Chapter Twelve
Chapter 12
DECLAN
THE GARDEN IS BLOOMING. SO many colors. I walk along the familiar stone pathway to the fountain, and there’s Tiffany—radiant, beaming. I remember that smile, so bright on her good days.
I can sense our son nearby. But where…oh. She’s holding him.
They’re no longer in the garden. It’s dark.
She’s holding him in the dark, and now I can’t figure out where they are.
Suddenly, there are flashing lights. I hear the roar of the crowd, the ding ding as the match starts. My opponent punches me square in the jaw and I’m knocked out. Blood spills from my nose onto the mat.
Ding ding .
Ding ding .
Where did Tiffany go?
“You’re better off without me, Declan. I know you tried, but there’s no saving me.”
Where is our son?
Ding ding.
I jolt awake in bed, my heart pounding, my skin slick with sweat. I grab at my chest, willing my heart to slow down. While I’m trying to catch my breath, I wipe my cheek. My fingers are damp. It’s not sweat, though. I was crying in my sleep.
Buzz. Buzz.
I glance around the room, blinking moisture from my eyes. For a second, I’m disoriented because nothing is familiar in the dim moonlight that’s streaming through the window.
Where the hell…
Right. I’m in a suite, not at home.
This is a hotel suite.
Buzz. Buzz.
My damn phone is rattling on the nightstand, so I slap a hand over it. The digital clock next to it reads 2:03 AM. Who the hell is calling at this hour? I unlock the screen, squinting at the sudden flash of light that hits my eyes. Blinking until my vision is no longer blurry, I see Sean’s name.
I rub my tongue along the roof of my mouth, suddenly feeling how dry my throat is as I answer. “What’s going on?”
“M.W. left the suite with her luggage.” Sean’s voice is calm and professional, but I catch a hint of concern. “She didn’t notice me because I was around the corner. I followed her.”
Still trying to shake sleep from my brain, I throw my covers off and sit up.
M.W.
My mystery woman.
So…she decided to leave after all.
Hunching forward, I rest my elbows on my knees and release a heavy exhale. I don’t know why her leaving gives me such a hollow ache. But after finally deciding to fuck, I guess I thought…
Doesn’t matter. She has her own life; she doesn’t want my help.
I’m of no use to her, the same way I was no use to Tiffany in the end.
Why do I always fail the ones I want to protect the most?
My throat is even drier now, so I swallow painfully. “You followed her where?”
“She’s been in the lobby for the past fifteen minutes,” Sean says. “She’s just sitting in a chair near the window. Seems to be lost in thought.”
I close my eyes, trying to settle the churning in my gut. A thought occurred to me yesterday in the shower, after I left her weak and satisfied in my bed: did she sleep with me because she felt I was ‘owed’? She was definitely concerned on the jet about paying her share of the expenses.
I ignored that thought yesterday, and when I got out of the shower, we shared dinner together on the patio. God, she was gorgeous in the light from the sunset—her short black hair pinned back to frame her elegant cheekbones, bottom lip permanently caught between her teeth. Brown, soulful eyes stealing glances at me, then darting away. I had wanted to kiss her, but she looked tense, like she didn’t want to be touched.
Everything seemed okay when we said goodnight, and I had looked forward to seeing her beautiful face again in the morning.
Now that she decided to leave—without saying goodbye, no less—I’m left wondering if she only instigated sex as ‘repayment.’
It’s a sickening thought because I’d never want that.
“If she leaves the hotel, do you want me to follow?” Sean asks after I fall silent.
Fuck, this situation feels like I’ve been pummeled in the ring. Do I want to track her down, to demand answers? A part of me screams yes.
But the rational side, the side that’s been hurt before, knows better. She hopped onto my jet because she’s running from something, not because she wants to be with me. I’ve also learned in my life that the more you cling to a woman, the more she’ll beg to leave.
This is what Mystery Woman wants, so I’ll respect that. Besides, I’ll always be the one left behind.
Avoiding all attachments is best.
“No,” I say, my voice raspy. “Your job is security, not investigation. Let her go. I’m not her jailer. She’s free to do what she wants.”
“Under—”
“Wait.” I scrub a hand over my face, thinking about her wandering the streets alone. “If she leaves, just make sure she gets somewhere safe. Maybe she’ll head to a motel or she could have friends here. Wherever she goes, she needs to arrive safely. It’s late, and she’ll be a woman out wandering around with luggage.”
“Understood.”
I end the call, staring at my reflection in the mirror facing my bed. Hours ago, my mystery woman was riding me, her sexy legs wrapped around my body. Now she’s another woman who has vanished from my life.
I deserve nothing less. As I’ve known for a long time, I’m terrible at protecting my possessions.
Not that my mystery woman ever let me get close enough to call her mine.
Not that I should want that.
I need a drink.
I leave my bedroom to grab a bottle of wine off the pressure plate in the fridge. After uncorking it and pouring a glass, I realize I’ve lost the will to drink. I dump the glass in the sink, dump the bottle in the trash. When I can’t even find comfort in alcohol, I know I’m fucked.
Still restless, I walk to my mystery woman’s room as if I’ll discover her there, but there’s no trace, not even the portrait of me she had started. The bed is impeccably made, like it was never slept in. The only hint anyone was ever in this space is one single used towel in a heap on the bathroom tile.
My body is heavy and my feet hard to drag across the suite as I walk back to the living room. I open the double French doors to let the breeze in, then sink into the couch, staring at where the ocean should be. Can’t see it though—it’s completely black in the distance. An ink stain.
I want to see it, need to know I can still see it, so I sit on this damn couch for three hours, getting up only once to use the bathroom. Eventually, the dark sky lightens to gray, and the first arc of an orange sun peeks above the horizon.
Funny how I’ve avoided the sunrise ever since Tiffany left, yet now I’ve seen it two days in a row.
Funny.
The door clicks.
Opens.
I don’t look because I figure it must be Sean. Possibly Jeremy. Then I hear the familiar squeak of some particular luggage before the door clicks shut.
My heart jumps into my throat, but I still don’t turn around. What if I’m imagining this?
A soft voice clears behind me, then, “I went for a walk.”
It is her. She came back?
Why?
Gripping the edge of a couch cushion, I play along and ask, “Did you have a pleasant walk?”
“Um…yeah,” she responds, her words monotone. “I went…for a walk. But I’m tired now. I’m going to bed.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
The squeaky luggage rolls across the suite in the wrong direction. She enters my bedroom and closes the door.
The room doesn’t matter.
She came back.