Torn (7 page)

“Me? How the hell am I supposed to know?”

Chelsea slowly shook her head, clucked her tongue against her upper incisors. Her drawn-out sigh was thick with pity. “They say the memory is the first to go.”

Her smile blinded him. “I even got
your
autograph.”

“No
way
.”

“Course, I sold it for fifty bucks a month later.”

“
No way
.”

She sighed. “No, you’re right. I kept it. In fact, I still have it around somewhere.” She knew exactly where. Her smile became brighter.

“My friends and I were a bit tipsy –– bar-hopping and buddha can do that to a person –– and belting out rock tunes as we wobbled in our high heels down the street to the next one.”

He leaned in close, his eyes wide, his ears open.
I’ve met her before?

“We ran smack into you –– you had this blonde chick hanging all over you, and another couple was with you. This was shortly after
The Hunted
was released.”

Tyler nodded; it was one of his earliest movies.

“I was drunk enough to ask for your autograph because I wanted proof for myself that I hadn’t dreamt the whole thing.”

Slowly, as if making its way through thick fog, Tyler caught a fragment: Toned legs in black fishnet stockings. As he gaped mentally with his mouth closed at the woman across from him, more fragments found their way to the fore: Platform high heels and worn, soft looking, blue denim shorts that curved around a succulent, illegal rear end. Full, red lips puckered around a tightly rolled, white cylinder. A flash of neatly manicured, matching dark red nails as they tucked either side of the joint and pulled it from her luscious mouth. A riot of black curls, dark brown eyes that smiled at him.
You’re Ty Benson! I love you!

Her friends chorusing,
We love you too!

A marker finding its way from one of the many pockets of her black leather motorcycle jacket into her hand.
May I have your autograph, please?

The question so proper for someone in that outfit… The blonde at his side, forgotten as he ogled the young, mocha-skinned beauty, took note of the dusky cleavage that peeked from the edges of her zipped jacket. He became aware of a lack of paper.
What do you want me to sign?
he’d asked with his most flirtatious smile.

Her answering grin was cheeky, and flashed the most adorable pair of dimples he’d ever seen and, turning, presented her left hip. She pointed to the pocket of her shorts that silhouetted the generous swell of her derriere.
Right here.
And, thinking thoughts that would no doubt have him arrested if known, Ty Benson dropped to his knees, palmed that firm, lascivious backside, and signed his name. With Love. Then he’d straightened, planted a kiss on that dangerous mouth before the blonde reclaimed her position at his side. As he’d swaggered away, he looked over his shoulder. “Look me up when you’re legal.” Her friends had giggled as she blew him a kiss. He’d laughed and winked and she’d walked out of his life.

And into the present. His jaw lost the battle as the past faded. His eyes bugged as he gawked at the prim looking woman in front of him. “That was
you
?”

His shocked amazement had her blushing. “That was me,” she admitted quietly, not quite meeting Tyler’s eyes, bunching a fistful of material. “A long time ago… in a galaxy far, far away.”

Holy shit.

Her dark eyes darting at anything but him, they found something to fixate on and she stood. “Julie sent the cavalry. Looks like our stroll down memory lane is over.”

Tyler came to his feet slowly, feeling as though he’d been sucker-punched and not quite knowing why. Jesus Christ. That was
her
. He’d gone back to his friend’s house alone that night because he hadn’t wanted the frivolous blonde who’d accompanied him. He’d wanted
her
, and her hot, bedroom brown eyes. Eyes that haunted him for the rest of that night and for many nights to follow.

His gaze never left her as she greeted the grips guy Julie had sent after them. He followed the pair back to the set as if in a trance. Maybe Chelsea felt their stroll down memory lane was over, but as far as he was concerned, it had only just begun.

Chapter Four

J
ake Morgan was generally an intelligent man who not only enjoyed but preferred life’s simple pleasures. Singing with his drum group at powwows. His children –– even though he’d said he didn’t want any when he and Chelsea first met, and … His wife. Chelsea was his lover, his partner, and his best friend. There wasn’t much he wouldn’t do for her, which explained the house they lived in, the land they lived on, the kids that gave them such joy.

As he often told her, he would have been content to live in a trailer on a nice piece of land in the hills. But Chelsea had other ambitions. And one thing he’d learned throughout their years together, Chelsea on a mission was a force to be reckoned with. However, as much as he loved and respected his wife, there were times he just didn’t understand her, times when her interests were so widespread from his own that she baffled him, more so since Hollywood and the Gang had come to their small town. And now, watching the vignette unfold in front of him, was one of those times.

He stepped down to the bottom stair that led to the basement. The thick, cream Berber carpeting silenced his approach. He stared with a definite sense of the surreal at his wife and those with her. The ever-present Ty Benson, he noted as his molars clamped together with more than a little irritation, sprawled in classic nonchalance on the plush white leather couch, an amber beer bottle with its label peeled off in hand, his thigh –– naturally wrapped in tight, brown leather –– resting just barely against the side of his wife’s head. Chelsea ––
twinkling
for God’s sake –– with an animation foreign to him –– was seated on the floor, a denim-clad leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out in front of her. One arm was braced against that knee; a nearly empty bottle of Hefeweizen dangled from her fingertips and it slipped precariously low as she laughed, slapped her thigh with her empty hand.

Julie Bishop –– and he’d thought his
wife
was a character –– clad from head to toe in dark green leather, was also present, and also laughing, strolled over to the pair from the bar, a freshly opened bottle of ale in each hand. She paused halfway, and held one out to a fourth person that sat in an oversized, matching armchair in the corner. The definitely way too good-looking, way too familiar blonde man took it, thanking the director with a mellow voice, even as he continued his story about some bar in New York City. Julie, about to join Chelsea on the floor, saw him standing there first and grinned. “Hey, Jake, how are ya?”

His answering smile was small and somewhat guarded as he noticed Ty Benson’s thigh press fully against the back of his wife’s head. Jake forced his attention back to the film director. “Not bad, thanks,” he replied. “You?”

“Bossy and bitchy as always. Life is good.”

He nodded absently and returned his attention to the present tableau. Jake could pinpoint the exact moment his wife realized he was in the room. Chelsea’s gaze left the storyteller and fell on him. She climbed to her feet and hurried over to him with the unabashed love and affection that never, in all their years together, failed to make him feel warm and good inside.

“Jake, you’re home!” She hugged him, kissed him, then turned, leading him into the center of the peculiar gathering. “One of Tyler’s buddies came to visit him on the set today, let me introduce you…”

The narrator stood as the couple walked over, and Chelsea beamed, her excitement over getting to make this introduction palpable. “Mick Bailey, this is my husband Jake… Jake, Mick.”

“Good to meet you, Jake.”

“Likewise.” Jake shook the famous actor’s proffered hand, then turned to his wife. “I’m going back upstairs, I need to finish that presentation for work. The girls are in bed?”

Chelsea nodded. “It took a while. They were so thrilled to have guests. Tyler wound up sitting with Faye and Grace for nearly an hour telling them stories until they conked out.” She flashed a smile in the actor’s direction. He raised his bottle in salute.

Jake tensed at the gesture and his wife shot him a questioning look. He shook his head. “I’ve got to work on my Golden Eagle presentation.” The statement was more for his wife than the rest and she nodded.

“I kept dinner warm for you. There’s a plate in the oven.”

“Thanks, babe.” Jake kissed his wife, made his farewells, then headed back up the stairs. He overheard the famous newcomer ask his wife about his project and was pleased at the pride he heard in his wife’s voice when she replied.

Once back on the main floor, he checked on his daughters, kissing each on their forehead as he straightened and tucked their blankets in around them. He left their door open a crack as he walked into the kitchen. His dinner was placed where his wife said she’d left it, so poured himself a glass of ice water and carried both into his office.

This wasn’t him. This wasn’t his life. He wasn’t supposed to come home to a house full of the rich and famous. It wasn’t Chelsea’s life either. So how come she looked so at ease amongst them? More relaxed, at peace, at home with Ty Benson and
his
friends than she ever had with him and
their
friends at the powwows he so loved. He didn’t recognize this aspect of his wife and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

About an hour later, he heard voices, his wife’s guests saying their goodbyes and thank-yous. Jake rolled his eyes and returned his focus to choosing which digital photographs of the eagle nests he wanted to use and matching the nests to their geographic location on the map he was creating. He worked steadily for another hour before he stood and stretched, saved his work, and shut down his computer. He picked up his empty dishes and carried them to the kitchen. Looking forward to being with his wife, Jake headed to the master bedroom. Opening the door, he stood within its threshold while he yanked off first one sock and shoe, than the other, tossing all towards the closet door.

The room was dark as he entered, his bare feet silent in the plush cream carpet. He tugged his turquoise mock turtleneck over his head, added it to the pile by the closet door. He made his way over to the bathroom door and feeling for its knob, opened it and switched on the bathroom light. Quickly, he stepped inside and closed the door behind him so the light wouldn’t disturb his wife.

~ * ~

It was the feeling of being watched that woke her, slowly pulling her from the layers of sleep. Chelsea looked up into the face of the man that held her, fully expecting his eyes to be on her. She blinked in mute surprise when she discovered they were closed. Yawning, she raised off of his side, feeling her own side kink as she straightened into sitting upright, his arm falling from her shoulders.

“Chels?”

The unexpected sound made her jump. She turned to face it. A stoned-faced Jake Morgan sat in the chair opposite her and Tyler Benson.

“Jake…” Chelsea ran a hand through her dark, tumbled locks. “I fell asleep,” she stated, her voice pitched low so as not to wake their guest.

“I can see that,” he drawled, his eyes glinting with… She couldn’t tell if it was amusement or anger.

She stretched and slowly came to her feet. Her husband followed suit. “I’m going to bed,” he announced. “You coming, or are you going to stay down here?”

The alien edge to his normally mellow tones made her flinch. “Of course I’m coming.”

Jake started for the stairs, then paused. “I take it your
friend
is going to crash here tonight.”

“That’s okay, isn’t it? I mean, he had quite a bit to drink, we both did…”

Her husband shook his head, started up the stairs. “Whatever.”

Chelsea watched him for a moment. She turned towards one of the guest bedrooms in the basement. She opened its closet, pulled out a quilt, and carried it back to the family room area where Tyler slept. Concentrating on covering him with the blanket, she didn’t see her husband as he came halfway back down the stairs. She straightened, smoothing the yielding material over the actor’s shoulder, not realizing how her face softened as she stood for a moment, watching the man sleep. It was almost imperceptible.

Almost.

~ *~

Jake’s back was towards her when she came from the bathroom and slipped in beside him. She noticed his even breathing, and figured he was asleep. Chelsea sighed as she lay back amongst the pillows. She couldn’t quite believe she’d stayed up past three in the morning just talking with Ty Benson. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d done something like that with Jake. Probably before Faye was born. Her eyes closed, bringing back the image of Tyler looking at her as though she was the only woman in the universe.

The darkness of the blue gaze told her how much he wanted her. She only had to glance at his mouth to know how badly he wanted to kiss her. But he held back. She knew it was out of respect for her marriage. But there was still a part of her that wondered what it would be like, feel like, to be kissed by Ty Benson and have him mean it. The girl who’d wanted him at seventeen was very vocal as her devil’s advocate. Regardless of her confused emotions, one minute she was listening to his melodious voice tell a story, the next she was staring into Jake’s for once unreadable, fixed gaze.