The Redhead Plays Her Hand Read online

  He rolled his eyes but began to move toward one of the rooms. Once inside, he let me help him out of his jacket, which was a little difficult with the sling on his arm. Pulling down the covers, I patted the pillow.

  He finally broke the silence. “You think a nap is gonna make this better?”

  “I think it’s a start, yes. And then we’ll see.”

  “We?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” I nodded. “We. Now get in bed.”

  He looked like he wanted to say more, but he wisely got in. As I smoothed the covers down I caught a glimpse of tomcat on his face. “Would be nicer if you got in with me . . .”

  “Sleep, Jack,” I warned as he snorted, settling back.

  I went into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, and by the time I was finished, he was sound asleep. I went back out to the living room, tucked my legs underneath me on the couch, and began to decide what to do next.

  In a town built on playing the odds, I hoped like hell I hadn’t bet everything on a long shot . . .

  Seriously? Gambling metaphors?

  Quiet.

  nineteen

  Jack slept all day, through the night, and well into the following afternoon. Calls came in almost constantly—everyone wanted updates, everyone wanted to know what was going on. With the exception of the lawyer, who gave us the all clear to go back to L.A. when Jack was ready, I stopped answering the phone, needing the quiet.

  Holly put out a statement acknowledging that indeed there had been an incident involving Jack Hamilton but that he was fine and in good health, and there was no further information to be shared with the media at this time.

  Adam, on the other hand, took full advantage of the interest, using the press to tell his own story. He spun a tale that furthered his bad-boy image: that it was just him and his friends out on the town for a night of drunken excess. Confirming an earlier eyewitness account, Adam let the press infer that it was Jack who had started the fight, had escalated the argument that ended in punches thrown, and that Adam had just jumped into the fray to “help out my boys.”

  Yeah. He’d called too. I picked up, then promptly hung up the phone, then called down to the front desk to make sure no more calls got through, and that they knew Adam Kasen was not to be allowed upstairs under any circumstances. Jack could argue with me about it later, but that guy wasn’t getting anywhere near me.

  I slept too, on the couch. Thinly. Not much more than dozing, really, so when Jack finally came out of the bedroom, rubbing his eyes, I sat right up. Wide-awake.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi, yourself,” I replied.

  He looked around the room, looked at the light outside. “I’m starving.”

  “I’ll bet. You’ve been asleep for a thousand years.”

  “That would explain why I feel a thousand years old.” He smiled, wincing as his face wrinkled a bit and stretched his stitches.

  “You need to eat, then take some of your pain medicine. You slept through the first round.” I started for the table where I’d left everything from the hospital. “Come on Jack, you really must be starving, and then we should probably—”

  He stopped me with a hand on my arm as I walked past him. “Then we talk, Grace,” he said, his fingertips brushing over my skin as he held me in place. “Then we talk.”

  I stopped breathing.

  He licked his lips.

  I licked my own in response.

  His tummy growled.

  I smiled.

  “Okay, we eat, then we talk,” he said, smiling a little as well.

  I sniffed.

  “How about a shower, then we eat, then we talk?” I offered.

  “Deal.” He went to get the room-service menu.

  He wants to talk? That’s new.

  That’s good.

  One shower, two cheeseburgers, and three chocolate shakes later, we sat at the table, across from each other. Over his shoulder I could see the lights of the Strip, the evening made the entire city sparkle.

  “So . . .” he began, startling me a little bit.

  “So,” I responded.

  You really should go back to speech writing . . .

  “I don’t really know how to start here. Not quite sure where to begin,” he said, fiddling with the saltshaker, head down and not meeting my eyes. The tension was growing in him. I could feel it even with seven feet of polished oak between us.

  “Hey, it’s me. Just talk,” I encouraged, wanting so much to go to his side of the table. It would be so very easy to go over to him, to crawl into his lap, to hold him close and feel his breath on my skin and make this okay for him. But I couldn’t. He had a lot to explain, and he needed to get it out. Didn’t mean the temptation wasn’t strong, though, and I clenched the arms of the chair to stop from going over there and doing just that. Especially when he was worrying that saltshaker to death.

  He grasped the shaker, held it tightly, then looked at me. “I hate my life,” he said through clenched teeth, and I blanched. Seeing my reaction, he backed up. “No, no, see, that’s the thing—parts of my life are amazing, were amazing, until I just fucked everything up. Dammit! I can’t even explain this right!” he bit out, his frustration bubbling up. “Everything—it was all getting so close, you know? Everyone wanting something, not being able to make decisions just because they felt right. Everything had to be so calculated, so planned out, and it was just . . . Fuck, I hated it!”

  I nodded for him to go on, watching as his fingers turned almost white as he squeezed the little glass bottle.

  “And it was so easy to just go out, let loose, check out, and not care, you know? At first, it was just that. But then it became a regular thing, and my God, do you know what it’s like to have people just bend over backward to get things for you? I mean, no one had a bloody clue who I was eighteen months ago, and then suddenly everyone wants to know you, wants to kiss your ass and get you whatever you want, and it’s, like, normal, right? That’s just how it is? How the fuck is that normal?” He yelled now, standing up and pacing around the room.

  “And what happens? You fuck it all up, that’s what happens. Christ, what an ass I was—to you, to everyone! It was just . . . God, it was like it was happening underwater, you know? I saw it happening, you saw it happening, but it was just so much easier to not deal with it! Not to admit it was too much, too soon, too fast, and too damned good. Just too much, too damned much.” He continued to pace as he raged.

  “And the drinking? That was one thing. I always held my own, but then it’s like, the harder we partied, the easier it was to check out, to forget all the other bullshit. And the other stuff? The coke? I can see how people can let that get inside, get inside and take over. That shit’s amazing. I only did that a few times—too much for me. The last time I did it was that night, the night your show premiered. That was the last night . . .”

  I had tears streaming down my face at this point. I couldn’t help it. The raw emotion that poured off him was staggering.

  He whirled, saw my tears, and stopped dead cold.

  “I can’t even believe you’re here, actually,” he said after a moment, his voice no longer a yell. “After the way I treated you, why in the world are you here? Shit. I wanted to call so much. I wanted to apologize, but Christ, it was so messed up! And I hated the way people were treating you because of me! The things they wrote about you? The awful things that they said just because you maybe were dating a prat like me, because you didn’t have the sense to get as far away from me as you could—”

  “Jack!” I ran around the table to stand in front of him. “No way. You don’t get to take that on, not on your own. Anything that was written about me, anything that any idiot on a website wrote, or a reporter gossiped about, nothing could be so bad that I would even think of not being with you. Don’t you know that? How can you not know that?”

  He was breathing hard, his own tears now shining in his eyes. “I watched your show, you know. I watched it every week
,” he said, his voice rough as he struggled to get control. “I read every article, watched every interview, saw every picture. My God, Grace, do you know how much I wanted to call you, talk to you? You seemed like you were doing so well. You seemed happy, and I was here and so messed up. And so much time had passed. I didn’t think I could come home . . . I didn’t know if you still loved—”

  “I was going out of my mind! Are you kidding me?” I cried, slapping at his chest. “I went to bed every night wondering where you were and what you were doing, and I woke up every morning to go online to check and make sure you were okay, to see what kind of trouble you’d gotten yourself in the night before. And the mornings there wasn’t any news, I spent the day trying not to panic, hoping I wouldn’t get a call like the one I did the other night saying something had happened! That you’d been in an accident or any of the other million terrible things I dreamed up in my head because I didn’t know, Jack! I didn’t know what was going on, and the worst thing was, I couldn’t help you! So don’t give me ‘I looked happy’ or ‘I seemed like I was doing well’ when you of all people should know, it’s not always how it looks.” I paused, shaking. “And of course I still love you, Jack. Of course I do.”

  We stared at each other, both with the tears and the sniffling.

  “I’m so sorry, so damn sorry,” he whispered.

  Thank you.

  “C’mere,” I whispered, prying the saltshaker out of his hand and tangling my fingers with his own. Slowly I stepped closer to him, and he opened his good arm to me. I pressed myself into him, a new wave of tears showing up as I breathed in his scent and nuzzled my face into his neck.

  God. Damn. I had missed this man. I sighed into his skin as he clutched me closer, a deep throaty groan coming from him as he held me as tightly as he could. Tilting my head up, I let my eyes travel the column of his neck to his soft lips, to the strong jaw and the cheekbones for days, which now bore the scars of his troubles. And finally to his eyes, that green that swirled and deepened, forecasting his thoughts.

  “I’m so in love with you, Grace.” He looked down at me, my sweet, broken, wonderful boy. “And I’m dying to kiss you.”

  I raised up on my tippy toes as he leaned down. “I’m kind of dying for you to kiss me.”

  His lips feathered against my own, tentative, gentle, but warm. I smiled against his mouth, knowing this would not be the last conversation we had about everything that had happened, but knowing this wouldn’t be the last kiss either.

  We kissed. We kissed for two minutes or two hours, I haven’t the foggiest. We kissed long and deep, sweet and wicked. We kissed until my leg cramped and his arm fell asleep in the sling. And then we kissed some more. I fell in love with his mouth all over again, wanted to crawl inside and live there for an indeterminate amount of time.

  Would be humid, like living in Florida.

  Don’t spoil this. I’ve earned some schmaltz.

  And when his mouth began to move, tracing the tiniest of kisses along my eyes, fluttering against my eyelashes, sneaking over and nibbling on my ear in a way designed to make me come unglued, I knew there was not, could not ever be, another man who would know my body so well. And I knew where this was heading. And it would be good, so very, very good. Which is why I was completely surprised when he whispered in my ear, “Let’s go home, Crazy.”

  My eyes popped open, my neck snapped up from its position somewhere behind me, where it had fallen when he turned my spine to goo. “You want to go home now? Drive all the way back to L.A.?” I asked as he nuzzled at me.

  “Mmm-hmm,” he told the spot just below my ear.

  I looked around, looked behind him, out the window. The entire city was still laid out before us, the lights so bright they burned. He was right. We could do the bright lights, the big city. We lived in a town that was built on lights, on stars. But we were a canyon couple.

  “Yeah, let’s get out of here.” I nodded, holding his hand and pressing one more kiss on his now love-swollen lips.

  It was almost midnight, but we packed up his things as quickly as we could, settled up his giant bill downstairs, and were back in my car before one. He drove, and we rolled the windows down and let the wind blow in as we headed home.

  I chuckled as we sped down the darkened highway, thinking about a movie I’d seen a long time ago.

  “What’s funny?” he asked, bringing my hand to his lips.

  “I was thinking about the movie Less Than Zero, ever seen it? Robert Downey Jr.? Andrew McCarthy? They’re best friends. Robert’s character gets in trouble in Vegas, and Andrew has to drive out there in the middle of the night to bring him home,” I answered getting giggly.

  “Nope. Never saw it.” He shook his head as I laughed again.

  “Well, let’s just say I’m glad I didn’t find you sucking dick to pay for your crack habit.” I snorted as the car swerved.

  “Grace!” He swore as he brought the car back between the lines on our side.

  He was quiet for a moment while I cackled.

  “I’d never do crack,” he deadpanned as I laughed again.

  It felt good, to laugh with him, to crack up and giggle and be silly.

  “How’d the movie end?” he asked when I was under control again.

  “Um, not well.” I looked out the window to the desert, cold at night.

  “Not well?”

  “Nope.” I rolled up the window. “He died. Drug overdose.”

  We were both quiet.

  “You know that’s not what happened, right? I mean, I just went a little crazy. No one’s addicted to anything. You know this, right? I went on what I think your generation would call a bender.” He illustrated with quote fingers.

  “My generation?” I scoffed, rolling my eyes. I sat for a moment, then turned in my seat to face him. “So you don’t think you have a problem? I’m not pressuring, just asking so I understand what we’re dealing with here.” I held up my hands in a nonjudgy way.

  “No, I know why you’re asking. You have every right to ask. And the answer is no, not a problem, just a shitty way of dealing with what’s been going on. I need to learn to handle this better, without partying so much. I can’t promise I won’t be a little hard to live with from time to time, but I’m willing to try handling this in a different way.”

  “Well, hell, I could try handling this a different way too. I’m no expert.”

  “I don’t know. You seem to be doing pretty well with all this. Don’t think I didn’t notice how my girl went and got all famous on me. I’ll need to get your autograph sometime soon,” he teased.

  “Autograph this. And keep your eyes on the road,” I warned as he tried to lean in for a kiss. “Just promise me you’ll talk to me next time you’re feeling it, okay? The pressure? Just tell me. We’ll work it out, but you have to talk to me, okay?”

  He was quiet, watching the road. A slow grin crept over his face, and he looked back at me. “You know you’re the mature one in this relationship now. How the hell did that happen?”

  “I’m a girl, Jack. We’re born more mature,” I said primly, settling back into my seat.

  He huffed, muttering something about maturity and age as we passed a sign that said:

  LOS ANGELES 100 MILES

  I stole his hand from his lap and held it the rest of the way home.

  It was almost dawn when he pulled into our driveway, the sky just beginning to tinge pink at the edges. We grabbed our bags and made our way to the front door. I turned the key and stepped inside, but he hovered just outside, on the doormat.

  “What are you, a vampire? You need an invitation to come in?”

  He looked at his feet, shuffled a bit. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

  I took his hand and pulled him inside before he tugged back.

  “Really, Grace. Thank you,” he said again before stepping in and locking the door.

  “You’re welcome.” I leaned into his side as we took our bags and headed back to the bedroom. T
he room was in disarray, just like I’d left it. “I kind of took off the other night when Holly called me. I actually had to come back inside when I forgot my shoes.” I chuckled, taking them off now and throwing them into the closet. I was so tired, my brain hurt.

  He followed my lead, taking off his shoes, and sat on his side of the bed. With comforting familiarity, we slipped into our normal routine. I crawled into the bed on my side, he on is, and we met in the middle. Pulling me into his nook, he cradled me on top of him, his arm around me, nose in my hair as he kissed my head.

  “Love you, Grace.”

  “Love you too, Jack.”

  With my head on his chest, rising and falling softly as we both slipped toward sleep, I offered up another silent thank-you that I had him back where he belonged. And when the dawn finally broke, we were asleep in our bed. Jack was back.

  I woke up sometime in the afternoon, based on the way the light was streaming in through the windows. I smiled as I stretched under the sheets, feeling the warm body next to mine and knowing who that warmth belonged to. Turning over, I was met with green, green, green. My sleepy eyes met his dreamy eyes, those dreamy green eyes that were full of love. Oh, hello, and something else.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, yourself,” he murmured, dipping his head down to nuzzle me with his nose, drawing a path up my neck, then replacing it with his lips. I drew in a breath at the feel of his mouth on me, my fingertips tangling into his hair, which was now just long enough that I could dig in. Feeling a tickling just below my chin, I giggled as his mouth began to move lower, down toward my collarbone.

  “Hey! Hey, you!” I pulled his head back up and held his face in my hands. “Can you do this?”

  “Can I do this?” He rolled his eyes, humphing as he went back to his original path.

  “No, no, no. Not can you do this. Can you do this, with your arm? Don’t you need to be careful?”

  In answer, he rolled over, taking me with him. As the covers drifted down and I perched on top of him, I felt his answer pressed exactly where I needed him. “You’ll just have to be on top, Crazy.” He pulled apart my shirt, button by button, as I nestled my hips into his.