Trashed (24 page)

My heart clenches as I think of Des. She never called. Six months and not a word from her.
 

The girl flips the page and there she is. Des. In the catalogue. Tall, ink-black hair, beautiful, so beautiful, wearing a long, flowing blue dress and simple white sandals.
 

Without thinking, I leave my booth and slip into the empty seat across from the girl. She stares at me in irritation, and then she recognizes me. “Beth? I’ll—I’ll call you back.” She ends the call and sets the phone down. “Hi. Um. Hi?”
 

I point at the magazine. “Sorry to bother you, but could I see your catalogue for a second?” She blinks in confusion. “I know that’s a weird thing to ask, I just—I know her, that girl.” I tap the image of Des.
 

The girl slides the magazine toward me and I spin it so it’s right-side up.
 

God, Des.
 

She really is a model, now. She’s a bit slimmer in this image than when I knew her, although that could be Photoshop. She’s got a mysterious half-smile on her lips, and she’s wearing a lot more makeup than she needs. But she’s Des, and so lovely it makes my chest ache. I find myself touching the glossy image of her face and wondering where she is, and why she never called me. I wonder if she’s found a boyfriend.
 

I blink hard, push it all down, force a polite smile on my face and slide the catalogue back to the mystified girl. “Thanks,” I tell her. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No—it was not a bother.” She smiles at me finally, and then her fingers clench around the bar napkin near her martini glass. “Could you…I mean—”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” I take my Sharpie from my pocket and sign my name on the napkin. “Here ya go.”

“Can I help you?” a deep male voice says from behind me. “You bothering my girlfriend?”

I wink at the girl, and then unfold to my full height. The guy is big, but still a third my size. I pat him on the shoulder. “Nope. I just saw someone I know in her catalogue.”

He furrows his brow and glances at the table, at the girl, and at the catalogue. “In the fat chick magazine?”

The girl’s face falls apart, hurt spreading across her features. She’s a girl with curves, sure enough, but she’s pretty, with bright blue eyes and wavy brown hair and high cheekbones. The way she buries the hurt so quickly tells me this isn’t the first time this asshole has said something like that.

I don’t even think, I just react. Before he can finish his next sentence, I’ve got him across the bar, pinned against the wall with my forearm against his throat. “What…the
fuck
…did you say?”
 

“I—I—” he gurgles.

“Listen to me, you ugly, sloppy, piece of shit.” I get in his face, and I see real terror. “How about you get the fuck out of here, and you leave that girl alone, huh? You don’t get to talk to her or
anyone
else that way. Not ever. I should break you in fucking half for talking like that, you pathetic little cocksucker.” I drop him, spin, and shove him toward the exit. “Get the fuck out of here, douche-canoe.”

He stumbles, lands on his ass, scrambles to his feet and runs out the door. People clap, a few whistle. Oliver is standing guard, keeping the bouncer at bay. I flex my hands into fists, shake and release them, and then sit down across from the girl. She’s quivering, fighting back the tears.
 

I touch her chin, and she looks at me. “Hey. What’s your name?”

“Quinn.”
 

“You listen to me, Quinn.” I pin her with my eyes, let her see my sincerity. “You don’t need a piece of shit like him. If he doesn’t appreciate how pretty you are, just the way you are, then he doesn’t deserve you.”

She searches me. “You think I’m—pretty?”

“Yeah, Quinn, I do. And anyone with eyes can see that, too, as long as they’re not shallow, spineless assholes like that guy.”

“He’s not so bad. He’s nice enough most of the time. He just…he wants me to be healthy.”

“That’s bullshit. He just says that because he thinks it’s an easy way to manipulate you. He thinks he can make you believe he’s got your best interests in mind, when all he really wants is an easy target.” I grab her hands. “But you’re not an easy target, are you, Quinn? You’re the type of girl who stands up for herself, right? You want a guy to like you for you, who finds you attractive exactly the way you are. Isn’t that right? You wouldn’t date a pathetic loser just because you think it’s all you can get, would you? You aren’t that girl, are you, Quinn?”

I can see her processing my words, my challenge. She lifts her chin, and determination hardens her features. “No. I’m not that girl.”

I smile at her. “Good.”
 

She tosses back her martini, and stands up. “Thanks, Mr. Trenton.”
 

I stand up too and shake her hand, and then pull her in for a quick hug. “When that loser tries to get you back, you tell him to fuck off. Okay?”

“I will.”

I gather my things and stop by the bar, hand a few large bills to the bartender. “Pay her tab and mine, keep what’s left.”

The bartender’s eyes bug out and he nods.

I leave the bar, hand my script to Oliver and tell him to find somewhere to park. I need to walk. Need to clear my head. Seeing Des, even in a magazine, has me flipped out all over again. I’d buried it all, moved on. Or so I’d thought. But obviously, I hadn’t.

I walk aimlessly, my thoughts whirling. Every once in awhile I see Oliver pass by me in the Rover, circling me to make sure I’m not getting mugged or anything.
 

Eventually I realize I’m outside Wayne State University. Students are filing out in singles, twos, and threes. A late class must have just let out. I watch them go, scanning the faces, not sure what I’m looking for, or why I’m here. Des isn’t here, I know she isn’t. She’s in New York, modeling. But I don’t walk away; I lean against the pole of a streetlight and watch the students from across the street.
   

They’re gone now. The thirty or thirty-five students have quickly dispersed, and the street is empty again.

I turn away, and then I hear the building door swing open. I glance back, out of instinct, I guess.
 

And there she is.
 

Des.

Hands in her jeans pockets, backpack slung across her shoulders, hair in a sleek ponytail.
 

I’m running across the street without thinking, ignoring the honk and the squeal of brakes. She turns at the noise, sees me, and then I’m in front of her.

She’s in my arms, chest to chest, and her warm brown eyes are staring into mine, wondering, amazed, fearful, hesitant. “Adam?”

There are too many things to say, and I don’t even know where to start. I feel as if I’m in a dream.

“I’m sorry I never called—” she starts.

A million thoughts skirl in my brain, and I can’t even begin sorting them out. All I know is this is Des, here, in my arms, and her lips are wet, like she’s just licked them, and I need to kiss her.

 
So I cut her off with a kiss, my lips slanting across hers, my heart thumping in my chest. She’s frozen at first, shocked, and then she’s pressing up on her toes and her tongue finds mine, and I know whatever her reasoning was, it’s irrelevant now.

She wants this as much as I do.

She moans into the kiss, leans against me as if her legs won’t hold up her weight.
 

I break the kiss enough to whisper to her. “You’re coming with me.”

She just nods.

Chapter 12

Is this real? Is this happening? How did he find me?
 

His hand in mine is big and rough and familiar, and his presence beside me is huge and warm. His eyes on mine are the pale pastel green that has my heart flipping and my stomach knotting, because he
sees
me, sees into me.
 

He wants me.

I still don’t entirely know why.

The question is becoming: do I care why, or only that he does?

I’m walking beside him, and then a black Range Rover slides to a graceful stop beside us and Adam slides in, pulls me in after him. He reaches across me, pulls the seatbelt over my chest and clicks it into place. It’s a sweet but bizarre gesture, buckling me in. Is he that worried for my safety? Or is he worried I’ll bolt? I don’t know. But his fingers are twining in mine and the driver seems to know where we’re going without being told.
 

I open my mouth to speak, and Adam shakes his head. “Not yet.”
 

My lips tingle from the force and tenderness of his kiss, and my heart is palpitating furiously and my lungs are expanding and contracting deeply, as if his mere presence beside me requires more blood in my veins, more oxygen in my lungs. I want to crush myself to him, cling to him. I want to mash my lips against his and eat his breath, feel his muscles and tell him to take me, own me, claim me. I also want to run away; being with him will require truth. I’ll have to tell him how I grew up, about the foster homes and the things I endured.
 

The abuse.
 

NO.
I can’t go there, not even in my mind. No.

I’ll have to tell him he took my virginity. That I gave it to him, and didn’t tell him.
 

I’ll have to tell him about New York, and Ludovic.
 

So much to tell him, so many things I’ve never told anyone.
 

I might even have to tell him my real name.
 

We’re pulling into an underground parking garage, sliding into a reserved spot near an elevator. The driver, a burly man in his mid- to late-thirties with a huge black beard and tattoos curling up his neck and peeking out from the cuffs of his suit coat, pulls open my door and extends his hand to me, helps me down from the SUV. He closes the door behind Adam, follows us to the elevator, and even presses the call button.
 

Standing in silence waiting for the elevator is excruciating and awkward. I extend my hand to the driver. “Hi, I’m Des.”

“Oliver.” His voice sounds like stone rasping across stone.

“Nice to meet you, Oliver.”
 

“Same.”

And the awkwardness is back. Adam has my hand again, as if he’s afraid to let me go, like I’ll disappear if he’s not physically touching me.

The elevator finally arrives, the doors sliding apart. Oliver extends an arm through the opening and waits for us to board, and then follows us on, reaching out to insert and twist a key, then pushes the top-most floor button.
 

I find it funny for some reason that a man as intelligent and dominant and powerful as Adam lets someone call elevators for him. “Must be nice,” I say, “having someone to push the button for you.”

Both Adam and Oliver stare at me as if I’ve grown a second head.
 

“My job,” Oliver says, one corner of his mouth curling up almost imperceptibly. “He wouldn’t let me do it for the first few months I worked for him. He’d get there first, push the button. Get on the elevator first, push the button. Stubborn fucker, makin’ me look bad. So I told him he had to let me do my job.”

Adam shakes his head and rolls his eyes. “It’s ridiculous. I’m a grown-ass man. I don’t need anyone to hold doors for me. He all but cuts my fucking meat for me. I swear to Christ, he’d peel the crusts off my sandwich if I asked him to.” He snorts. “You’re a bodyguard, Oliver, not a goddamned nanny.”

“Yeah, well, you need a nanny, you big pussy.” Oliver says this with a straight face, but his voice holds humor, and his narrow, deep-set dark eyes hold merriment.
 

“Twat,” Adam says.
 

I watch the exchange with bemusement. “What is it with men insulting each other? I don’t get it.”
 

Oliver and Adam glance at each other, and Adam laughs. “It’s just a guy thing.”

The elevator stops and the doors swish open. Oliver waits till we’re both off, and then somehow manages to move past us without seeming to hurry, leading us down a long, narrow hallway of slate-colored walls and dark hardwood floors. There’s a small table with fake flowers up against the wall every dozen feet or so, with either an abstract painting or a mirror above it. We reach a door at the end of the hallway. Oliver unlocks it, ushers us in, and then moves past us once again. He prowls through the kitchen, living room, and through another door, finally returning to where Adam and I wait by the entrance.

“All clear,” he rasps. “Need anything?”

“Privacy until further notice,” Adam says.
 

“Cool.” He pauses halfway out the door. “Need some carryout, just let me know. I’ll grab it.”
 

Finally, Adam and I are alone. “So, Oliver the bodyguard. What’s up with that?”

Adam shrugs. “My agent insisted. Said I’ve reached the level where fans are liable to do crazy shit, so best to be prepared.”
 

“You don’t seem like you’d need a bodyguard.”
 

Adam laughs. “Oliver is ex-special forces. Like, black ops. He’s trained in all sorts of hand-to-hand combat, defensive and offensive driving, threat assessment techniques, and all sorts of nifty and slightly scary shit. Plus, he’s just plain cool.” He tugs me by the hand out of the small foyer area and into the kitchen. It’s an open-plan apartment, the same dark hardwood floors as in the hallway, large windows facing the street, offering an amazing view of the river and the Ontario skyline. The kitchen is all dark speckled marble and stainless steel appliances, with a round table between the kitchen and living room. The living room itself has a huge brown leather couch and matching loveseat and chair, with an exposed brick wall and a mounted flat-screen TV.

“Nice place,” I say, feeling awkward again.

“It’s a short-term rental. Just while I’m here filming.”
 

I decide to bite the bullet. I take a seat in the corner of the couch, curling my legs under me. Adam sits on the opposite corner, facing me. “Adam? Why are you here? Why am I here? How did you find me?”