A Moment of Truth: A Complete Bonus Set (A Matter of Trust #1-2) (32 page)

“Are movies usually made that quickly?” I ask, surprised at the timetable.

Len leans his elbows on the table. “No. But there are no rules with Sushman. He says jump and the studio jumps. “

“Wow,” I say, glancing at Dan who exhales quietly.

“Where’s the script?” Dan asks.

“It’ll be delivered as soon as they’re done with some minor edits.”

My phone rings—it’s David. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” I get up to answer it as I head into the restaurant lobby. “Hi, David.”

“Hi, Claire. How are you?”

“I’m good. How are you? Is everything okay?”

“Oh yeah, everything’s great—that’s why I’m calling. Sold three of your songs, plus I have two more jobs for you. One is for the band The Ledge—”

“The boy band?”

“Yeah, they need a piano player for their upcoming album, so I sent them your samples. They loved them. The other is an upcoming dramatic film. They’re looking for a score for a part of the movie.”

“Oh my God, this is amazing!”

“Yes, congratulations! The thing is . . . I know you’re on vacation, Claire, but The Ledge only has next week available to meet. And seeing as you’re new to the scene, I really can’t put them off. I’m sorry. It’s the dues you pay at the start.”

How can I be both elated and disappointed at the same time? I just got here and now I have to leave again?

“But the film’s music director will also be in New York next week, so I’ll set up the meeting sometime next week with her, too—she’s calling me back with her schedule.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Again, I’m sorry you have to cut your vacation short.”

“I totally understand.”
Shit.

“I’ll be in touch with the specifics.”

“Sounds great. Thanks, David.”

“You’re welcome, Claire.”

I get back to the table where dinner has just been delivered.
How do I tell Dan this?

“Everything okay?” Dan asks.

I nod, explaining the exciting parts.

Dan holds up his drink, as does Len. “Congrats, my love.” We all clank glasses.

“Thank you.”

“The Ledge, eh?” Len says. “You’re going to trust your girlfriend alone with those five young, horny guys?” Len laughs.

Dan’s face falls a bit, and he seems taken aback. “I trust her.”

“It’s not her I’m worried about.”

“We’re just working together. I’m not their pool boy, Len,” I say, smiling.

“Fair enough,” Len says, smiling and nodding.

Better drop the bomb now.
“The only thing is . . .” I look at Dan. “I have to go back to New York to meet with them on Monday.”

“It’s Thursday. You’re leaving in
three
days instead of ten?” Dan asks, annoyance slipping in there.

“Ooh,” Len says, sipping his drink and slinking down in his chair.

“I was just hoping she’d be here longer, that’s all,” Dan snips at him.

“I’m sorry. David said this is how it is at the start—I have to be at the mercy of other people’s schedules—for now, anyway.”

“You know that’s how it is,” Len says, reminding Dan about his start.

“But I’m all yours until I go.”

“I know.” He shrugs and begins to eat.

There’s an unmistakable awkwardness, and even though I’m unsure what to say, I know right now is not the time to discuss this at length, so I eat, too.

“Fuck,” Dan mutters under his breath.

“What?” I look at him. He’s glaring across the restaurant. I follow his stare; so does Len. It’s Ian, sitting on a barstool, sipping a drink and watching us. He raises his glass and smiles when I look over.

Oh shit.

“There has to be something we can do, Len,” Dan growls, his jaw, tight.

Len sighs. “Guess Ian’s found out he didn’t get the Sushman role, eh? I wish there was something we could do, Dan, but he’s not
doing
anything. He’s just here. You can’t arrest someone for being in the same public space.”

“How about a restraining order?” I ask.

“Even if Ian did something to warrant a restraining order, I don’t think it’d be a wise move right now—bad publicity. Sushman is incredibly picky about his publicity, and you don’t want to jeopardize that job.” Len’s got his eyes on Dan who ignores him and continues to hurl icy eye daggers at Ian.

“Hello. Over here.” I grab and jiggle Dan’s wrist. “Look at me.” I wait for him to turn to me. “Don’t let that jerk ruin this awesome day for you, okay? We’re here to celebrate your career.”

He exhales deeply and gives me a quick nod. “And yours.” His face brightens with a small smile.

“That over there is just a distraction. Stay here with me, okay?”

Dan nods again, finally loosening up and smiling wider. “Right.”

“Wow. That’s some magic, Claire. He can be such a stubborn ass, but you just melted all that stubbornness away,” Len says.

“Dan, stubborn?” I laugh at that idea.

Len laughs, too. “Yes! Stubborn and snippy. There was this time a few months back when I have no idea what crawled up his ass and died, but he was more of a prick than usual.”

“I’m fine, Len,” Dan says quickly, as if trying to shut him up.

It hits me. “In April? May?”

Len looks up, thinking. “Yes, actually.” He turns to Dan. “What was that about?” Len looks back to me. “I’d call him, and it was like he was perpetually drunk or something. I actually got worried. I know, shocking, but I was. So, what happened? You seem better now. Much better.” We’re both watching a very uncomfortable Dan bury his face in his vegetables.

“We’d broken up for a bit, so maybe that was it,” I offer. The waves of sadness and guilt crash over me all over again. Even though we’re back together and all that’s behind us, the pain of that time . . . is still . . . well, painful to me. I hate that I hurt him.

Len nods. “Looks like things worked out though.” He smiles, glancing back and forth at us.

Dan slowly lifts his head to me. “Yeah, it did.” Although his gaze at me is intense, he smiles.

“Here’s to two great careers,” Len says, holding his drink. We clank and finish dinner, a lighter mood dominating the rest of the night.

Chapter Six

I awake in the morning, blink at the clock, and panic when I see it’s ten a.m. “Dan?” I whip up and call out. God, I hope he’s already gone, or he’ll be so late to the set.
Ooh, my head . . . ugh, my stomach. Maybe I sat up too fast?
I lie back down slowly, trying not to disturb my stomach or my head. I lie still for a moment and assess myself.

Not better. 

I gently turn on my side.

Nope, still no better, but there’s a piece of paper on the pillow. It says:

Looks like sixteen minutes last night was too much for you, Miss Daisy. Tried to wake you but you weren’t having it. Come to the beach when you’re ready.

I’m momentarily better—until my stomach drags me under. My mouth starts watering.
Am I going to throw up? No. No, no, no, no. I hate throwing up!
I freeze, not moving a muscle, hoping the awful taste in my mouth will go away.

With small, shallow breaths, I wait. And pray. My stomach twists again.
Oh God!
I throw the covers off, run into the bathroom, and unload last night’s dinner.
Disgusting!
I’m sweating and cold. My belly tumbles, and I throw up again . . . and again . . . and again.

Wiped out and clammy, I sit on the bathroom floor and wait.
What is happening?
Chills shudder through me. I stand slowly, pressing myself upright and gaining my footing. I splash my face with water and brush my teeth quickly, hoping it’s all over, and shuffle back into the bedroom. Dan’s shirt on the floor is the closest thing I see, so I slip it on, along with clean underwear.
Clean underwear always makes a person better, right?

Wrong.

Clean teeth and underwear be damned because I bolt into the bathroom again. Twice more I throw up—
how much more can there be?

Spent, I crawl to the bed and lie down in sections—limb by limb by limb. Fetal position it is. I must have drifted off because my stomach forces me upright and into the bathroom again.
Oh God. This is awful!
This time, I stay put on the floor—just in case—lying down on a towel with another on top of me. I shiver. I’m so tired and need to sleep.

***

“Claire! Claire, are you okay?” I open my eyes—Dan’s shaking me. His eyes are wide and anxious.

I blink up at him. “Hi.” I try to sit up.

“No, don’t move. Did you fall? Are you hurt? You look awful.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, still lying down. I’m afraid to move.

“What happened? I was waiting for you to come down to the beach, and when you didn’t, I got worried. I called your phone, too, but you didn’t answer. We’re taking a break for lunch now, so I came up and found you on the floor.” He feels my forehead and strokes my face.

My stomach twists again, and I sit up, holding it. “Oh God. I . . . I’ve been throwing up all morning. It may happen again. Watch out.” My mouth is watering again. I brace myself against the toilet.

He pulls my hair back. “Oh fuck. I’m sorry.” He feels my forehead. “You’re hot.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m a total dream.”

He grins.

“Can you get me a hair elastic? There may be one on the counter there.”

He reaches up and finds one. He tries to tie my hair back, and I wish I could focus on how sweet it is, but the churning grows stronger.

I swallow hard and breathe slowly.
Please don’t let me throw up again, especially with him here.
But no—I vomit again. There isn’t much, but it’s altogether awful. The nausea passes, and I lie back down on the floor.

“You can’t stay on the floor. Let’s get you into bed.” With his arm around my waist, he gingerly lifts me to my feet and leads me to the bed. Slowly, I creep into bed and curl up. “You need water or something.” He leaves the bedroom, and I hear him clanking—sounds like he’s at the bar fridge. He comes in with a Sprite and twists it open. “Sip,” he says, tipping it toward my lips.

I moan again, take a sip, and then motion him to stop. “I can’t.”

He sits on the side of the bed, stroking my head. It’s soothing and relaxing. “I won’t go back to work.”

“I’ll be okay. I just feel awful and need to sleep, I think.”

“But you need to drink, too . . . Hang on.” He grabs his phone out of his pocket and calls someone.

Why’s he calling room service? I already have Sprite.

“Hi, Mum . . . I’m good. How are you?”

Mum?! He’s calling his mom? My God, how sweet!

“Yeah, yeah, she’s here with me now.” He clears his throat. “Yes, I am happy she’s here.” He blushes. “Actually, I’m calling because Claire’s not well—a bug’s had her vomiting all morning. What’s that stuff you gave me when I was sick? “Okay, ginger and lemon juice . . . and ginger tea with honey. Right . . . Yes, of course I’ll take care of her, Mum. I know . . . All right. I’ll call you soon . . . Love you, too.” He reaches over and picks up the hotel phone, ordering the ingredients. He hangs up. “They’ll be up shortly.” He gets his phone again. “Hi Marissa, it’s Dan. Listen, I have to take care of something right now . . . yeah, it’s critical I take care of this, so I’m going to be a few minutes late . . . Yeah, I know, first time for everything. I’m really sorry.” He hangs up and resumes stroking my head.

I feel for his hand, find it, and squeeze it. “You’re very sweet,” I say, my face smushed against the pillow. I open an eye at him. He’s grinning, but barely.

“You’d do the same for me.”

I nod, and it dawns on me that yeah, I’d take care of him. I’d love to, actually, but the idea scares me, and just as my mind starts on its rollercoaster ride of anxiety, my stomach churns again. Plus, there’s a knock at the door. He gets up to answer it and returns with a tray of the items he ordered. He sets it on a nearby dresser, and in no time, he’s got the lemon and ginger mixed and begins to feed it to me.

“Sip that every few minutes, okay? I’ll call to check on you in just a bit. Wait, but you might be sleeping. I’ll just come back up next break. Shouldn’t be too long, but I’ll make sure we break sooner than later.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine. Hand me my phone, and I’ll call you if I need you, but otherwise, just come back when you’re done.”

“I’ll make you the tea when I come back.” He covers me gently with the sheets and kisses my cheek. For a few moments, he hovers over me. “I hate leaving you like this. You sure I should go?”

“Yes, I’m just sick. It’s probably better if you’re not here. It’s not pretty.”

He waits a few more moments before he kisses my cheek again. “Sweet dreams. See you soon.”

***

A soft brushing on my cheek causes me to stir. I blink a few times and see Dan seated on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling? You’re sweaty.”

I lick my lips. “Horrible, horrible, horrible taste in my mouth.” I frown, disgusted.

“Still nauseous?” He holds up the glass he set on the nightstand before he left. “You didn’t drink much of what I gave you.”

“I guess I fell asleep right after you left.” I turn toward him gently, slowly.

“Want me to help you up?”

“Maybe. In a minute. How did filming go today? What time is it?”

“It’s four o’clock.”

“Four in the afternoon? I’ve slept all day?”

He nods. “Do you still feel ill?”

I take a slow, deep breath, testing myself out. “I don’t know yet.”

He picks up the hotel phone and orders hot water.

“So, how’d it go?”

“Fine.” He feels my head. “Still warm.”

I hate seeing him frown at me with a face full of concern. I need to distract him. “Another full day tomorrow?”

“Yes. But if you’re not any better, I’m not going.”

Well, that didn’t work.
“Don’t be silly. You have to go. There’s nothing you can do for me anyway.”

He doesn’t respond. He’s just staring at me.

“Stop with that frowning face.”

“I can’t help it; you look awful. I’ve never seen you—or anyone, really—be so ill. I’m worried.”

I want to respond, but my stomach turns, and I moan.

“You’re so pale. Maybe I should call a doctor.”

I moan again and sit up. I breathe in and out in steady counts, hoping it’ll subside. It doesn’t. I run to the bathroom again. Nothing’s left, but going through the motions is just as awful, and now my stomach muscles hurt. I sit on the floor afterward, leaning against the tile wall. It’s cool and feels good.

Dan wets a washcloth and bends to wipe my face. “Are you ready to go back to bed?”

“Not sure I can make it.”

He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me up slowly. “You’re like a ragdoll . . . Just how I like it.” He snickers, and I want to laugh, too, but only manage a weak chuckle.

I climb into bed again and curl up.

The door buzzes. Dan answers it and comes back into the bedroom with hot water, ready to make me the tea from earlier. When he’s done, he places the steaming cup on the nightstand and sits on the edge of the bed. “Here,” he says, gently propping me up a bit more. “You have to get something in you to keep you hydrated.”

I take the smallest sip. “Is that what your mom said?” I grin.

He smiles. “Just drink.”

“I love that you called her.” I may be on death’s door, but I notice his cheeks reddening. I sip again. It feels so good going down. I pray it doesn’t come back up. I lie back down slowly. “How are you not repulsed here? I look terrible. I’ve probably got unspeakable things in my hair. Ugh. I guess it’s a good thing I’m too sick to care.”

“‘Unspeakable things’?” He shakes his head, stroking my face. “You are unrepulsible? Disrepulsible? Nonrepulsible? None of those are words, are they?” He grins sweetly.

I shake my head and try to smile.

“Well, the bottom line is you’re sick, and I’m worried about you.” He strokes my cheek and pushes my hair back.

“It’s probably just a twenty-four hour thing.”

“If you’re throwing up tonight, I’m calling a doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor.”

“You might. I’d rather know you’re okay than take a chance. I don’t want to keep shoving tea at you if it’s making you worse or something. Your mother would probably hate me more if I didn’t do the right thing.”

The mention of my mother churns my stomach. “Shh. Don’t talk about her. She hates me, not you, and you can’t sleep in here even though you’re probably already contaminated.”

“I’ll take my chances. Drink some more.” He holds the cup up for me. I take it and sip, praying it doesn’t make me puke. He places the drink on the nightstand, turns on the TV, and lies next to me to watch it, stretched out with one arm behind his head and his feet crossed. He’s flipping through the channels. Mundane things are my new favorite things.

A while later with many sips of his homemade remedy sloshing in my belly, I’m a bit steadier, thank God. I lie all the way down, keeping several inches of distance between the healthy and the sick, and fall asleep.

***

I’m woken by an enraged stomach. I bolt from the bed to the bathroom in record time. The lights flick on in the midst of my retching, and Dan’s by my side, pulling any hair away from my face and rubbing my back. When I think I’m done, I sit back on my knees, breathing hard.

“I’m calling the doctor.” He leaves the room. I want to yell for him to stop, but it comes out as a garbled whisper. I have no energy. I’m not even sure I can make it back to the bed on my own.

In moments, he’s back and lifting me up from the floor to take me back to bed.

“This could be so sexy if I weren’t vomiting everything I’ve ever eaten.”

He chuckles. “It’s a good sign you can still be funny.” He lays me down gently, covers my legs, and brushes my hair from my face. “The doctor will be here shortly.” He heads to the bathroom, returns with a cold washcloth, and sits on the edge of the bed, gently wiping my face.

“You didn’t need to call a doctor. It’s the middle of the night.”

He attempts a grin, but the worry hasn’t left his eyes.

I reach out and touch his hand on my cheek. “I’m going to be okay. It’s just a bug.”

He nods, but says nothing. There’s a knock on the door.

“That was fast.”

Dan leaves and returns moments later with the doctor following him: a short, older, Mexican doctor with kind eyes, thick salt-and-pepper hair, and a round belly. “Hello, Claire. I’m Doctor Alvez from the hotel here.”

“Hi.”

He sits on the edge of the bed. “What’s been going on?”

“I woke up yesterday morning and threw up all day. I thought I was feeling better, but I just got sick again.”

He nods at me as Dan watches with crossed arms, standing at the foot of the bed, his jaw set. “Do you have any chronic illnesses or allergies?”

“No.”

“I’m going to check your vitals, okay?”

I nod. He takes my temperature, listens to my heart, feels my pulse. “When was your last period?”

I freeze. I know exactly what he’s thinking, which makes my already woozy belly drop to the floor. “About a week ago.”

“So no chance you could be pregnant, then? It was a normal cycle for you?”

I feel my face flame—I mean, these are average questions a doctor might ask, but maybe it’s the huge and sudden smile on Dan’s face that’s making me blush. “Yes, very normal.”

“Let’s just be sure. I may want to prescribe you some medications, and I’d prefer to confirm that you are not pregnant.” He reaches in his bag and hands me what looks like a tampon. “Do you know how to use this?”

I sit up and test my feet on the floor. Dan comes around the bed and helps me stand. “Yes, I know how.” I take it from him, and Dan walks me into the bathroom. As he lets me go, he laughs and whispers, “What if?” as he turns to leave before shutting the door behind him.