CHAPTER 9
Brooke
I scroll to Reid and hit talk. Just when I think he’s letting it go to voicemail, he says, “Yeah.”
“Time to bump up the interference,” I say. “His flight landed a couple of hours ago, but he’s not answering his phone.”
There’s a pause. Reid never looks at his phone before answering, and obviously, he’s not yet reacquainted with my voice. A rather unreasonable hostility bubbles to the surface, though I suppose I should feel privileged—his skanks don’t score his phone number at all. He learned that the hard way, I’m sure. Not that I can talk. I had to change my number half a dozen times before I finally comprehended that hot guys can turn as psycho as any girl. “Brooke?”
I puff out a sigh. “For chrissake, Reid, who do you think it is? And haven’t you put me into your contacts yet?”
“Yeah... It just says Satan, though, and I forgot I’d assigned that title to you.”
I would dearly love to choke the ever-lovin’ life out of him. “That’s very funny. You’re hilarious. Can we move on from the juvenile name-calling?”
“Sure. But really, you should consider it a compliment to your level of evil.”
“Anyway. I think we should check into the hotel. Recreate the atmosphere from Austin last fall.”
He laughs once, condescension saturating his tone. “Because that worked out so well for each of us.”
True, a*shole. But beside the point. “We weren’t working together then—hello.”
He sighs into the phone. “I’d venture to say that at least on your end, we were doing the opposite of working together. I might even suggest that one of us was actively engaged in sabotage of the other.”
I knew he could hold a grudge, justified or not, but hell’s bells. “Okay, fine, I helped screw it up for you. But I couldn’t have if you hadn’t done most of it to yourself. You could have salvaged it.”
“Says you.”
I grip the phone tighter, bound by my own designs for reconnecting with him in the first place. If he doesn’t go along with this scheme, it could prove impossible. Who am I kidding? It will prove impossible. “Reid, if you don’t believe me on this, then you won’t trust what I tell you to do to get her back and we might as well give up now. In which case I might just have to kill you.”
“Harsh.”
“Yeah, well.” I don’t hear any noise on his end, which strikes me as odd. “Where are you?”
“Driving. Going to pick up a couple of guys, do some clubs…”
“Do some girls, you mean.”
He barks a laugh. “Hey, I consider tonight my bachelor party. You told me I have to be good once I’m luring Emma into my lair, right? This may be my last night to get laid for a while.”
“Classy.” I throw his assessment of me back at him.
“Well, you asked. So. You think we need to check into the hotel where everyone else is—even though we both live in LA. Proximity to the victims makes sense, I suppose.”
Victims? “Shit, Reid. Talk about harsh. I don’t just want to screw Graham, you know.”
“I guess I don’t know. Especially considering your MO.”
For half a second, I consider hurling my phone at the wall. “Look, I’ve had it with the snide comments. I’m not any more of a slut than you are, so just lay the hell off.” Dammit, there goes my stupid twang. I can be a cold bitch all day long and sound like the perfect LA native, but get me actually pissed and I go all Texan, which just pisses me off more. If he mentions it, I swear to God…
“Okay, okay. I’ll stop. And Brooke?” His voice has turned husky, and the sound of it slams me right in the solar plexus. “That accent still gets me hot, damn you.”
I take a deep breath and shake it off. I’m not playing that game with him. “Enjoy your last night of freedom, ha ha. I’ll set up reservations for both of us at the hotel. Our story is that the studio wants us there with everyone else. No one will question it. Text me once you’re in tomorrow morning and we’ll review strategy. You remember morning, right? That brightish space of time between eight and noon when you’re usually sleeping off a hangover?”
“I’m saluting, in case you’re wondering.”
I imagine clearly the exact gesture he’s making. “Put your middle finger down, asshat, before someone thinks you’re flipping them off and drives your ass off the road. I need you.”
“No comment.”
“None expected.”
*** *** ***
GRAHAM
It’s been a long time since I’ve been this content. Not that I don’t want more. Because God, I do. But I’m not desperate enough to forsake the need to hold her close, to feel her heart beat against me, to require nothing more than the exquisite fusing of our mouths and the stroke of our fingers over each other.
We lie entwined in the center of the bed, spent from a couple of hours of kissing that set fire to every emotion I’ve ever felt for this girl. I know she can tell that I’ve held myself in check a couple of times, physically—a small crease appears on her forehead, or she affects a marginal withdrawal of her own. I hope she knows there’s no need for her worry. As much as I want her, I’ve been falling in love with her for months, and sleeping with someone you’re in love with shifts everything to a more complex level. I can’t go there alone. I have to know she’s going with me.
As if sensing my heavy thoughts, she turns her face up from my shoulder and stares into my eyes, silent. My fingertips continue caressing her arm, up and over her shoulder, down her back, and I shamelessly examine the distinctive facets of her gray-green eyes, savoring the unguarded way she allows me to study her. My head tells me it’s far too soon to tell her everything my heart wants me to blurt out. The last thing I want to do is scare her away. I’ll take as long as she needs, be more patient than I’ve ever been, if it means she’ll be mine in the end. I’m not afraid of my own feelings. I’m only afraid of misjudging hers.
The words lay on my tongue, unspoken. Waiting. My fingers have wandered up her back, rising and falling over each tiny arch of vertebrae until I reach her neck. Shifting, I lean over her and kiss her gently. My lips are sore and I know hers must be, too, though I’ve tried to use restraint. I smile now, knowing that any restraint I’ve employed didn’t last long. I’ve practically devoured her for the past two hours. From the bedside table, our phones have beeped and buzzed a couple of times each, but neither of us made any move towards them.
“What are you smiling about?” she asks, her voice rasping between regular speech and a whisper, a tentative answering smile on her red, red mouth.
“I was thinking about how sore my lips are, and wondering if yours are, too.”
She nods, her smile expanding. “I don’t think I can feel them.”
“Can you feel this?” I ask, leaning closer to run my tongue over her swollen lower lip, dipping inside her mouth when she opens with a sigh.
“Mmm-hmm,” she says, raising her hand to my face and holding me just so, mirroring my effort. When her small tongue slips inside my mouth, I release a moan that sounds more like a growl and then I’m rattling off baseball statistics and diagramming sentences in my head. (I was so sure last semester’s Advanced Structures of Modern English would never come to any practical use.)
“Maybe,” my voice breaks and I clear my throat, “Maybe we should get dinner… or something.”
She blinks, and I’m glad to see she’s as affected as I am. “Room service and a movie?” She gestures to the television, reading my mind.
“Sounds perfect. I don’t want to leave this room. Well, I mean, not until I have to. Um—”
“Would you… want to sleep here?” Her eyes fall, watching her own hand where it lays on my chest, rising and falling with every breath I take. My heartbeat accelerates with her words; she must feel it pounding under her palm. “We only have a couple of days, and I’ll probably fall asleep if we’re up late…”
She doesn’t mention the biggest impediment—the fact that thanks to the ruse she and Reid are perpetrating, she and I can’t be demonstrative in public. Her room—and mine—are like private islands. The only places we’ll be safe to touch unguardedly.
“And you want me here when you wake up?” She nods, and I kiss her carefully. “I would love to stay with you tonight, Emma.” Tipping her chin up, I look into her eyes. “And I’m not taking that as an invitation for anything other than sleeping next to you.”
***
After dinner, I walk to my room to grab a toothbrush and clean stuff to wear tomorrow, checking my phone messages on the way. No calls from home, but one missed call and a text from Brooke. Basic Hi babe, are you here yet? stuff. Texting back that I’m all checked in, I tell her I’m going to bed early—using the three-hour time difference as an excuse for my exhaustion.
True to her word, Emma’s out cold before the second movie is over. Cuddled up against my side, she sleeps on her stomach, a pillow flattened under her face and chest, one of her knees drawn up against my thigh and the other sprawled behind her. I grin and shake my head that such a small person can take up so much of a queen-sized bed. Her face angled towards me, her lashes lay across her creamy skin and her lips are parted slightly… and they actually do look a little puffy.
That thought has me contemplating noun phrases (Emma’s lips) and verb phrases (are swollen) and prepositional phrases (from hours of kissing)… which does absolutely nothing to help me. When a groan escapes me, Emma moans softly in response, shifting without waking, her arm stealing across my abdomen. Oh, man. I am never getting to sleep. Still, I wouldn’t trade the feeling of holding her like this for anything.
It’s midnight in LA—3:00 a.m. New York time—and I’m staring at the swirling patterns on the ceiling, trying to concentrate on anything but my t-shirt loosely bunched in Emma’s fist. A few minutes later, or half an hour, she stretches, pulling my shirt askew at the same time. When I glance down, she’s awake, sort of. A drowsy, slowly-blinking stage of awake.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hey,” I whisper back. My arm has gone to sleep under her head, so I’m grateful when she moves to lay her face on my chest. “Checking for a heartbeat?” I ask, stretching my arms out, returning one to pull her closer and tucking the other behind my head so I can see her more clearly. Her eyes go to my bicep and I feel like an idiot boy, wanting to flex it and be impressive. She props herself on her forearms, chin on her hands, and stares at me.
“I can’t believe how comfortable I feel,” she says, a confused note in her confession. “How do you do that?”
I raise an eyebrow, equally confused. “How do I do what?”
She breathes out a sigh, her fingers scraping over the underside of my jaw. “Make me feel like… like I can trust you with everything. I haven’t felt like that in so long, with anyone. I’m always afraid of being left. I always hold something back.”
I shrug. “You’re cautious. Maybe… losing your mother did that to you.”
Her fingers still on my chin, she’s quiet for a moment before saying, “Maybe so.”
“Thank you for trusting me, Emma. I’ll be worthy of it. I swear.” In my ears, this seems a too-solemn promise, but somehow it seems necessary in this moment. She doesn’t reply beyond another sigh.
Running my hands over her, I spread her hair across my chest, fingertips trailing the sides of her face, hands kneading her shoulders and folding over her like a blanket. I have no problem falling asleep this time, with her locked in my arms.