Layover Rules

Chapter Four



Later that night, sitting on the bed in my hotel room, with yet another baseball game on the TV—the second one I’d watched in as many nights after a lifetime of never watching even one—I frantically called Alicia. Before she could say anything, I blurted: “I texted him.”

“Who?”

“Sam.”

Alicia paused for a moment, obviously trying to place the name. “The baseball pla—oh, my God.”

“I know. I shouldn’t have.”

“No, no. You totally should have. But wait. How’d you get his number?”

“I didn’t tell you this, but—”

“Uh, yeah,” Alicia said with heavy sarcasm. “It sounds like you have a lot to tell me. Start from the beginning.”

So I told her how it happened….



. . . . .



After a rather uneventful day at the store, I went back to the hotel and ordered room service. I had planned on going somewhere to eat, but decided at the last minute that I would stay in.

The decision had absolutely nothing to do with there being another baseball game on that night, but when I saw Sam and the other announcer on camera discussing the game, and I worked up the nerve to send him a text that read: I had no idea you were a TV star.

After a few minutes, and during a commercial break, he wrote back: Is this Claire?

Crap. I forgot that I’d given him a fake name. Good thing I hadn’t told him who I was in that first text. Rather than fess up, I went along with it and replied: Yes.

Sam: Glad you saw my number and used it.

Me: Pretty sneaky move. :)

Sam: It worked and now I have your number and I can ask you out.

I didn’t write back immediately. I wasn’t sure what to say. Yes, I had texted him knowing full well that he hadn’t put his number in my phone so we could just be friends. And, yes, I had just said “Pretty sneaky move” complete with a smiley face, so I was flirting. Guilty. But, still, I didn’t want to deal with being asked out.

So I texted: You shouldn’t ask a girl out in a text.

Sam: You’re right.

I was texting him back when my phone rang. The caller ID took over the screen. It was Sam.

I answered, saying, “I was just texting you back.”

“You’re right about that texting thing,” he said.

My heart was hammering in my chest. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to me that he would call to ask me out. I thought we might just have some innocent, flirty back and forth. Now I was in a position I was totally unprepared to handle.

After a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, I said, “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“Surprises are my specialty.”

I could hear the stadium noise in the background, along with a voice saying: “Forty-five seconds.”

“Sounds like you don’t have much time to talk,” I said.

“The perils of being a TV star. Listen, I’d really like to have a drink with you. I should be out of here by eleven. Is that too late?”

It wasn’t too late, but time wasn’t the issue. I had a boyfriend—at least for the next few days—so I shouldn’t be meeting another guy for a drink.

The voice in the background said: “Fifteen seconds.”

“Let me call you back,” he said. “Give me an hour?”

“Sure. I guess. Yeah, okay.”

I watched as the commercials ended onscreen and they went back to the game. I should have told him that I couldn’t meet him, but I’d given him the opening to call back, and I’d just have to deal with it then. Somehow.



. . . . .



“Holy hell,” Alicia said when I finished giving her the story. “So how much longer do you have until he calls?”

“I called you right away, so I have about fifty-nine minutes.”

“Well, you did the right thing. As you know, I’m an expert on stuff like this.”

I said, “Oh, right.”

“Do you want my help or not? You called me, remember? Wait. Don’t answer that. I’m giving you my advice whether you want it or not.”

I walked over to the minibar and got a Sprite Zero, went back to the bed and tried to relax. The TV was on, but the sound was down, and Alicia launched into her advice.

“Whatever you do, don’t even think about Trevor.”

I was about to take a sip of soda but stopped when she said that. “Good thing you brought that up. Now I’ll never think of him. Not that I’m going—”

“Uh-uh! Stop right there. Back the truck up, or however the saying goes. You’re going. You’re going to meet this guy, have a drink, maybe three, and enjoy yourself.”

“I’m not cheating on Trevor.”

“Exactly,” Alicia almost screamed. “It’s not cheating.”

“No, I mean I’m not going because it feels like cheating.”

“Having a drink with someone isn’t cheating.”

I went over to the closet where I’d hung my clothes. Maybe I’d pick something out, just in case. “You don’t know Trevor very well.”

“Trevor is, what, 800 miles away? Say he texts you. Big deal. You text back. If he calls, just excuse yourself and take his call. Then go back to Hottie McBaseball.”

I laughed. “Who McWhat?”

“I just came up with that. You like it?”

“Thanks for the laugh. I needed that. This is too much. What are you doing tonight?”

“I have a date with my television” she said. “The Bachelor’s on.”

“Ugh. I don’t know how you watch that.”

“Hey, if I had your options tonight, I wouldn’t even own a TV.”



. . . . .



I chose one of my favorite outfits, spent a few minutes fixing my hair, and touching up my makeup, all the while thinking I couldn’t believe I was going through with this. It was just flirting, though, right? But I shouldn’t even be doing that. And what if Sam thought it was going to lead to more? He was a single man—as far as I knew, anyway…maybe he had a girlfriend?—on a business trip, probably lonely, and probably had never gone too long without a woman’s attention.

I could handle it, I told myself. I was no shrinking violet. Well, except when it came to Trevor. That was part of the personality I’d assumed early on in our relationship, something he had definitely wanted.

But with other guys? I could stand up for myself, be firm, say no. At least I thought I could. That’s how I’d always been before Trevor.

The baseball game was coming to an end, so I knew it wouldn’t be too long before Sam called back. I sat on the bed, sans shoes, crossing and re-crossing my legs, nervous.

Then, a knock at the door, and a guy called out: “Room service.”

What the hell? It was almost eleven o’clock at night. Why was Trevor having food brought up to my room at this hour?

I huffed, frustrated, swung my legs off the bed, and made my way to the door with the intention of declining whatever he’d ordered for me.

I opened the door and saw that it wasn’t a room service call at all. Why hadn’t I recognized his voice?

Trevor stood there in his perfectly fitted suit with the crisp white shirt, leaning against the doorjamb, biting his lower lip, his eyes smoldering.

Stunned to see him, I managed to say, “Hey.”

Trevor didn’t say anything. He just grinned at me, stepped inside the room closing the door behind him, and wrapped his arms around my waist. He pulled me closer and kissed me deeply, firmly, hungrily.

“I missed you, Princess.”

“I thought you had business in New York.”

He kissed me again quickly, a peck on the lips, then dropped his head lower. “I told you I had a company to check out, but I didn’t tell you where.” His voice was muffled as he nipped at my neck.

We stood like that for a moment, and my mind raced frantically. I needed to turn my phone off. Quickly.

He kissed me slowly with those soft lips that used to be so difficult to resist, then pulled back and looked me in the eyes. “Did you know I was coming?”

“No. Why?”

His gaze drifted down to my neck, my chest…he backed up a little to take in the view…his intent stare making its way down my entire body, and I could actually feel a warm rush go through my body, following his eyes. God, I hated how he could turn me on just by the way he looked at me. It was the one remaining thing that still drew me to him.

“The way you’re dressed,” he said. “You know how much I love you in that outfit. It’s almost like you knew I was coming. But you couldn’t have. Were you going out?”

I nervously fumbled with my necklace. “No, I…I wore this today and just hadn’t taken it off yet.”

He stepped toward me again, a look of uninhibited purpose in his eyes. “Then I’m right on time.”



. . . . .



I’d never experienced anything like the type of sex Trevor preferred. Or, more accurately, required. He couldn’t get off by having sex as most people know it, no matter how passionate.

For Trevor, it was all about control, and if I took even the slightest bit of initiative, showed the barest hint of aggressiveness, it was over. He wouldn’t get angry. He never lashed out, physically or verbally. He would simply lose his erection and interest, and it was all over.

It was nothing like I’d imagined when I read all those romance novels about the dominant male, the rich and powerful alpha who sweeps a girl off her feet, changes her life, maybe even saves her from danger, gives her everything she wants and needs—in the bedroom and out—and just generally fits the bill of a superhero.

That’s what those fictional guys were, only instead of capes or high-tech gadgets or webbing that shoots out of their hands, these fictional alphas’ power was in their money, materialism, and insanely perfect sexual prowess.

The men in those books were easy to love because they were protectors and providers, something I thought I craved, maybe even needed. But lost on me was the full effect of being with someone like that. Inherent in those relationships is an inevitable loss of freedom, a sacrifice of individuality. At least, that’s what I discovered with Trevor. Maybe it was just that I’m very much my own person, I know what I like and want, so giving up that kind of control, especially in daily life, not just in the bedroom, was something totally foreign to me.

Or maybe the problem was on Trevor’s end. Maybe he was overdoing it with the control—his insistence on having me driven around NYC in one of his limos, having me flown around the country on his private jet, having me eat certain foods at specific times of the day, and having me looked after, sometimes not only for my protection but also for his own peace of mind.

Protection. That’s what he said it was about. That he wanted to protect me.

It was fine in the abstract—when reading novels—but impossibly nerve-wracking, even soul-crushing, for someone like me who places a high value on individuality when it translated to my real life.

I’m quite sure this type of thing works for some women, so I’m not judging. But everyone has to find his or her own way. I value my individuality. I have a career that I fought hard to get, after putting myself through school while working full-time year-round, and taking on an additional part-time job in the summers.

So, given all that, you’re probably wondering: how did I get myself into this situation in the first place?

There was no deeply buried reason why I gave myself to Trevor. The fact that he was ultra-rich and wildly sexy was the initial enticement. But the awe that those things inspired was gone within a couple of months, and yet I didn’t stop seeing him. In fact, that’s when I moved in with him. I had wanted to make it work; wanted to break through to Trevor, figure him out, help him figure himself out, whatever it was that drove his need for control.

Whatever it was, it also fed another terrible thing inside him: fear of giving himself to someone else. Maybe he perceived it as a weakness. Perhaps it was as simple as him believing that if he opened himself emotionally, he would be giving up control.

I’m referring to real emotion here. Not the words he spoke. Anyone can come up with romantic or sexy things to say.

The only real passion and intimacy Trevor was capable of was physical.

I wanted true passion, raw emotion. I wanted something that was so real, so true, so honest, so deeply felt in our souls that no words would be sufficient to describe it.

I mistook Trevor’s physical passion for that in the beginning. I misinterpreted his desire to protect and provide for me as that kind of love.

Silly. I hardly knew him then.

But I knew him now. Or at least I knew him well enough to know that behind that mask of wealth and materialism, beneath his beautiful skin, deep down inside his nearly flawless body, there was something dark that he would never face.

I had tried to talk to him about it, practically begging him to tell me something, anything, just one little piece of his life.

“Let me in,” I would say, nearly pleading but maintaining just enough dignity that it wouldn’t get to that point.

Sometimes he wouldn’t say anything at all, but most of the time he’d deny that there was a reason he wouldn’t open up emotionally. He was lying to me, and it pissed me off. But mostly I felt badly for him because he was lying to himself.

He was intensely private. Almost obsessively so. We almost never went out, and when we did, we always ended up in a private room of a small restaurant. We never went to movies or concerts. Our lives revolved around work and sex, very little else.

Trevor had family in Utah, and the only thing he told me about them was that they were “hyper-religious” and he no longer had anything to do with them. I never pressed him for more information about them, nor did I ask why he didn’t seem to have any friends. His social circle, if you could even call it that, was comprised solely of people who did what he did for a living, and the only thing they seemed to do as a group was dine out once in a while. There were never any guys nights out, no fishing trips, no going to sporting events, nothing you’d expect a typical guy in his thirties to be doing.

Aside from Alicia, I had very little contact with anyone other than Trevor. I had a small, tight-knit group of friends back in New Jersey, but it had gotten to the point where we kept up mainly on Facebook. We’d also see each other sometimes during holidays and on the rare occasion that some of them would be in Manhattan and in the last year I’d had to turn those opportunities down twice because Trevor had to do something work-related.

I had also lost almost all contact with Steven and Ross, two of my best friends from college, but that wasn’t entirely my fault. They had moved to Boston when Massachusetts became the first state to approve same-sex marriage, and even though New York had legalized it since then, they chose to stay in Boston. That was a little over a year ago, so they were gone before I even met Trevor. The only time I’d seen them since then was when I went to Boston to attend their wedding. Trevor, of course, didn’t go.

No one at work knew anything about my private life. Which really isn’t a bad thing. Especially when you begin to realize that you wouldn’t want your coworkers to know anything about your life at all, thanks to the person you were living with.

I had come to realize that Trevor struggled with a major case of paranoia. That was my layman’s diagnosis, anyway. It was as though he worried that people would take advantage of him, or steal from him if he let them get too close. It was hard to figure out. He was hard to figure out, and it didn’t take long before I realized he wasn’t going to wake up one day a changed man.

I’d toyed with the idea of trying to get Trevor to talk to someone, get professional help, but more than once I’d heard him make a comment about psychiatry in general. He claimed it was “feel-good nonsense,” and that therapists and doctors in the field were “selling snake oil.” So I knew that there was no point in suggesting it.

It reminded me of Tom Cruise’s Today Show outburst on the same subject. In fact, it was almost identical to that, the only difference being that Trevor wasn’t a Scientologist. Well, at least as far as I knew he wasn’t. I’d never heard of Utah being a bastion of Scientology, but as secretive as Trevor was, he could have been the leader of the Church of Scientology and I wouldn’t have known it.



. . . . .



I woke up about 4:15 the next morning, shortly before Trevor’s alarm would go off. The room was completely dark. We were tangled together on the bed, the top sheet twisted through our legs. Restless sleep was the norm for us.

The room was cold, but I was warm next to Trevor’s naked body.

He stirred as I got out of the bed and went over to the dresser. Shortly after he arrived last night, he went into the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. I took the opportunity to turn my phone off. I could have simply put it on silent, but there was still the risk of the screen lighting up and it catching Trevor’s attention when Sam called. I could have ignored it, sure, but in the off chance he saw it and asked if I wanted to answer it, I would have said no, and who knows what kind of questions that would have brought up.

Thinking I must have seemed like a real bitch for ignoring Sam, I wanted to turn on my phone and check for missed calls and texts.

Before I could, though, the room lit up. I turned and saw Trevor sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes.

An empty condom package was on the nightstand on Trevor’s side of the bed, a bottle of lube next to it. Scarves hung from the corners of the headboard that was attached to the wall. My leather locking hasp corset, which Trevor had brought with him, was on the floor on my side of the bed, and on top of that, the red eye-mask that I wore to bed often, but never for sleep. The aftermath of our sex.

“Morning, Sweet. What are you doing over there? Come here.”

I went back to the bed and sat down beside him. He reached up and ran a finger along my cheek, then tucked my hair behind my left ear.

“What would I ever do without you?” he said.

I hated when he uttered things like that. A sentence like that was supposed to be one of those romantic, heartfelt, breathtaking things a man says to the woman he loves. I used to long to hear them, but now it did nothing for me.

Sitting there next to him, I was naked and totally exposed. Trevor was naked, too, but had the top sheet covering him. Hiding him. A perfect metaphor for the dynamics of our relationship. And it was in those quiet few moments that morning that I knew beyond any level of doubt that it was over, if there was even a shred of doubt to begin with. I had planned on ending it when I arrived back in New York, but sitting there, I almost did it right then. Something stopped me, though. I wasn’t quite ready to do it, and decided to stick with my original plan.

When Trevor went down to the hotel gym, I turned on my phone. There were three texts and one voicemail. Two texts from Sam, one saying he left me a voicemail, the other saying he was sorry it didn’t work out. The other text was from Alicia, sent around 1 a.m., that read: Did you meet him??? Need details!

I listened to Sam’s message. He addressed me as Claire, of course, and I was feeling more and more guilty for misleading him. It was short and simple—“Give me a call if you’d like to meet. I’ll be up late.”

Dammit. I’d made things so complicated. I didn’t need any more problems, especially at this point in my life, when I was on the verge of leaving Trevor.

It was early, and I knew she wouldn’t be awake yet but I texted Alicia: CRAZINESS down here. I’ll call you later.



. . . . .



Trevor’s plan for the day was to look into a potential business acquisition in Atlanta. At least, that’s what he told me last night. I knew he had come here just to keep an eye on me.

He would swing by the store and pick me up around six, then we’d fly back to NYC on his plane. I didn’t want to do that, but I wanted to avoid a fight more, so I let him have his way.

I called Alicia during lunch.

“F*cking hell!” was her reaction. “Imagine if—”

“I know.”

“—he had found the two of you together.”

I was at a deli, having a salad with grilled chicken and a sweet tea. It was busy, a long line at the counter, all the tables crammed together, with people eating hurriedly.

“It’s not like I would have had Sam in my room.”

“You don’t know that.”

“What? Yes, I do. And I take offense at your not-so-subtle hint that I’m a slut.”

Two older ladies were at the table right next to mine. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw their heads turn at the word “slut.” I looked back at them and smiled.

Alicia said, “Where’s Trevor now?”

“Out somewhere. Who knows? He claims he’s scoping out a company here.”

“Yeah, right. The only thing he’s scoping out is you.”

I put my fork down, and took a deep breath. “As if I don’t know that.”

“So did you get in touch with Sam?”

“Not yet. I’m not sure what to tell him. I feel bad for ignoring him.”

“Tell him you fell asleep.”

“Doing what?” I said. “Watching the boring baseball game?”

“You could. It’s not a bad icebreaker.”

I thought about it for a minute. What the hell had I been thinking when I agreed to go have a drink with him? I’d turned that over and over in my head last night as I was going to sleep after the routinely mechanical sex with Trevor, and came up with this realization: I craved time with a guy who wasn’t anything like Trevor and I was projecting that on Sam.

It wasn’t fair—not to me, and not to Sam. I owed him an apology. But the whole thing was so awkward, I didn’t want to deal with it at all. I’d be leaving Atlanta later in the day and I wouldn’t have to be in the airport terminal, so there was little chance of running into Sam again. He hadn’t followed up on the texts and voicemail from last night, so he’d probably given up anyway.

“There’s no ice to break,” I said to Alicia. “I’m not going to write him back.”

“Your call. I won’t try to pressure you, but I think you’ll regret it.”