The Long Way Home (10 page)

“I tore up some random dude’s number like two days ago. You
sleep at my house at least a couple times a year. Don’t tell me what you are. I
know what you are. It’s you that’s confused. Not me.” His face turned up into a
grin, “I need to have a drink when you tell me this cape story.”

I laughed and shuddered, exhausted with my own shit, “Just
let me process all this, and the cape, and the being disowned and everything, and
then we can discuss kissing.”

He smiled, “I’ll wait for you to ask me to kiss you again.”

I laughed and slid back against the wall, “You do that.”

He looked down on me, “I think you’re the prettiest girl I
ever have seen.”

I laughed out loud, “Liar.”

He shook his head, “Laugh all you want, but it’s true. There
are fireworks inside of you that haven’t been lit since the last time me and
you...”

I laughed and pointed, “You keep that puck-fuck shit to
yourself. I don’t want to hear the lines.”

His eyes sparkled, “You know you like it when I try.”

I swallowed, “‘Cause I know nothing is going to come of it.”

He laughed.

I sat forward, “What do you want to do after the five days?”

He put a hand on my thigh, “Run away and drag you with me.”

I laughed, “Okay, let me confront my family, and if I can't
go back, I’ll run away with you.”

He cocked his head, “I need some kind of guarantee.”

I shook my head and wiped away the water, “Shake on it?”

“I guess. How about this? You don’t run away with me and you
have to tell me that bad thing you did.”

My brow knit together, “Deal.” He shook my hand, pulling me
in. He kissed along the side of my mouth.

He stood up and offered me his hand. I waited a second and
then took it. He lifted me up but didn’t let go of my hand. We just looked at
each other for a minute. The shower got thick with the tense feeling of the
forbidden kiss. He flashed me a grin until he finally smiled, “You have to say
it or I won't kiss you.”

I swatted him with my free hand, “It’s not going to happen.”
I climbed out and dried off. I noticed the changes in his body. His body was
thick and beefy, but toned. I had to pull my eyes away from the square of his
jaw and soft lips, and the memory of how they felt against mine. His scruffy
face made me want him more for some barbaric reason. I had the dirtiest
thoughts ever and blushed.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.” I answered too quickly.

It made him smile, “Your face just went a hundred shades of
red.” He winked, “I can imagine what you were thinking.” He scoffed and left
the bathroom. I stood there clutching my towel and trembling.

He poked his head back in, “If you want me to kiss you, all
you have to do is ask.”

I threw a rolled towel at him. We were flirting. This was
us
half a decade ago.

I dried off and started opening my boxes of stuff. I did my
makeup without actually meeting my own gaze. I knew what was in there—the
thoughts and feelings that I had been fighting for some time.

I wore the robe out to the room and grabbed the clothes I’d asked
for. I carried them into the bedroom and dressed. The bra and underwear made me
uncomfortable, but I knew in boutiques they were not tried on. I slipped on the
black dress I already owned. It was a classic sleeveless knit dress with pleats
sewn into the skirt. It hung perfectly and was the most comfortable dress ever.
I slipped the pearl earrings from my purse on and ran my fingers through my
curly hair. The long, strawberry-blonde ringlets sat perfectly, thanks to
hundreds of dollars worth of product.

I looked good, like me.

“I got the hotel dry cleaning the clothes you had in the
bags.”

I snapped around, “YOU WHAT?”

He stepped back, “What’s happening here? Why are you yelling
at me?”

I stomped across to the phone.

He grabbed it from my hands, “Are you insane? I did you a
favor.”

I growled through a clenched jaw, “That coat is my favorite.
It’s discontinued and there is one Chinese lady I trust with my clothes.”

He laughed, actually in my face. I took a deep breath and
turned and walked to the door, “Are you ready?” I was still raging inside, but
I wasn’t about to show him my fucking fireworks. He was always patronizing me
and making derogatory ‘ginger’ remarks about my temper.

He stopped laughing, “Yeah.” He opened the door as I reached
for it and placed his hand on my lower back. I walked fast, to get away from
his hand. He grabbed my arm and pulled me back to him, pressing my back against
the wall, “I was trying to be helpful.”

I
glared, seething. I wasn’t a fan of
being manhandled.

He locked his gaze on mine, "You're being insane. It's a
fucking coat, Jack."

I started to laugh. The sentence was absurd—a coat? I
pushed him back and walked to the elevator. He pushed me playfully from behind.
I turned, "Screw you."

He grabbed my hand, grinning like an idiot, and pulled me
into his arms, "I
wanna
screw. You keep saying
no."

I laughed, but it wasn’t the homicidal one I wanted it to be.
It was genuine. "Don’t say screw. Sometimes I hate you."

He wrapped his huge arm around my shoulders, "Nothing
better than getting a princess to hate you and love you at the same time."

I rolled my eyes as he pushed the button. When we got inside,
he nodded, "Don't forget that I'll be swarmed if anyone recognizes
me."

I shook my head, "If I end up in pictures again, I'm
going to get disowned. My mother and father hate you."

He looked down on me, "Your mom likes me. She grabbed my
butt once."

I sighed, "That doesn’t mean she likes you. She doesn’t
have to like you, to do that."

He scowled, "Your mom is sort of a player."

The restaurant was full when we got down there. I ignored
everyone as I sat and glanced at the wine list. The server walked up, smiling
at me. He was sexy as hell and probably not much older than the little
bartender that could.

"Can I get you a drink to start?"

France shook his head, "I'll just have some water."

I smiled, "Do you have any
Lafite
?"

He nodded, "The ‘95 Bordeaux."

"We'll have that."

He winked, "Excellent choice."

A small chuckle slipped from my lips. I glanced at the
confused and rigid-looking face of France and started to laugh harder. I shook
my head, "Just a coat? I can't even believe you said that. It's a one of a
kind and some seventeen-year old is dry cleaning it now. That’s
excellent."

He pointed after the server, "I'm not drinking that
snooty wine."

I leaned forward, "You are. Trust me."

He looked like he might growl but he sat back, relenting.
"So where should we go tomorrow?"

"I don’t know. You're the captain."

He drummed his fingers on the chair, glancing about the busy
dining room. He was avoiding me.

"If you want, I can just hop on a train or a bus."
I shuddered as I imagined the feel of it, but I had to be realistic about what
was happening. I ordered an entire bottle of wine; he would have half a glass
and bitch the entire time about it. I would drink the rest, and then all my
choices would be tainted by my undying love for him and delicious Bordeaux.

He shook his head, still averting his eyes, "No. I want
you to stay with me." An evil grin crossed his lips "Besides, we both
know you have never set foot on any form of public transit. You would panic and
call me to come get you anyway."

I couldn’t fight the smile on my lips, "Shut up."

He laughed and my heart pitter-pattered.

The server brought the wine and poured him a small taste of
it. He frowned, "Well, fill it up, son. I don’t love it, but I can drink
more than that."

I laughed, "Just taste it and see if you like it."

The server looked confused as France lifted the glass and
drank the little sip. He shuddered, "Tastes like piss and vinegar."

I nodded at the flushed and upset face of the young man,
"It's perfect then. You may fill both glasses."

He hesitated and poured us both a glass.

I sipped
,
it was bliss
. I
might have even slipped out a moan. My dream had always been to own a vineyard.
My parents always mocked my dream. Owning a vineyard was equivalent to farming.

France took a sip and made a face, "I can't, Jack."
He looked at the young man, "How about a Bud? You got beer here?"

He got a nod and I got another wink as he left our table.

France pointed, "That kid winks at you one more time,
I'll close his eye for him."

"You aren’t my boyfriend, what do you care?"

His voice still sounded throaty from the sip of wine,
"He doesn't know that." His twang was thick suddenly.

I laughed harder, "You are cute jealous."

He laughed sarcastically, "No, I'm not."

The beer and an iced mug were delivered. Of course, he drank
from the bottle. He sighed, "That’s good." He sat back and nodded,
"Alright, tell me the story."

I glanced at the menu, "You sure?"

"Yup. We're hundreds of miles away and I have you here
and a beer in my hand. I can take it. I know he cheated. I know there was a
cape. I know you’re pissed. Spill."

I bit my lip, deciding on both our meals and then nodded,
"Okay." I pushed the menu to the side of me and took a massive gulp
of the still-airing wine. I smacked my lips, "I was at a party on Sunday;
he was with this woman who is notorious for her affairs with married men. They
were together on the balcony and then they were gone and she was so close to
him—the body language was nuts. They held hands and walked off together,
whispering in each other’s ears. It was obvious and not just to me." I
took another drink.

He made a face, "Jack, I hate Phil, we both know that. But
that’s not proof, baby. You sounded mad upstairs. Was he wearing the cape at
the party? Was it a costume party?"

I took another breath, "It gets worse."

"Okay, is there a second story? Is this the shoe
story?"

I nodded, finishing the glass, “
Shhhh
.”
I took a deep breath and looked into his dark eyes, "The next day I walked
into the house and he was having sex, the naughty way, with our
nineteen-year-old neighbor. She had a weird outfit on with garters and a bustier
and my red Jimmy
Choos
. She was calling him Mr.
Bernard and he was pulling her hair. I think she’s nineteen. We just went to
her birthday. He was fucking in a cape and some kind of outfit I couldn’t see.
He wanted her to call him Mr. Bernard. He wanted that dirty costume sex and he
defiled my shoes, my bed, and my pride by doing it. And he didn’t care. I even
called him like ten minutes later and asked if I had those shoes, hoping he
would lie and tell me I didn’t have them. But he didn’t. He let me think my
shoes were fine, even after he had fucked her in them. I know it’s wrong that I
care about the shoes, but I feel so dirty that they brought parts of me into
their game. Like I am a joke to him. My role as his wife is a joke."

His grip on the bottle was intensifying. He looked like it
might break as he lifted it to his lips and sucked the whole thing back. He
lowered his trembling hand, "I'm going to kill him."

I shook my head, "No. You aren’t. I need you out of
jail."

He leaned across the table, fighting his horrid temper,
"You aren’t marrying him." It wasn't a question.

I swallowed hard, knowing what the turnout would be if I told
him I had to, and shook my head.

“You chose him over me? His raising is better than mine? This
is the man your family thinks is good enough for you?”

I shook my head again.

He got up, tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table and
grabbed my hand. He dragged me from the restaurant. I struggled, "France,
that wasn’t enough for the bottle of wine."

He was done. He didn’t hear me. He dragged me to the
elevator. I could feel him pulsating with rage as we stood there in the awkward
silence of knowing. Knowing what was about to happen.

The door opened. He stepped in civilized but his grip was so
tight, my hand was going numb. He pulled me into him as he hit the floor
button. His hand went right for my skirt. His mouth lowered close to mine. He
didn’t go all the way. I could feel his breath on my lips as his hands ripped
the pleats from my skirt, tearing a long slit up side. He smiled but I jumped
as the fabric tore.

We stood there, 90 percent in and holding. The elevator
dinged for our floor. He lifted me up into his arms, wrapping my legs around
him as he carried me to our room. I was about to ask him to kiss me when he
asked, "You hungry?"