Ten Thousand Words (11 page)

Xanthe admired Elaine, and I had grudgingly begun to admire her, too. It was easy to see why Xanthe did. Elaine was a mad literary genius, making me love a story in a genre that had held absolutely no appeal to me whatsoever.

From time to time, I’d stare at my phone, hoping with my whole heart that Xanthe would call and tell me I was a jerk. Pride wouldn’t let me call her.

Stalking social media, I found Xanthe’s Facebook page, discovering that she had set the settings so that no one but her friends could see anything. I went through her Friends list and stalked through their photos of her.

Ricki Conklin, I knew by reputation. A brilliant tattooist in Amsterdam, his page had mostly pictures of his work and a small handful of his wife, Jaime, with their best friend, Xanthe. The love and adoration present between the three of them was enlightening. Seeing that she had friends of quality spoke so much of her character.

My only true friend was Trey. Everyone else was just there to entertain me. I cared about them, sure, but pictures of Xanthe and her friends showed real love there.

Trey and I would go out together all the time, but we surrounded ourselves with people who were there for what we could give them, and vice versa—fame, names in the media, faces on magazines.

Xanthe always wanted to pay her own way. The women I had on call expected me to pay for everything. Gabriella, Whitney, and Bianca were just the women I fucked when I needed to get my rocks off. Not once had they ever offered me the depth of character Xanthe had in just the two days I had known her.

A hollow ache filled my chest.

At eight o’clock, pride had me getting dressed in dark gray slacks, a white button-down shirt, black suspenders, and my camel-colored boots. I watched myself style my hair and preen my beard in the bathroom mirror.

I knew my reflection, but I didn’t recognize myself.

I looked good.

But I looked like nothing I wanted to be anymore.

I wanted to put on my jeans and a T-shirt and go out and find the shabby hipster who had me questioning everything that I was. I wanted to demand she tell me what she had done to me, why I couldn’t stop thinking about her, and why I found myself wanting to be in her company more than any other female I had back home.

What is so wrong with me that she had to go and hang out with some John Lennon spec–wearing bald man? Why didn’t she want to come up to my room and be with me last night?

Adele was waiting for me in the lobby like a vision of sex on legs in a little black dress with her red hair styled up high. Linking her arm with mine, she led me to the awaiting limo. In my mind’s eye, I searched all corners of the lobby for a bushy head of hair, and I was depressed that Xanthe wasn’t lurking around somewhere.

In the limo, I met several people whom I didn’t bother to even remember their names. They were all the same. The air was thick with about seven different expensive perfumes, mine included.

All I could think of was that look on Xanthe’s face while she was in the elevator, when she’d thought I wasn’t watching.

We arrived at a club and were ushered through the door ahead of a long line. Nothing new for me. It was the same shit as back in Amsterdam.

I can’t do this.

Adele slipped her arm around my waist, smiling coyly up at me, as we made our way deeper inside. For the first time in my life, accepting a woman’s attention felt wrong. As we stood around the bar, waiting to be served, Adele squeezed her arm around my waist, and the hollow ache inside me became poignant.

Pulling out of her grasp, I muttered, “Restroom,” excusing myself and heading away from the knot of flawless people. It was strange that I could see that everyone was so attractive but so utterly unappealing.

I locked myself in a restroom stall, and the pounding club beats were muted enough to be able to make a phone call to the woman who had made me so aware of everything I was lacking in my life.

Please pick up. Please, Xanthe Love. I’m so sorry. I don’t ever want to hurt you again. Please ans—

“Hello?” Xanthe’s voice was so warm and rich, it enveloped my heart.

“Xanthe,” I breathed her name, as though it were the breath of life.

“Yeah?”

She was angry and deservedly so. I could hear rock music blaring in the background. It was so much better than the garbage pumping through the speakers here.

“I don’t want to be here,” I confessed.

She sighed. “Where would you rather be then, Ollie?”

“Wherever you are.”

“You’ve got a funny way of showing it.”

“I was jealous,” I told her.

Xanthe deserved the truth.

“I saw you hugging that guy this morning, and when you told me you were out all night with him, I got pissed, and I fucked up. I just want to be with you. Let me come to you. Please…”

“Why would you be jealous?”

“Because you gave him my smile and you hugged him for more than five seconds and it killed me to think you would’ve rather spent the night with him than me.”

She sucked in a deep breath. “You stupid man.”

“Who is he?” I asked, desperate.

“Ronen Kelly. I told you about him yesterday. He used to run the tattoo shop with Ricki back home. He
and
his wife are my friends. I’m the godmother to their daughter.”

My knees went so weak, I sank to the ground with my back against the stall wall. “Fuck.”

“Are you drunk or something?”

“I haven’t had a drop of anything. Can I come to you?”

She sighed again, and my chest felt like it was caving in.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“Some fucking club. Just tell me where I can meet you. Please.”

“I’m at the Yard Bird. There’s an ELO cover band playing tonight.”

Her excitement at the prospect of listening to a cover band of Electric Light Orchestra had me grinning. “I’m on my way, Xanthe Love.”

“All right. No need to get all mushy on me. They go on in about forty-five minutes.”

“Okay.”

Xanthe

I placed my phone on the table.

“Who was that?” asked Ronen.

I just gave him a sardonic look.

“Asshole. What does he want?”

“He’s joining us,” I replied.

“Just like that?” he grumped. He chugged the rest of his pint. “Maybe you should think twice about this guy.”

Like I haven’t already.

I’d told both Ronen and Lilla about Ollie’s nasty attitude today and his loud acceptance of a date with the redhead as I’d exited the hotel afterward. I hadn’t told them how much it had stung—although I probably hadn’t needed to.

“Shut up, and get us some more beer,” said Lilla.

Without a word, Ronen shifted his way out of the booth and headed for the bar.

“Don’t listen to him. He’s just being overprotective,” she told me.

“Yeah, I figured,” I replied.

The Yard Bird was a gem of a bar. It wasn’t too big, but it had a reputation for getting some great bands on their tiny stage. The last band had brought in a good crowd, and the die-hard classic-rock lovers were piling in to see ELO’s cover band.

Aunt Ellen would love to see these guys,
I thought.

Ronen returned with three more pints, followed by one of the bartenders carrying three Irish Car Bombs.

“Damn, Roney,” huffed Lilla as Ronen took his seat. “You know I’ll sleep with you without getting liquored up, right?”

“Shut your piehole. We’re celebrating.”

The bartender was cute. He made eye contact with me and winked. I gave him a shy smile in return. Once the bartender headed back to the bar, the three of us picked up our shot glasses of Baileys and whiskey and dropped them into our pint glasses filled halfway with Guinness.

Raising our glasses, we cried out, “To the Bro Dawgs!”

Then, we all chugged the creamy concoction to the dregs. After we slammed our glasses down on the table, Ronen then unleashed a belch fit to drown out the music.

“Ah, that was good,” he remarked.

But I wasn’t paying attention to him. My eyes caught the magnificent sight of Ollie standing about five feet from our table, dressed to kill.
Oh, man…he is perfection.
I hadn’t realized suspenders were so cool, especially on that hot body.

Ollie was staring right at me, a burning behind his eyes. I couldn’t tell if he was angry or just…intense.

“Oh,
damn
,” whispered Lilla.

Wiping my mouth—there was a very real chance I had an Irish Car Bomb mustache—I scooted out of the booth and walked up to Ollie. His eyes never left my face, meeting my eyes head-on.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

His answer was to pull me into a hug that gripped me tight to his chest. He rested his face next to mine with his mouth right next to my ear. I was a little stunned but managed to wrap my arms around his back.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Getting a few of them in this week?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood.
What’s going on with him?

“So it would seem.”

If I wasn’t so thrilled with him being here and holding me, the hug would definitely have gone awkward thirty seconds ago.

“Would you like to meet my friends?”

“Yes,” he replied.

I went to pull back, but his arms tensed around me.

“Not yet.”

“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“Later.”

“All right.”

Slowly, his grip on me eased, and I took a step back. Gazing down at me, still loosely holding me, his eyes dropped to my chest. I was wearing an old Pink Floyd shirt with the collar cut away, so it was draped around my shoulders, exposing more skin than I usually allowed. Ollie’s eyes widened.

His right arm released me, and his forefinger delicately traced over the feather tattoo I had that spanned across the top of my left breast. It was actually a quill, but my black bra concealed that part.

“You’re just full of surprises,” he murmured. “I think that’s one of the reasons I can’t get enough of you.”

A thrill and a healthy dose of what might be guilt zipped through me. Turning and walking back to my two dear friends, I saw they had identical looks on their faces of people who’d just been slapped.

Clearing my throat, I said, “Lilla, Ronen, this is Oliver Fairfax. Ollie, Lilla and Ronen.”

Ronen’s dark eyes narrowed behind his round glasses while Lilla beamed a smile of beauty at us. Oliver took my hand and squeezed, and Ronen’s eyes narrowed further.

“Hello,” said Ollie, releasing my hand to walk up and shake Ronen’s and then Lilla’s.

Before having a seat, I asked him, “Do you want a beer?”

Ollie smiled. “I could use one, yeah.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Hoping Lilla could get some conversation flowing with him and make Ronen thaw out, I hurried to the bar and glanced over my shoulder. Ollie had taken a seat across from them and was smiling through his massive beard at Lilla, who was chatting animatedly.

When I returned to our booth and handed Ollie his beer, the band jumped onstage, and “Long Black Road” filled the air.

Lilla squealed and jumped up, grabbing my hand. “See you guys later!” she called out, dragging me behind her toward the stage.

Smiling in what I hoped was encouragement, I waved to a stunned-looking Ollie. The poor man was being tossed into the lion’s den, by the look of the feral smile on Ronen’s face.

Ollie

Reaching for my pint, I chugged down half in one go, desperately trying to ignore the man who was shooting death rays out of his eyes at my head. Feeling awkward wasn’t something I was accustomed to, and it seemed as though it was all I was capable of feeling this week.

“So…” said Ronen.

To not look at him would be a sign of weakness, so I gave him my attention.

“What are your intentions?”

“I’m sorry?”

“With Xanthe. She’s like a sister to me. I’m telling you straight up, if you’re fucking with her, I will not be responsible for the condition you end up in.”

As I sized this motherfucker up, the heat in his gaze had me thinking twice about scoffing at him. “What do you think I’m trying to do with her?”

“That’s what I’m trying to fucking figure out. I know who you are. I lived in Amsterdam long enough. You and that dude you hung out with, you both had some serious reputations for fucking ’em and leaving ’em hanging.”