if he’s finally gone too far this time. My reputation may be on the line, but, hell, so is his life. And cold bitch or not, I can’t not care about him.

  “Excuse me,” I murmur, unsnapping my lap belt. When Tucker doesn’t respond, I tap him on the shoulder to get his attention.

  “Yeah?” he says, pulling off his headphones.

  I point toward the lavatory. “Bathroom.”

  After Tucker’s moved into the aisle to let me out, he quickly sits back down to get back to whatever he’s doing. I know there’s some investigating that goes along with the passing of his patient, so I assume he’s still dealing with that.

  When I get to the ugly, beige folding door, I tap lightly, as not to draw attention to myself or the person inside.

  “Yeah?” replies a strained rasp.

  “It’s me.”

  A long moment passes before I hear the lock slide open, yet he doesn’t open the door. I look up to see that Tucker is still deeply engrossed in his work, and then I do the unthinkable. I step inside the tiny airplane bathroom with another man.

  Ransom is leaning over the sink, palms pressed to the edge of the makeshift cabinet. His head is down, but I can see that his skin appears to be slicked with a thin sheen of sweat that looks clammy to the touch. I peer around his massive body, which takes up the entire space, save for the spot I’m standing in, and search for any signs of drug usage. But there’s nothing. Not a trace of paraphernalia.

  “I don’t have anything on me,” he mutters, without lifting his head.

  “I didn’t think you did,” I lie.

  “I know why you’re here, Heidi. I know what you’re looking for.”

  “Well, if you know, why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you tell me you were a drug addict, Ransom?”

  He chuckles under his breath, causing his hunched back to vibrate with mirth. “I’m not addicted to drugs, H.”

  “Then what is it? Alcohol?”

  “I wish.” The sound of his voice is so weak and defeated in this enclosed space, it seems to amplify every unsaid word and every rejected sentiment. I just want to lift my hand and touch him—for his comfort and for mine. Whatever is eating him up inside—whether it be pills or coke or booze—is hurting him. And he’s hurting himself to dull the pain.

  “Ransom, you can talk to me,” I whisper. “Whatever is going on . . . I’m here for you.”

  “Are you? Like you were there for me Saturday night?”

  “That’s different. I needed to be home, and you were fine—”

  “I know what you wanted to talk about, H. I know you wanted to leave me. Just like everybody else.”

  My first reaction is to deny, but his words stun me into silence. I know you wanted to leave me. It sounds like so much more than annoyance at having to find a new publicist. So much more than just business. There’s pain behind those words—pain deeper than I could ever reach. And while I may not have initially caused it, I’ve become a physical reminder of it. An itchy, stinging scab over the secret laceration over his heart. And I don’t know why. I don’t understand why he’s given me the power to hurt him, when I never asked for that role.

  “I’m not good for you,” I hear myself say on the edge of a whisper.

  “I know. Nothing fun ever is. But I want you anyway.”

  I look past his back to find that he’s looking at me through the tiny mirror, those dark, glassy eyes rimmed with even darker circles. I believe him about not using. I believe him but I don’t want to. The truth seems even worse.

  The plane hits a rough patch of air, and we remember where we are. The haze of raw emotion retreats and we both sober with self-consciousness. Ransom turns on the miniature sink to splash water on his face. I fiddle with my hair as if I were actually doing something in here to mess it up. When I place my hand on the handle of the door, Ransom turns to look at me expectantly.

  “Try to get some rest, ok? We’ll be in Arizona in a couple hours.” Then I escape that tiny closet filled with our secrets and skeletons, and hope that none have followed me out.

  When I return to my seat, I find that Tucker’s eyes are still glued to the screen of his computer. He nods when I approach and gets up to let me in without letting his fingers leave the keyboard. I sit down and lean my head against the window, suddenly exhausted.

  “Is he ok?”

  I turn to my husband, his expression impassive, his attention still tuned to his work. When I don’t answer right away, he simply lifts a brow and gives me a mere fraction of a glance. That’s it.

  “Yeah.” It’s a lie. Ransom isn’t all right. I’m not all right. And we . . . we haven’t been all right for a long time.

  He nods. “Good.” Then he acts as if we hadn’t spoken at all.

  Ransom returns to his seat minutes later, his color less pale and his face more relaxed. That alone is almost enough to soothe me into sleep. And just as the first caress of slumber starts to pull m
e under, I feel warm, callused fingers brush against the back of my right hand. The hand by the window. The hand that Tucker can’t see.

  I fall asleep that way—my husband at my side, completely oblivious, and my one-time lover running his fingertips over my knuckles. And it feels like we’re fucking. Only this time, Tucker isn’t watching.

  Chapter Twenty

  Arizona is fucking hot.

  Not New York hot, which is pretty damn miserable in the summertime. But West-coast-so-goddamn-dry-I-can’t-breathe-blink-or-swallow hot. I hate it. But the heat doesn’t compare to the way my hand still kindles with Ransom’s touch. Or the way Tucker’s shrewd stare burns right through me, picking me apart, sifting out the secrets and leaving behind the shame to fester and rot. I hate that too.

  The limo ride to Justice’s compound is uncomfortable to say the least. But we try to make the best of the long journey by completely tuning one another out. Tucker goes back to whatever the hell he’s typing up on his MacBook. Across from us on the bench seat, Ransom slips on his headphones and pulls a notebook out of his bag. I watch with rapt fascination as he taps his fingers against the blank, paper canvas, head nodding, eyes closed. To watch him create—to breathe life into oblivion and somehow compose greatness—is probably the most intimate experience I’ve had with him to date. And even though I must look like a moron staring at him like he’s some rare, exotic piece of art, I can’t force myself to look away. He’s beautiful in his element—unguarded, pure. It’s like I’m truly seeing him for the first time.

  His eyes suddenly open, and lock on to mine. He frowns for half a second before the corner of his mouth twitches. He mouths the word, What?, and the unspoken question, coupled with the flash of his tongue, unleashes a swarm of silk-winged butterflies inside my ribcage. Reflexively, I look over to my husband, who, as I expect, is none the wiser. When I turn back to Ransom, I simply shake my head. He lifts a challenging brow, tempting me to tell him what’s on my mind. But then again, I don’t have to. He can see the way my skin is flushed like it’s just been burned by the stubble of his chin. And the way my chest rises and falls with every single ragged breath as if he’s squeezing my lungs with his bare hands. And he surely notices the way my gaze runs over him, trying to capture every detail and download them to the forbidden file folder inside my mind.

  He can see all these things, because in some convoluted way, Ransom has gotten inside of more than just my body. He’s watermarked my heart, and now he can read me like I’m splashed across the front pages of The Post.

  This stranger has made me feel for him. And I hate that most of all.

  I break the spell by pretending to be engrossed in unread text messages and emails on my cellphone, avoiding eye contact with him for the rest of the trip. When we arrive at Oasis over an hour later, my whole body aches with tension and stiffness. Of course, I don’t even have a chance to get out and stretch before I spy Justice on the front steps, his maddeningly handsome face screwed in discontent.

  Most women would be overjoyed to be in the presence of such male beauty. Tucker, Ransom, and Justice are all ridiculously gorgeous in very distinct, yet very obvious ways. Tucker is what one would consider classically handsome, with his strong jaw, bee stung lips, and ocean blue eyes. Ransom is the complete opposite, his olive complexion and dark, angular features more intriguing and exotic than my All-American husband’s. But Justice . . . Justice is what a woman would deem panty-dropping fine. The man is sex on a stick, covered in rich chocolate and rainbow sprinkles. His eyes are the color of a blue sky that’s been threatened by a storm and his lips are bowed, pouty even. They’d make him appear almost feminine if it weren’t for the fact that the man’s body is an in-depth course in sexual education, and every muscle and plane is a quiz you want to ace with flying colors.

  At first glance, you’d think you were staring at a mirage. Then he opens his mouth, and the illusion shatters. It’s like he knows he is that gorgeous, that sexy, and he wants to repel you. Like his intent is to turn off as many people as he can in an attempt to keep them at arm’s length.

  I scoped out his tactics within the first few moments of meeting him years ago. Cut from the same cloth, that guy and me. And after the top blew off his personal life last year, exposing his piece of shit “family” and the way they threw him out like garbage, I can understand why he chooses to live his life in exile.

  “Took you long enough,” he grumbles, coming down the terra cotta stairs of his massive estate. Exile or not, Justice is loaded. After his spineless father’s bitch of a wife sent Justice and his mom packing, he was left with a little chunk of change. He took the cash, put it toward an idea that would either get him stoned or celebrated and, alas, Justice Drake, sexpert extraordinaire, was born.

  “Save the niceties and concern for someone who actually gives a damn,” I fire back, walking past him into the air-conditioned foyer. It’s not that the heat is unbearable, because it is. But mostly the fact that if I stand there between my husband and my—shit, I don’t even know what he is—Justice will see right through me. He’ll see the truth displayed on my body like a scarlet letter, inked with bloodred lies and lust. And I’m just not ready to face him yet. I could give two shits what people think about me as a person, especially my clients. But Justice is different. I actually like him, but even more than that, I respect the hell out of him. It’s kind of hard not to.

  I hear the men behind me, exchanging introductions as they make their way into the house. And while my exterior is stoically cool and blasé, my gut rages like the mosh pit at a heavy metal concert. What was I thinking? Bringing Tucker and Ransom to Justice’s den of sin? Exposing them to what really goes on behind the closed door of most marriages? Am I just encouraging this thing between us? Did I subconsciously choose this place because I knew we’d be safe from ridicule, and encouraged to explore our fantasies further?

  “Your rooms are this way. The staff will grab your bags,” Justice says, leading us to the grand staircase that leads to the second floor rooms. They were initially used as living quarters for the women enrolled in his program, but they now house couples that have joined Justice’s new relationship-enrichment course. I was instrumental in the changeover after he abandoned his business last fall. Being that exposed and vulnerable nearly crushed him. But losing Ally—watching her walk away from him and back into her husband’s arms—it almost killed him.

  After months of trying to pick up the pieces of his war-torn life, and worrying about him until I was physically sick, I enlisted a little help. Like I told him, every businessperson worth their salt has a hacker on their payroll. So I emailed and emailed, to no avail, hoping to get just a breadcrumb of an IP address, anything that would lead us to him. He never answered, of course. It was like he knew what my intent was, and he didn’t want to be found. He was going to disappear, reinvent himself, and eventually die alone. I couldn’t let that happen.

  Then, we got a bite.

  He wrote Ally.

  It wasn’t much of a letter, most of it scratched out and unreadable. But there was a postage stamp. The smug bastard had given us a clue. He was ready to be found. He wanted to come home.

  So I contacted a couple friends—one in customs, the other in private investigating—and we tracked him down. And I told Ally, who had damn near stalked me for months, showing up at my office daily and annoying the ever-living shit outta me, to go get her boy. And never, ever let him go. A love like that—one birthed out of pain and courage and friendship—was so rare to find. And those two had it. They just needed a little help in keeping it.

  I look back at Tucker as we round the top of the banister and give him a smile. What we have is real. Tucker’s love for me is solid and true, and always has been. No one can take that away from us. Not Ransom, not Justice, not even me. And as much as I don’t deserve him, I can’t bear the thought of losing him. I can’t fathom my life without him in it, keeping me rooted in love whenever I try to float away.

  M
y gaze darts to Ransom, who trails a few steps behind us, his eyes unfocused, his mouth pressed into a straight line. It was easy to be attracted to him, easier than it should have been. He’s the promise of excitement and youth. He’s that rush of exhilaration from standing right on the edge of a cliff, arms outstretched and eyes closed. He’s that punch of adrenaline that rushes my heart so rapidly that I feel high. Weightless, yet covered in sensation that prickles every inch of my skin.

  Ransom makes me believe I can fly, but it’s Tucker who keeps me tethered to the earth. Sometimes I can’t tell which is worse.

  We stop at a rich mahogany door with the word Reflection engraved in beautiful script on a stainless-steel placard. “What’s this?” I ask.

  “Ally wanted to do something with the rooms . . . create specific themes for them. This is the Reflection room. We’re pretty booked right now, so you lucked out.”

  He fishes a key tied with a ribbon bow out of his pocket and unlocks the door. And as we step inside, I know exactly how this particular room earned its name.

  The space is bathed in muted colors—gray, taupe, nude. Colors that would calm the minds and invoke peace, and allow the couple a chance to contemplate on their relationship. However, it’s completely decked out in mirrors from top to bottom, the main ones seemingly focused around the bed. So while a couple may reflect on their love for each other by day, their naked, twisted bodies will be reflected by night.

  It’s as if Justice is trying to tell me something. And for someone who has never relied on subtlety to get his point across, I’m kinda pissed that he took this opportunity to try it out.

  I turn around to tell him so, when I realize that I’m not the only one musing over the bedroom’s double entendre. Actually, the message seems to be very clear, and the way Ransom is eyeing the mirror situation directly over the bed, he’s just as uncomfortable with what this represents. And what this means for him.