by J. Kenner
Why?
And why the hell didn't he tell me?
And how the fuck long did it go on, and how long has it been over? Or is it over? Has he been with her since he and I got together?
Oh. Dear. God.
And now that the thought's in my head, I can't get it out, and all I can do is tell myself no. No. Dallas may have neglected to tell me that he and Adele romped between the sheets, but there is no way--no way in hell--that he would actually cheat on me with her.
Of that much, at least, I'm sure.
The brutal truth of that revelation calms me. It doesn't make me happy--he still fucked Adele, and what the hell is that about--but it calms me enough that I can sleep for the last hour of the flight. It's not enough, and I'm groggy when we land, but at least I won't be a total zombie at the meeting.
I've arranged for a car to meet me, and I sit in the back and watch the city go by as the driver whisks me to my house where I take a shower, eat a quick bite so I won't snarf food like a pig at The Ivy, and then jump in my car to battle traffic as I head over the hill to the meeting in Beverly Hills.
As predicted, traffic is snarled, but at least that gives me time to think about the meeting that I didn't think about on the plane, so that when I do arrive, I at least seem prepared. Joel is his enthusiastic, Hollywood self, and Tarpin is the real deal, an actor with both looks and genuine talent. And considering the scope and depth of his questions, he's not only intelligent, but he cares about the material. We get along great, and by the time the meeting ends, I'm not only confident that he'll sign on to the project, but also certain that I'll be disappointed if he backs out, because I can't imagine anyone better for the role.
And the best part? I realize as I tip the valet and slide into my car that I've spent two full hours without thinking about Dallas.
Frankly, that might be a personal best.
As I navigate my way to Coldwater Canyon and back up the hill to my house just off Mulholland Drive, I try to keep my mind from wandering in a Dallas sort of direction. Maybe I'll even go for a run when I get home. It's my least favorite physical activity, but I like the way it makes me feel after the fact. Like I've not only conquered something, but that I've made myself just a little bit stronger.
Alternatively, I can sit on my deck, look at the stunning view from my place just a block off Mulholland Drive, and conquer a bottle of wine. Which doesn't have quite the same psychological impact, but still sounds pretty damn appealing.
I'm still debating between good health and good wine when I pull into the driveway and see Dallas sitting on the front porch.
I freeze. My hand is on the gear shift and my foot is on the brake, and it would be so, so easy to just shift back into reverse and leave.
I don't. Because only part of me wants to run away. The other part wants to run into his arms.
In the end, I do neither.
Instead, I shut off the car, walk calmly toward my front door, and ask him what the hell he's doing here.
"Apologizing," he says, rising. "Groveling. Whatever it takes."
"How the hell did you find me so fast? I mean, what? You just assumed I'd run off to LA?" A horrible thought occurs to me. "Deliverance? Electronic surveillance? That is completely warped, Dallas. Intrusive. Invasive. Not to mention rude and just plain icky. How the hell can you justify--"
"Brody," he says.
"What?"
"I called Brody. He told me where you went."
"Oh." I make a note to sic a hundred telemarketers on Brody.
"Don't be too mad at him. I more or less suggested that I couldn't survive without you."
I grimace. "Brody has too soft a heart."
"I also told him that I still have the tickets to the Dominion Gate concert tomorrow night."
I cock my head. "What makes you think I still want to go with you?"
He reaches into his jacket pocket and holds out a small envelope. "They're your present. Your tickets--both of them. Go by yourself. Take a friend. Don't go at all." He meets my eyes. "It's completely up to you."
I keep my mouth closed, forcing myself to say nothing. Instead, I run my tongue over my teeth, then reach out and snag the envelope. I tuck it into my purse, then walk around him to get to my door. The porch is small, and he doesn't move, so I brush up against him as I pull out my keys. Immediately, I feel that shock of awareness, and it seems all the more powerful because I don't want to feel it. I don't want to want him. Not right now, when I'm feeling so raw.
"Jane." His voice is as gentle as the hand he places on my shoulder.
I shrug it off and open the door. I go inside, but I leave the door open. He can follow or not.
It's after noon, and I feel completely justified in having a glass of wine. I find one of my favorite Napa cabernets and pour a very full glass.
Dallas is standing on the other side of my kitchen pass-through. "A glass of that would be very welcome right about now."
I frown. "I'm trying to decide if I'm even letting you stay."
"Jane. Please. Let me--"
"What?" Fresh anger bubbles through me. "Change the past? Take it all back?"
"Explain. Just let me explain."
"Explain why you fucked her--yeah, I know you didn't actually. But for you, you did."
"Explain why I didn't tell you." He looks so lost. So sad. "And, yes, why I was with her. I just want--"
"What?"
He shakes his head, looking not at me but somewhere over my shoulder. "Never mind. I'll give you time."
He starts to head toward the door and suddenly the thought of him leaving seems to cut through me, slicing me to ribbons. "Wait!"
He stops, his back to me. I see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his back. And when he turns to face me, I see the hope on his face.
I look down at the ground. I want to hold on to my anger, but it's starting to diffuse. Still there, but now so hard to grasp.
I clear my throat. "If you go, I'll end up drinking the whole damn bottle by myself." I pour him a glass and set it on the pass-through. I nod at it. "You can stay for that long."
"All right, then." He takes a tiny sip. "I'll drink slow."
I almost laugh, but I manage to hold it in.
I stay in the kitchen and he stays on the other side of the bar. I like it that way because the longer he's here, the more I want him to hold me. I'm hurting--and even though it's Dallas who hurt me, he's still the one I crave to give me comfort. Whose arms I want around me while I close my eyes and draw strength.
I'm not sure what that says--am I that screwed up? Or am I just in love?
I take another sip of my wine and busy myself with wiping down my already clean counter. "So go ahead," I say. "You have an explanation. Tell me."
"It's fucked up," he says, and this time I have to laugh. Because honestly, where he and I are concerned, when isn't it?
"When I met her not long after she and Colin got married, I was feeling so empty. You were out of my life, forever I thought. I was raw. And I was attracted to her."
I wince, and he sees it.
"I screwed up by not telling you the truth before. I'm not going to pull my punches now."
"No," I say. "I don't want you to. I just--she was married."
"Nothing happened. But we both felt it."
"Well, something happened eventually."
He nods. "After they broke up. We--well, yeah. I slept with her."
I feel my insides twist. Because this isn't like Fiona or Christine or any of the others. With Adele, there was more. And I'm jealous. I'm so incredibly jealous.
"I thought you only did one-or two-night stands."
His smile is thin, and I know he can hear the jealousy in my voice.
"Adele was an odd exception, that's for sure. She--oh, hell, Jane. She knows about us."
My eyes grow wide. "You told her?"
He shakes his head. "No. But she's a therapist, remember? She heard the way I talked about you. And becaus
e of Colin she knew that we'd both been kidnapped. She figured it out. She knew I was still in love with you. And she--she was edgy."
"In bed," I say. "She--"
"Understood what I needed, probably even more than I did."
My mouth is dry, and I'm not sure if I feel sick or if I feel relieved that he had someone when he couldn't--wouldn't--have me.
"Did you love her?"
He looks at me as if I've completely missed the point. "Love her? Oh, god, Jane, no. She was the only one I could be honest with. The only one who knew my core truth. There was sex, yes. But sex with Adele was never about her."
His eyes lock on mine. "Don't you get it? Sex with Adele was always about you."
City of Angels
He watched her face, uncertain if he was doing the right thing by revealing so much. But he couldn't keep it from her. Now that he'd made the decision to tell her, he had to go all in.
"All about me?"
"I wanted you. I craved you. And I was so damn frustrated that I couldn't have you. She got that." He ran his fingers through his hair, knowing he had to tell her the rest. "She knew that I hadn't really been with a woman since you. And she's the reason that I thought it would be different with you."
She nodded, but didn't say anything.
"Jane? Jane, I really need to know if I'm making a huge mistake telling you all this."
She blinked, looking a little shell-shocked, but she shook her head. "No. No the mistake was not telling me before. Keep going."
He wasn't entirely sure he believed her, but he knew he had to get it all out. "After a while, Adele wanted to--I don't know. Role play, I guess. Pretend to be you. Have me--take you."
Her brows rose to her hairline. "Like what I suggested. About the Woman. Oh, god." She hugged herself, her brow furrowing. "She thought if you did that, you'd get over me?"
"No. No, it wasn't like that. Just the opposite. She thought it would get me off. That I'd be able to, well, fuck her if I pretended it was you."
"Oh." She dragged her teeth over her lower lip. "And did you?"
"Jane, come on. You know I didn't. I told you. You're the only woman I've--"
"No. I mean, did you try."
"Hell no." His words were harsh as he remembered his disgust with Adele. With himself. "That was when I ended it."
Her relief was so visible he would have laughed if he wasn't already so twisted up inside. "And that's it," he said. "That's the story on me and Adele. And I didn't tell you before for two reasons. It's done. Over. So I didn't see the point. But more than that, the thought of you was so wrapped up in my entire, screwed up relationship with her that I didn't--I don't--want you to feel like everything between the two of us ties back to sex."
She shook her head and came around the island with the bottle of wine. She moved to him and topped off his glass. A perfectly simple, perfectly normal thing to do, but it filled him with so much hope he could feel his heart expand.
"I don't think we're all about sex." She looked up, not smiling. But he thought he saw a spark in her eyes.
"Maybe not. But I was afraid you would start to if you knew how fucked up being around Adele made me. Like witchcraft."
"Bitchcraft is more like it." She smirked. "And yes, that's not fair. I mean, I liked her well enough before. And you're both consenting adults. Blah, blah, blah."
"Jane."
"No, let me finish." She polished off the rest of her wine. "I don't--I couldn't ever--think that what's between us is only sex. But it is a huge part of it. And I think that's why it hurts knowing you ..."
"And that's the other reason I didn't tell you."
She crossed her arms over her chest. "What? You didn't want me to know? Figured it could just stay a big secret?"
"I was ashamed," he said, and felt ten times lighter after the admission.
She tilted her head, her expression softening. "Oh, Dallas. Oh, damn. No. No. What you did--why you did it--there's nothing to be ashamed of. But just because it's not shameful doesn't mean I like it. You know?"
"I do."
She poured herself a fresh glass and took a swallow. "It's just that it feels like a secret, after you promised not to keep secrets."
"It was history, baby. Not a secret. Just an empty place." That wasn't entirely true, but he damn sure wanted it to be. "I don't need an itemized list of who you slept with between Bill and me."
"But if I'd slept with Liam, you would."
He felt the kick in his gut. "Yeah," he agreed. "I would." He took a step toward her, wanting so badly to touch her, but he kept one hand on his wineglass and the other in his pocket. "So how many times do I have to say I'm sorry?"
She shook her head slowly. "I guess we'll find out." She set her wineglass down. "The couch pulls out into a sofa, so you can stay here tonight if you want. Or you can go grab a suite at the Beverly Wilshire or something."
"Room service and comfortable mattresses are highly overrated," he said. "I'll stay here."
"Okay, then." She licked her lips. "I have work and some errands to run, but I'll be back later. You can hang or call a taxi or--"
"I'll be fine," he said. He didn't believe that she had things to do outside of the house, but he did believe that she needed her space. Even so, he wasn't about to leave if she wasn't kicking him out.
"Cool." She bit her lower lip. "So, there's not much to eat in the house, but there's a basket of delivery menus by the microwave. And probably ice cream in the freezer."
"I'll be fine," he repeated.
"Right." She hesitated, and he had the distinct impression that she had to force herself not to move closer and kiss him goodbye. "I'll just get going, then."
She grabbed her purse and keys and moved toward the door.
He knew he should just stay silent, but once she'd opened the door and the reality of her leaving was slapping him in the face, he couldn't keep quiet. "Jane," he said, then waited for her to turn. "Are we going to be okay?"
She hesitated, and in those few moments, he felt as though he were dying. "I don't know," she finally said. "But I didn't kick you out of the house. That must count for something."
Boy Toy
I bounce from shop to shop, spending the day at the Beverly Center and Rodeo Drive and then hitting up all my favorite boutiques around Melrose Place. That doesn't eat up nearly enough time, however, and so I add a massage and a facial into the mix, then follow that with dinner and a ten o'clock movie. Afterward, I sit in my car and consider calling my film agent to see if she wants to meet for drinks at the Chateau Marmont, but considering it's already past midnight, I nix that plan.
I consider going by myself, but the thought sobers me. I don't want to be alone anymore.
The truth is, I want Dallas. I've wanted him all day. But I've been avoiding him because it feels like that's what I should be doing.
I should be staying away.
I should be keeping some distance. Evaluating. Figuring things out.
The trouble is, I figured out me and Dallas years ago. And it's not a question of should, but of how.
I know we should be together--I've always known that. What is still tormenting us is the question of how. And that's a much trickier one.
But I'm pretty damn sure that the answer doesn't lie in a bar or a mall or a movie theater. And it sure as hell doesn't lie in running away.
And the truth is, as much as I hate the thought that he slept with Adele of all people, I do understand why he didn't tell me. I wish that he had, but I understand.
No, if I dig really deep I have to admit that my biggest problem isn't that he kept a secret, but that I'm jealous. All those other women are anonymous. Even Fiona and Christine are anonymous at the core. Fungible women that aren't really part of his life.
Adele is, though. Like it or not, she's right there in both our lives. Maybe not at the center, but she's sure as hell sitting comfortably on the periphery. Which means I'm going to continue to see her. To be around her. And each and eve
ry time I'm going to think about how Dallas touched her. About how she knows the truth about us. About how she played those mind games with him, and put the thought of me right there in bed with the two of them.
And honestly, I really don't want to be thinking any of that.
With a sigh, I grab hold of the steering wheel then close my eyes and rest my forehead on my hands. I want to erase Adele from my thoughts, but that's not possible. There's no turning back time. There's no changing the past. If there was, god knows I would have done it a long time ago.
So I just have to go forward--and it's Dallas that I want to go forward with.
Which means it's time to go home.
It's time to cry in the arms of the man that I love, then let him dry my tears as we move forward, leaving Adele and all the shit behind.
It's almost one in the morning when I get home. I expect Dallas will still be up, but I'm surprised to find him asleep on the sofa bed, an empty bottle of scotch on the table next to him, along with a mostly empty glass. The television is still tuned to ESPN, the volume low, and the flickering light illuminates his sleeping face.
His clothes are on the floor, and I see his briefs and realize that I'm wet simply from the knowledge that he's naked under the sheet. I stand for a moment, debating whether I should wake him up to talk, but then he rolls onto his back. I see the way the sheet tents over his erection, and my whole body tightens with desire. I want him, plain and simple. But more than that, I want him to know that I forgive him. That I'm sorry, too.
I also think about the last time that I took advantage of his erection while he was sleeping. My throat still hurts, and he'd been so incredibly freaked out that he'd bolted. If I try again, how will he react? Will he get lost in the nightmare? And if he does, will he wake in time, or will he hurt me? Because god knows he could have gone a lot further the last time.
But I also need him to understand that I still trust him, and what better way is there?
I strip off my clothes, tug down the sheet, and carefully straddle him. Slowly--so wonderfully slowly--I lower myself, relishing the way he fills me and hoping that this time we can take this all the way. I want to see the passion and power when he explodes inside me. And we've already gotten so close--so damn close.
My thoughts are as wild as my breath, and I ride him hard--harder than I have before when we've done this, and I realize it's because part of me wants him to wake up. I want to see his face and know that he's in the now. Right here. With me.