Between Here and Gone Page 20

  Finally returning to the inn, I continued my morning of hedonism, savoring a lengthy bath, taking the time to brush my hair dry as I hummed along to the strains of Etta James and Jerry Butler. It was only when the DJ announced a straight play through of one of the most influential albums of the last five years and stay tuned to listen to the entirety of Time Out by the Dave Brubeck Quartet, that a hint of tension returned.

  There was no use putting it off for too much longer. Even if the car wasn’t scheduled to arrive until late afternoon to transport me to the airport in time for my red-eye flight to New York. And while it wasn’t strictly necessary, it seemed wrong to leave without saying anything. Of course, I could simply leave a note. But no, my overdeveloped conscience demanded I face him every bit as much as it demanded I face Greg Barnes. Leave no room for guesswork or misinterpretation.

  However, knocking at his door and quietly calling his name returned no response beyond silence. Of course. I supposed it was possible he had stepped out. Even as my gut suggested that no … not likely. The last thing Jack would want to do in the wake of yesterday’s events would be to go out. He would much prefer to hole up and close in on himself and try to forget the rest of the world existed.

  Wouldn’t he?

  Or perhaps I was being an idiot, projecting my own experiences and how I’d reacted in the past.

  “Mr. Roemer hasn’t called the valet to bring his car around?”

  “No, miss.”

  “Has he called for any car at all?”

  The slight silver-haired concierge with the neat pencil mustache and elegant bearing shook his head as his eyes narrowed, forcing me to suppress an impatient sigh. “Thank you then.”

  I suppose even in somewhat free-spirited Malibu, a young woman asking after a gentleman’s activities was cause for disapproval. I would simply have to wait and try knocking at his door again. I’d try until it was time to depart for the airport. All else failing, a note would have to suffice.

  I’d not taken more than a step or two away from the polished wood-and-stone desk before I heard a tentative, “Miss Martin?”

  Turning, I saw the concierge’s brows had drawn together over still narrowed eyes, the look conveying a more obvious concern rather than the disapproval I’d assumed. “You’re Mr. Roemer’s guest, correct?”

  Not precisely, but I wasn’t about to quibble. Not with the skin along my arms rippling, the tiny hairs rising. “Yes.”

  “He seems a nice young man.”

  “Yes.” I nodded slowly. “He is.”

  The man’s mouth tightened, tiny white brackets appearing at the corners beneath his mustache. His gaze searching mine, he finally nodded, as if making up his mind. Beckoning me closer, he said in a hushed voice, “He remained at the patio bar for a considerable amount of time last night.” He paused again, as if still trying to make up his mind, then, voice lowering even further, said, “Drinking steadily—remained a perfect gentleman,” he added quickly at my questioning look. “However, after last call, he demanded that room service deliver two more bottles to his suite.”

  “And you complied?”

  Two spots of color appeared beneath the man’s smooth tan. “We are not in the habit of refusing requests from men of Mr. Roemer’s station.”

  “I’ll be needing the key to his suite.” Not a polite question or gentle request, but a demand delivered in a voice dredged from my long-ago past. The type of voice to which this man would respond.

  Perhaps later I would be embarrassed.

  “Of course.” He moved to the registration desk, selecting a key from a glass-fronted cabinet.

  “And have room service deliver a pot of strong coffee and some dry toast.”

  “Very well, Miss Martin.”

  I started toward the elevator then paused and turned to meet the concierge’s gaze. “Thank you.”

  He inclined his head, a gesture I caught only the briefest glimpse of as I hurried to catch the elevator, squeezing into the impossibly crowded car just as the doors slid closed. I shifted impatiently from foot to foot, silently cursing the mountain of luggage and two tiny, nervous snow-white poodles with their sparkling collars that skittered about my feet, yapping and growling at each other. Beside me, their similarly bejeweled and coiffed owner snapped as aggressively as her pets, demanding that the bellman slow down the car because couldn’t he see how her babies were suffering?

  “Oh for God’s sake—”

  I reached past the startled bellman and pushed the button for the next floor, shoving aside luggage, dogs, and yapping owner as soon as the doors opened, and leaving cries of outrage in my wake as one of the beasts escaped, tongue joyfully extended as it dashed past me. We parted ways at the stairs, the dog’s nails clicking excitedly on the wooden treads as it raced down while I ran up the remaining two flights. At Jack’s door, I knocked, twice, sharply, anxiously listening for something—anything—trying to hear over the sound of my heart pounding in my chest, echoing with a mocking chant of Be careful … be careful…

  Too late.

  Fumbling with the key, I finally shoved it into the lock and turned, pushing the door open, my breath catching at the sight of Jack slumped in a chair out on the balcony, head lolling to one side.

  “Jack!”

  Oh no … Dios por favor, no. I dropped to a crouch in front of him. “Jack!”

  “Shh …”

  My heart stuttered, then resumed racing again. “What?”

  A crooked grin lifted one corner of his mouth as one bloodshot eye opened to stare at me blearily. Lifting one finger to his lips, he whispered, “Be vewwy vewwy quiet. I’m hunting wabbits.”

  “Be vewwy vewwy quiet. I’m hunting wabbits.”

  Startled, I jerked my head around, noticing for the first time the flickering screen of the large console television on which Saturday morning cartoons played, Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny engaging in their endless chase.

  Attempting to steady my breathing, I turned back to Jack. “I would never have taken you for a Bugs Bunny fan.”

  “Why not? It’s like watching This is Your Life. The drama’s never ending and one’s an eternal fool.” Chuckling, Jack raised the bottle of bourbon to his lips and took a healthy pull without a single wince. Then again, how could he possibly feel anything, I noted, spying the empty bottle lying on the floor by the bed. At least the one he cradled so possessively was still reasonably full.

  At the discreet knock, I stood, ordering, “Stay right there,” and feeling ridiculous the moment I said it. He probably couldn’t find his feet if asked. Idiota. I stepped into the hallway to take the tray of coffee and toast from the room service waiter, not wanting to allow prying eyes to see the condition Jack was in. Yes, we were far removed from New York, but experience and memory served as dual reminders that eyes were always watching and the last thing that needed to get out was that the young scion of an enormously wealthy and well-known family was falling down drunk in a hotel suite with a strange woman. Placing the tray on the small dining table, I poured a cup of coffee, hoping Jack would cooperate.

  “Jack?” Again, I crouched in front of him, holding the steaming cup. “I think it’s time you exchanged the bourbon for coffee.”

  Both bloodshot eyes opened, the same crooked grin curving his lips. “How ’bout the bourbon with the coffee?” he slurred. “Or I got a better idea. You have coffee, I’ll keep the bourbon.” He held the bottle close to his chest, one finger playing suggestively about the mouth while with the other he fumbled for a cigarette from the crushed box on the table beside him. Lighting it, he exhaled a stream of smoke, the edges of the plume just teasing my eyes and making them sting.

  “I’ve had coffee, Jack.” I tried to keep my voice calm and free of the urge to just tilt his head back and pour the brew straight down his throat. Or over his head.

  His finger continued playing about the bottle’s rim for another moment before he took another drink, his gaze focused on me the entire time, as if daring me to do
something about it.

  “This is accomplishing nothing.”

  “Not true. If I’m drunk, don’t have to think.”

  “But you won’t be drunk forever. And then you will have to think.” My voice sharpened as he raised the bottle again. “And you’ll feel foolish. Please, Jack, this isn’t you.”

  “You don’t know me.” He laughed, a pained, rusty sound. “Isn’t that what got you so upset? We didn’t know you. We interfered. Should’ve just left you alone, working in that goddamned restaurant and letting those prep school brats fuck you whenever and however they wanted. Sucking out another piece of your soul every time they spread your legs and threw another dollar at you.” He sank against the back of the chair, his chin dropping to his chest as he took another deep drag on the cigarette before abruptly crushing it out in an overflowing ashtray.

  It was the liquor, I reminded myself. It had nothing to do with me. “This definitely isn’t you, Jack,” I said softly, ignoring the heat stinging the backs of my eyes.

  “You don’t know me,” he repeated, sounding shockingly lucid. Setting the bottle aside, he leaned forward and ran one finger along my cheek, making me cringe at the overwhelming stink of bourbon and countless cigarettes and stale man. “What would it take, I wonder—” His eyes widened an instant before he jackknifed forward, a hot, pungent stream spewing from his mouth and splashing across my chest and lap. China shattered as I dropped the coffee and reached for him, one arm wrapped around his back as my hand supported his forehead, trying to keep him from pitching to the floor.

  He retched and heaved for several long, interminable moments while I fought my own gag reflex and the memories flooding my mind. By the time he finally quieted, he was clutching me around the waist, his fingers digging painfully into my hip.

  “Are you done?”

  I felt, rather than saw his nod.

  “Can you stand?”

  Together, we struggled upright and headed in from the balcony, moving toward the suite’s main door. Taking a quick look to make certain the coast was clear, I guided us the short distance between our rooms. Once inside mine, I led an unresisting Jack to the bathroom, leaving him swaying by the toilet while yanking the stool from beneath the vanity and shoving it behind his knees.

  “Sit,” I ordered, unceremoniously pushing him down onto the stool as I lifted the toilet lid. Leaning into the shower, I spun the taps open, not even waiting for the first wisps of steam to rise before stepping in, still fully dressed. I allowed the water to rinse the worst of the muck from my clothes before stripping and quickly showering, my tears flowing along with the water as I remembered. My hands slipped on the wet tile as I sank to my knees, scrabbling for something real to hold.

  Desperately trying not to remember.

  How I’d once held a boy, another family’s young prince. Been his support and comfort through another wretched time. Wondering, when, por todos los santos, when would history stop repeating itself? Or was I destined to relive moments from my past, over and over, in various forms. Wondering, was this my punishment for having run?

  Finally, with a shuddering breath, I rinsed my face, wrapped myself in a towel and pushed open the frosted glass door, leaving the water running.

  “Jack, stand up.”

  He remained bent over the toilet, hands clenched in his hair, as if that pain could counteract what was going on inside his skull. “No.”

  “You’re filthy and need to clean up.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “You are not staying in here without showering.”

  “Fine. I’ll go back to my room. Bourbon’s there anyway.”

  I resisted the temptation to bludgeon him over the head with the heavy ceramic soap dish. “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have your key.”

  He turned his head far enough to hit me with a malevolent glare but didn’t say anything as he carefully rose, still cradling his head with one hand, as if afraid it would otherwise fall off. “You can leave now,” he grumbled as he steadied himself with the other hand against the vanity.

  “I’ll leave once you’re in the shower.”

  His eyes widened far enough to make him wince. “You’re going to stand there and watch me strip?”

  I shrugged.

  With a grunt that was no doubt something uncomplimentary, he reached back over his head and yanked his stained, white cotton undershirt over his head, tossing it to the floor, before fumbling with the button and zipper of his khakis. Shoving them down past his hips, he kicked them free, his hands returning to the waistband of his boxers. His gaze held mine in a standoff that ended when his hands dropped away, leaving the shorts in place. He moved toward the shower, stumbling as he tried to step over the low rim, his shoulder crashing against the glass door’s metal frame. “Goddammit.”

  Part of me wanted to help. However, a larger part of me wanted to see him suffer. Cabrón más estupido… Splitting the difference, I waited only long enough for the door to slam shut and hear the string of curses that erupted as the scalding water hit his skin. Returning to the bedroom, I exchanged the bath towel for the heavy robe I’d left tossed across the bed earlier and picked up the phone.

  “Concierge desk,” a slightly formal, familiar voice intoned. “Mr. Gordon speaking.”

  “Mr. Gordon, this is Miss Martin.”

  “Miss Martin, is everything—”

  “It’s fine,” I broke in, amending with, “more or less. However, I do need a bit more assistance.”

  “Of course.”

  “Housekeeping will need to attend to Mr. Roemer’s suite. Discreetly,” I added, knowing he’d understand what I meant. A good concierge always did.

  “Consider it done. Will there be anything else?”

  “I require another tray. Tea, I think, instead of coffee, as well as more toast. Sent to my suite this time, please.”

  There it was again. The subtle tones and inflections from my youth—the certainty that whatever I said would be responded to without question. How easily it had returned. What a seductive power.

  “I’ll have it sent up right away. And might I suggest some aspirin and a carafe of ice water as well?”

  Plenty of water and two aspirin right before bedtime are the best cure for any potential hangovers.

  Definitely came in handy during a collegiate bacchanal or two.

  A silent, mirthless laugh escaped on a puff of air as I heard Jack’s voice, as clearly as if he were walking alongside me down that elegant hallway. Back when he was just the nice young man inquiring after my welfare, and I was simply Natalie, sleepwalking in what I’d imagined to be my impenetrable little bubble.

  “Miss Martin?”

  I shook off the ghosts. Those people were gone. “That would be most appreciated, thank you.”

  As I replaced the receiver on the base, the door to the bathroom opened, Jack emerging from a cloud of steam, wearing the white terrycloth robe that was a twin to my own. He appeared far more sober, if still a bit green around the edges.

  “I called for another tray. Tea, this time.”

  He nodded, then winced. “I borrowed your mouthwash. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Of course not.” I gestured toward the bed. “Why don’t you sit until the tea arrives?”

  With the added measure of sobriety seemed to have come a certain acquiescence, as he gingerly nodded again and moved to the bed, carefully easing down to sit at the edge, his hands laced loosely together and hanging between his knees. I stood before the dresser, brushing the snarls from my hair, attempting to give him a measure of privacy, illusory though it was. In the mirror’s reflection, I watched his chest rise and fall, as if he was preparing to speak, yet … nothing. As I continued brushing my hair, he continued to watch, his eyes following my movements.

  “Natalia—” The quiet knock cut him off, almost as if in warning. His eyes clearly conveyed a tired resignation and something more that I only caught a hint of as I
turned away from the mirror and went to answer the door. And by the time I maneuvered the tray into the room, he’d slumped over onto his side, one foot still on the floor, his breathing deep and even. Setting the tray aside, I gently eased his leg up to the mattress and shook a blanket over him. Just as well—he hadn’t really been ready to speak, but had clearly felt some obligation. I stood beside him, taking in the bruised-looking circles beneath his eyes and the way his brows remained drawn together, as if protesting the daylight streaming into the room. Without benefit of the aspirin he was likely to suffer, as Abuela used to say, the devil crowing and pecking from the inside. El pobre—even as my rational mind protested that it was all of his own making and nothing less than he deserved.

  After pulling the heavy drapes closed and leaving the room in much gentler shadow, I pushed a cushioned armchair closer to the bed and sat. As the murky half-light gradually gave way to full dark, I continued to sit, drinking tea and listening to the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

  Eighteen

  “What time is it?”

  The words emerged slow and heavily laced with sleep, but otherwise clear.

  “Almost five. Sunday morning,” I added, in case he wondered.

  “Shit.” A moment later, I heard the muffled thump of feet hitting the floor, the first few steps hesitant, then steadier as he approached the balcony. I’d been sitting out here for hours, lost in the hypnotic rhythm of the surf. Memories, thoughts, questions and more questions sweeping in with each wave, only to just as quickly retreat, leaving behind a trace of salt and a hint of their true depth.

  He sat at the edge of the chaise beside mine. “Have you slept?”