Chapter 54
“People are easy, you know. You figure out what they’re looking for – praise, admiration, money, social prestige – and you feed it to them so slowly they never realize they’re eating out of your hand to begin with. But you…”
When he turns and looks at me again, there’s so much intensity swirling in his eyes that I feel rooted to the spot. “I can’t feed you a line. I can’t curate a version of myself that you’ll respond to because you already know exactly who I am. It’s why I’m so drawn to you.
“And now I don’t know what to do with all these…” He shakes his head. “Feelings. You say that I’m standing on solid ground, but you’ve stolen every bit of it right out from underneath me. You have a hold on me that nobody ever has. These three weeks…I couldn’t stand it. All I can think about is you. I can’t stop worrying that if I let you slip through my fingers – even for a moment – you’ll decide you’re done with me, and there will be nothing I can do to convince you otherwise. And it’s terrifying. For the first time in a long time, I am terrified.”
And right here, in his eyes, I swear I catch a glimpse of a much younger, more vulnerable Adrian – one that hasn’t been broken by his family or molded into a manipulator yet.
It zaps me to life with the force of a defibrillator, and before I’ve made the conscious decision to, I’m closing the distance between us and drawing him into my arms.
Well, I try to. He’s so tall that I’m still the one to end up in his embrace, my chin tucked beneath his collarbone and the soft linen of his shirt against my cheek. He responds without hesitation, winding his arms around me and resting his chin on top of my head.
“I’m terrified too,” I murmur, unsure which version of Adrian I intend to comfort.
He huffs into my hair. “After all that, you’re still afraid I’m going to kill you?”
I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m terrified of. Not anymore. I’m just…”
Terrified that you’re going to consume me till I know nothing else.
Terrified that you may do the same thing you’re so worried I’m going to do: wake up and decide you’re done with me.
“...terrified,” is all I say. “I’m just terrified. That’s all.”
Surprisingly, he doesn’t push for specifics.
Maybe it’s just enough to know we’re equally as terrified of each other.
He clears his throat. “But, perhaps, going against your wishes and invading your break wasn’t the best way to go about expressing my fears. I understand if you’d still like me to leave.”
He can’t see my expression – or the way my brows immediately shoot toward my hairline. I’d expected a ceasefire, but this was a full-on retreat.
I open my mouth.
Then close it.
And open it again.
He’s right. I have every right to make him leave, but…
I’m not entirely sure I want to.
Now that we’ve both said our pieces and hugged it out – literally – my anger seems to have mellowed into mild irritation. More than that, I think some tiny, miniscule part of me is secretly thrilled that he’s here.
There’s definitely something wrong with me.
I sigh. “Well, I appreciate the apology and all…” I peel my face from his chest, and, as if anticipating my rejection, his grip tightens – but I only tilt my head up to meet his eyes. “I suppose I can’t kick you out after you came all this way to sleep on our hundred-year-old air mattress. I think it’s still buried in the closet.”
There’s a flicker of relief before he chuckles, any remaining tension melting away. “An air mattress,” he repeats. “You expect me to sleep on an air mattress.”
It’s not a serious offer, but I find plenty of amusement in watching his lip curl upwards in disgust at the idea of it.
“Or the couch,” I tease.
He raises an eyebrow. “Well, as generous as that offer is, I’ve already arranged sleeping arrangements.” There’s a twinkle in his eye. “For the both of us.”
***
T
here was a three-month period between the ages of ten and eleven when Mom and I lived in one of the dingy ground floor motels stuffed along Route 65.
I’d loved it.
There was free cable, vending machine dinners, and a pool so small I could nearly touch both ends if I stretched my arms wide but a pool, nonetheless.
I keep that memory stashed in the back of the mind as Adrian brings me to an intimate boutique hotel tucked along the water.
It’s not gaudy or flamboyant like the way I’ve seen luxury hotels depicted in movies, but one look at the vintage furnishings and rich, historic hardwood and I can tell it’s designed for high-end clients. A series of electric guitars frame the walls, and I try not to gape when I spot one signed by Jimi Hendrix.
“If there’s anything you need, Mr. Ellis, anything at all, please don’t hesitate to call,” the hotel manager reiterates for the fifth time, looking so earnest that I have no doubt he’d cough up a kidney or half a liver if Adrian were to ask.
“We appreciate your hospitality,” Adrian nods politely. “As well as your complete discretion.” The sharpness in his tone suggests discretion is an expectation, not a request.
“Of course.” When the manager smiles, the bushy mustache taking up most of the real estate on the lower half of his face smiles with him. “You’ll have privacy here, along with your –” His eyes linger on me a split-second too long, clearly trying to discern the relationship between us.
“ – friend,” Adrian clips. “Thank you.”
Not girlfriend.
Friend.
A much broader term that could mean anything from Yes! We’re friends, we’ve known each other since diapers to Yes. We’re friends. I plucked her off the streets five minutes ago.
And based on the brief, insincere smile I earn from the manager, I have a feeling I know which one he believes me to be.
Maybe that’s why I continue to fixate on those four missing letters even once we’re in the elevator, sleek metal closing us in on all sides while Adrian types in the access code for the top floor.
“You called me your friend,” I blurt out, and feel silly as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
And even more so when he turns to look down at me, the edges of his mouth beginning to curve into a satisfied smirk. “Why? Does that bother you, sweetheart?”
I roll my eyes. “Of course not. You’re the one who’s needed all the labels…I was just curious.”
Given the way his smirk broadens, I have little faith he buys that explanation, but he still answers. “You have to be tactful about these things. Leave some room for interpretation,” he says. “It only takes one photo, one ‘exclusive source’ chirping to a magazine, and then I’m dealing with an angry phone call from my parents.” At that last part, his mouth twists into his grimace.
Right.
The parents.
The ones with all the “logistics.”
I’m half-tempted to bite back that there was no tact involved when he flew across the country and barged in to meet my parent but instead ask, “And you’re not worried about tact at Lionswood?”
He shrugs. “Lionswood is different. People know better than to talk to the press there, and my parents put little stock in rumors they might hear about girlfriends or tattoos –” His nose wrinkles up in distaste at the latter. “– at dinner parties.”
“Well, you could get a tattoo. That’s not such a crazy rumor.”
He scoffs. “I would never get a tattoo.”
Any further discussion on the topic halts the moment the elevator dings open, revealing the private entrance to our suite.
Holy shit.
He strides in. “You’ll have to forgive me for the accommodations. The options in Alabama were quite…” He sets our bags down on a burgundy chaise. “Limited.”
I don’t respond, too busy soaking in my surroundings, which appear to be anything but limited.
The suite has all the character of an old warehouse or factory – high ceilings, brick walls, and towering glass windows that feed enough natural light into the space to offset the charcoal-colored fixtures.
And there’s a Fender strapped to the wall.
Signed by Eric Clapton.
Want tugs at my belly.
I could paint in a place like this.