CLAIRE’S ROOM WAS NEAT AS A PIN. Her bed was only slightly rumpled, and like before, there weren’t any clothes tossed around or random tissues on any surfaces.
Her scent was everywhere, though. Honeysuckle invaded my senses, scrambling my synapses. Memories were becoming mixed up with the here and now. I’d always associated honeysuckle with warmth, love, safety. Now, I couldn’t seem to separate sex from it. Maybe that was what drew me to Claire. She was sexy as hell in this completely unexpected and really fucking exciting way, but she also reminded me of a time where everything was simple and easy—when life hadn’t gotten away from me and pain didn’t squeeze at my edges.
Claire folded her arms under her chest. She wore pajama pants with cherries printed on them and a loose White Stripes T-shirt. She wasn’t trying to entice me, but now that I knew what she looked like under there, I was fully enticed.
“Did you need something?” She sounded impatient, which she probably was, since I was standing, uninvited, in her hotel room, at midnight.
“I saw you in the hall, thought I’d stop by and make sure you were resting up as ordered.”
I saw her in the hall, being touched and caressed by a kid with hearts in his eyes.
Her lips quirked in the corners. “I did, thank you. I haven’t left the room all day. I’ve fully recovered.”
“Did you rest with the kid?” I hated myself for asking. I hated myself for wanting to know. A big part of me wanted her to say yes, to say she was fucking him, so I could put her back in the box I’d originally set her in: employee and nothing else.
“We watched The Golden Girls, so I don’t know, does that count as resting to you?”
“Why?”
Her head tipped to the side. “Why what?”
I shoved my hands into the side of my hair. “Why the hell did you watch The Golden Girls?”
“Is that really what you want to ask?” Her throaty voice dropped to a low, soft tone. Once again, she’d made me feel like I was the clueless one here and she was gently prodding me in the right direction.
My gaze snapped to the bed without intention, then back to her. Her tired eyes moved slower, following the trail I’d left behind before returning to mine.
“Why’d you come to my room last night?”
My question took her by surprise. Her hand pressed to her throat, and her eyes widened.
After a long, pregnant pause, she said, “Because I was just drunk enough to lose a lot of my inhibitions.”
“I get that.” I moved closer, tipping her chin up with my knuckle. “But why my room? Why not Adam’s? The kid follows you like a fucking puppy.”
She didn’t jerk away from my touch, but she held so still, I had to wonder if I was scaring her. I uncurled my fingers and dragged them along her soft jaw, then let my hand fall to my side. She breathed easier the moment I stopped touching her.
Claire swallowed hard. “I came to your room for something I knew I’d only be able to get from you.”
“What?”
Her eyes flicked to mine, and there was no fear there. Fatigue, yes, but she had fire burning deep inside her. It had probably always been there, waiting to be stoked.
“Something dirty and hard. Something I’ve never, ever done. Something bad for me.” She tugged on her T-shirt, but didn’t look away. “I knew I’d get that from you, and in my drunken mind, I thought you’d be willing to give it to me.”
“Jesus.” Her words had me twisted up and spinning in every direction. The biggest part of me wanted to toss her on the bed and show her last night had been nothing. But I was old enough and wise enough to hear everything else she’d said. I’d be bad for her. She’d never been done dirty and hard before. That should have made me hesitant. Take pause. But the shame of it was, her confession had twisted me up even worse.
“I’m sorry.” Her lashes lowered to her cheeks. “I know. I’m being wildly inappropriate, and I have no excuse tonight other than a need to be honest.”
“You should always be honest.” Her lower lip trembled as she took in a deep breath. “Open your eyes.”
Her eyelids fluttered open. “Hi,” she whispered.
That made my lips twitch. “Hey. You tired?”
“Really tired. You?”
I breathed out a chuckle. “Exhausted to my bones.”
“Then we should say goodnight.”
“We should.” I rarely did what I should do, but tonight, I would. Claire followed me to her door, staying a step or two back. I cracked it open, but before I left, I turned back to her. “Wildly inappropriate suits you.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.” I brought the back of my hand up to her cheek, gliding it over her smooth, silken skin. “I hope to see it again sometime soon.”
She leaned into my touch like she was starved for it, not like she feared me. “Dirty and rough suits you, Dominic. But this part is pretty nice too.”
My grip on her door tightened to the point I swore I heard the wood cracking. I wanted this girl so bad, I had to get out. This kind of need wasn’t me. It wasn’t wanted either.
“This shouldn’t happen,” I choked out. I couldn’t bring myself to say that it couldn’t, only that it shouldn’t.
Her satiny cheek rubbed against my palm one more time, then she backed away. “Goodnight, Dominic.”
I rapped my knuckles on her door twice. “Goodnight, Claire.”
Marta kicked my knee with her platform shitkickers. “You look so blue. I’m not used to you like this.”
I huffed a humorless laugh. “Right. I’m usually a barrel of laughs.”
We were on a plane again, this time flying across Texas to Houston. The quiet roar of the engines wasn’t enough to block out the oncoming dread filling my head. Marta’s presence at the rear of the plane wasn’t either.
“You’re not, and I know you’ve got a lot on your mind. This city…”
“Yeah.” I peered out the window. “This city.”
I had a history with Houston I didn’t like to think about. I didn’t like it, but there was no avoiding these thoughts. The loss. The helplessness. I couldn’t stop myself from reliving it every time I came through, even though it’d been more than half a decade now since…everything.
“Do you want me to come with you tomorrow?” she asked.
“No.” Knee-jerk, gut instinct drove me to do this alone. It always did. “I’m good. Once I get this done, I’ll be square.”
She folded her arms in her lap and pressed her lips together, obviously suppressing a strong opinion. Marta rarely held back, but on this topic, on this city, she tried.
“Say it.”
Her arms unfolded so she could rub at her legs. “You don’t have to keep doing this. It hurts you, and you don’t owe any kind of penance. You could take some time away, not visit the hospital—”
I shook my head and turned back to the window. “I’m doing what I need to do, Mar. If I don’t go, it’ll be worse. It’ll be a failure.”
“To who? Not to me. Not to anyone who knows.” Her words were a blanket in a cradle. If I let them, they’d lull and comfort me. The thing was, I didn’t want comfort. Not now. Not about this.
“I don’t really have it in me to argue.”
“I’m not arguing, Dom.”
I jerked my chin. “Why don’t you go sit in the front with Claire? I’m going to close my eyes until we land.”
If I could have gone to the front of the plane and sat with Claire, I would have. But the way I felt, on edge and brutal, she wouldn’t have appreciated my company. She could say she liked it a little dirty and rough, but that wasn’t happening. Not today. Not like this. If I went up there and she gave me that look, the one she gave me whenever we got close, my tenuous control just might snap.
Marta unbuckled herself and scooted forward in her seat. “Fine. I will. My offer stands, no matter how pissy you are or how hard you try to push me away. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
“Hmmm.” My brow tightened. “That paycheck is pretty sweet.”
“Oh, shut up. You’re never going to reverse psychology me into working for free.” She flicked my ear on her way by me. “I love you like a brother, Dominic. A much, much older and annoying brother, obviously.”
I squeezed her arm before she could move on. “Back at you, kid.”
Her lips twitched into a smirk. “Oh, I know.”
I closed my eyes, but I didn’t sleep. Instead, I pictured Dylan the last time I saw him healthy. Eight-years-old, freckle-faced, and a demon for music. Try as I might, I couldn’t keep the last time I saw him from creeping in. Gaunt and pale, barely conscious, still begging for music, in that Houston hospital that was way too big for a dying eleven-year-old.
My hands fisted so tight, if I’d had longer fingernails, blood would have dripped between my knuckles. I longed for that, a slice of pain to pull my mind away from the very real pain of losing Dylan—a kid who hadn’t been my son, but could have been in another life.
One day. All I had to do was get through one day in Houston, then I’d leave this place and these memories behind for another year or two. I could do one day.
