23. Othelia
Chapter twenty-three
Othelia
Clay pulls his rental up outside the upmarket Italian restaurant and hands the valet his keys while he waits for me to exit the car and walk around to meet him. He holds his arm out and I slip mine into the crook of his elbow as he directs us inside.
The restaurant is intimate: red plush furnishing accented with gold and crystal throughout. The servers are all wearing black tie attire and patrons’ mummers fill the air with a whispered hum.
“I’ve heard this place is great. So many A-listers eat here.” He almost sounds giddy as his eyes dart around the room, hoping to glimpse someone famous.
The waiter leads us to our seats: a romantic two-person table next to the window. He pauses, holding my chair out for me while Clay takes the chair opposite.
“If I would have known we were going somewhere like this, I would’ve dressed nicer.” I give my outfit a once over. Suddenly my simple jeans and black knitted sweater—the neckline hung low off my shoulder, exposing my collarbone and the start of my tattooed arm—feels incredibly underdressed.
“It’s alright, baby, everyone here knows what you’re worth. They won’t say anything about your outfit.” He looks me up and down, his eyes giving away his dislike of my choice. How often did he look at me like this and I didn’t notice? How many times had he referenced my income as a baseline of how people should treat me or him when we were out together?
“I’m sorry, I thought we were going somewhere more private so we could talk, not in the middle of the most expensive restaurant in Chicago.” I grab the glass of water in front of me and lean back in my chair to cool down the simmering anger. Ignoring my clear irritation, Clay picks up his menu and starts perusing his options.
“We can talk here, baby, about whatever you want.” He doesn’t bother to look up from his menu until the waiter returns to take our order. When I just stare, Clay confidently places our orders and selects the priciest red wine from the menu. I suppress the urge to roll my eyes at the blatant showboating.
As he snaps his fingers at the waiter and insists on a quicker service, I feel my anger rise, but I say nothing, casting the waiter a sympathetic smile. At that moment, Clay diverts my attention by leaning over the table and clasping my hand.
“Baby, when are you coming home? This distance has been hell and it’s creating such division between us.” His face looks so sincere. Does he not understand the part he played in the destruction of us?
“I think the division was caused when your dick made a detour through your assistant.” I deadpan.
The waiter chooses this moment to arrive with our wine. He remains the utmost of professionalism as he pours a sample, but the slight tip of his lip lets me know he overheard the entire exchange.
I reach for the glass but Clay grabs it, swirling and smelling, pretending like he has any idea what he’s doing.
When he’s satisfied, he gestures for the waiter to continue pouring two glasses with a flourish of his hand. Thanking the waiter, I grab my glass and take an unladylike swig of it, leaving Clay with a dropped jaw.
“You know that isn’t what started our issues,” he says, his voice firm and hushed, meant only for me to hear. “You have been on back-to-back tours over the last twelve months. When you’re home, you’re in a studio with your band or flying back here to Chicago.” He grabs his glass of wine and takes a long pull from it, his jaw tensing as he swallows. “Then you moved states for months without even consulting me while we were trying to work this out. Men have needs, Othelia. I have needs. But you weren’t there.” He shrugs like his cheating on me was a given and that seeing them together didn’t shatter my heart.
“Now you’re here,” he continues, gesturing to our surroundings, “playing fucking house. You never choose me!” He slams his hand on the table, spitting the words like venom. The indignation in his eyes has me rearing back before my anger takes over.
“I chose you,” I snap. “I’ve always chosen you. For the past two years, I have adjusted everything I could to ensure you came first. Now, at the hardest point in my life, when I needed you—needed you to show me that you choose me too—you chose someone else.” I stand, my chair grinding on the floor as it slides back, gaining the attention of everyone around us. I drop my napkin on the table, officially done with this conversation. Done with Clay.
Awkwardly, Clay lets out a laugh while nervously glancing around, clearly concerned about how he appears in this situation.
“That’s so fucking stupid, Othelia. I’m fucking here. Once again, I have left my life to come and deal with your over-the-top drama. I have fucking work to do, but I’ve flown here to fix whatever your issue is. It wasn’t a big deal. If you hadn’t been away so long, I wouldn’t have had to see Nat. How long was I supposed to wait for you to wrap shit up and come home?” Venom drips from his voice.
I lean on the table, standing over him, while his gaze slides between me and the other patrons. But I don’t care who hears us. I am so sick of taking the blame for everything that ever goes wrong.
“Are you fucking serious? How long did it take you to fuck her? How long was I gone before this started? Are you telling me that every time I’ve gone on tour and you need to stay for work , you’ve done this? How long after I step on that plane does it take you to call someone up? Have I even left the tarmac?”
He stares at me, his eyes widening for a second before his mask slips in place. But his silence is all the answer I need.
“Goodbye, Clay.”
Our waiter gives me a nod as I walk past, which I return. I walk out of the restaurant, no longer heartbroken, just angry. I feel hurt and lied to, but to get your heart broken, it needs to be whole first, and I’m not sure mine ever was.
I step onto the sidewalk and feel my first breath of free air. I’m done with him and I can move on without an ounce of regret.
The abrupt pulling of my wrist causes me to spin around, my eyes locking onto Clay standing in front of me.
“If you had chosen me like you said you do, I wouldn’t have done anything with her,” he says. “You could’ve come home. We could’ve talked about this, but as usual, poor little Othelia ran away rather than dealing with her fucking problems.” His fingers tighten on my wrist, going white with the force.
Is that what I was doing? Should I have stayed in LA and dealt with this instead of getting out of there as quickly as I could?
No, I wouldn’t allow myself to regret any of those decisions. Yes, I ran, but it gave me precious time with Sloane that I can never replace. I will regret those weeks we shared, living life, not knowing what heartbreak was imminent.
Dragging his other hand through his hair, he continues his onslaught: “Do you know how fucked my life has been since you left? I’ve lost so many clients. The gallery is struggling, and here you are, choosing to be with Rian, playing house with a baby that isn’t even fucking yours. Rian’s a big boy with millions of dollars, he can find a nanny to stay with the kid. It doesn’t need to be you. Boohoo, poor fucking Rian. The world doesn’t just stop ’cause his wife died and he’s fucking sad.”
I rip my hand from his. How fucking dare he.
“HIS WIFE DIED!” My chest heaves, my fists clench with the effort not to punch him. “Not only his wife, but my best fucking friend. Did you ever think at any point that maybe I was struggling with that too? Sloane was my anchor. She was always there for me and even if Rian wasn’t my brother, I still would be there for them. Layla is not only my niece, but our last piece of her. Sloane doesn’t get to be here for her, but I will move heaven and earth to make sure I will be.” I turn to walk away, but I don’t make it far before his words stop me.
“Right, so what I’m hearing is, once again, you aren’t choosing me. This is a fucking joke.” He scoffs, straightening his suit. “I can’t keep up with a ghost, Othelia. You need to wrap up your shit and come fucking home. We can work this all out when you are back where you’re supposed to be.” I stare at Clay for the last time: his perfectly done hair and crisp suit, his eyes usually sparkling now void and cold. It’s all a facade, a perfectly honed performance.
“I’m not going home with you, Clay. I won’t continue to let you treat me like shit and expect me to believe that you fucking your assistant and God knows who else was my fault.” Although a part of me still believes it might be true, his lies and manipulations can’t be ignored. “You are so incredibly delusional if you think I could just forgive you and go back to how we were. And you are out of your fucking mind if you think I would ever move back in with you. The guys will be by to grab all my stuff this week. I’ve contacted the agent. The house is yours. Do what you want with it.” Calmness flows through me. This is exactly what I was meant to do.
Turning, I take out my phone to call a ride. I don’t make it far past the restaurant’s windows when I’m stopped by a hand latching onto my forearm, yanking me back around towards him. Both hands bite into my biceps as he holds me in place, his eyes looking wild.
“Othelia, you aren’t leaving me. This is just a bump in the road. We will work through this. You’ll write a song about it, get it out of your system and then we’ll move on with our lives together. In ten years, we’ll laugh about this moment.” He laughs, trying to make light of the fact that his fingers bite into my biceps with increasing pressure.
“You are more delusional than I realized, if that’s what you think.” I try to struggle out of his grip. “Clay, let me go!” My voice becomes shaky as his knuckles turn white with the growing pressure of his grasp.
“Not until you say we can go home. We can leave right now, fly back to LA and go back to being happy .”
When I look up, a towering figure casts its growing shadow over me, sending shivers down my spine. Clay’s face, once brightly lit by the streetlights, is now slowly being covered in shadow.
“I suggest you take your fucking hands off her.”
Rook.
My body relaxes at his nearness; my body gravitates to him while still in Clay’s grasp. The sight of his chiseled face, filled with a murderous expression, makes my heart rate spike.
Clay’s eyes flash with recognition, but he’s clearly not getting the danger warnings that radiate off Rook, as his hands grip me tighter and he sneers in Rook’s face. “This has nothing to do with you. I suggest you kindly fuck off and mind your own fucking business.”
Well, shit. My eyes jump between the two, Rook now taking a step closer. His whole body ripples with tension and his hand flexes with restraint.
Attempting to pull me closer, Clay steps to the side, not seeing the raised motorcycle helmet in Rook’s right hand. I brace myself for the sound of it crashing to the floor, but my eyes widen as Rook tilts his head to the side, considering his hand before moving so fast I barely register the helmet smashing straight into Clay’s face.
Clay releases me. Blood pours from gashes on his eye, his cheekbone, as well as his perfect nose, now bent, dripping with blood. So much blood.
I am stunned, stuck in place. What the fuck is happening?
Clay drops to the ground, cradling his face and howling in pain, but I’m distracted by stormy blue eyes staring into mine. I take a second to realize his mouth is moving.
“I’m sorry, what?” I say, coming to.
“Are you hurt?” Rook’s eyes leave mine to do a full sweep over my body, stopping at the spot Clay had gripped me. His hand tenderly wraps around my arm, raising it closer so he can get a better look as his thumbs caress the now angry red mark.
“Did he hurt you?” His eyes are back, looking at mine for the answer.
“Ah no, I’m fine. You stepped in before he could do more than hold me.” Something seems to relax within him, his body a little less tense.
“Excuse me for a second.” He lets me go, side stepping towards Clay, who whimpers on the floor at his feet.
A crowd gathers outside of the restaurant and phones discreetly, and some not so discreetly, sliding out to film the altercation.
I need to stop this. Clay isn’t worth the media shit storm this is going to create, and it certainly isn’t worth Rook putting himself at risk. One wrong punch and he could throw away his job, his life, and for what? Me?
In a blink, Rook steps over the top of Clay, stooping to pick him up. With one arm, he yanks on Clay’s shirt, pulling him closer, his other pulling back to strike again.
Before I can think, I throw out my hand, grabbing onto Rook’s clenched forearm. The muscles tense under my touch as a spark of electricity shoots through my body, erupting me in tingles.
“Rook! Stop!” He pauses. His head swivels back to me, Clay still dangling from his grip. “Please, he isn't worth your job.”
A menacing smirk breaks out across his face. “Oh trust me, Othelia, this is very much worth it.” He turns back to Clay who cries out for help.
“Please…” I plead. Rook’s head moves back to me, slower this time, but the smirk on his face drops as he looks into my eyes. “Rook, please… just get me out of here.”
I’m exhausted, about ready to shatter. On the cusp of breaking down in front of a restaurant and the sidewalk full of people and their cameras. The thought of this being plastered on newspapers worldwide tomorrow makes me cringe. I just need to go.
He registers my pleas and releases Clay, who falls to the ground in a limp heap. Clay shrinks in fear as Rook leans over him to pick up his helmet. He shakes his head as he looks down at him but relinquishes taking hold of my hand as he storms towards the back parking lot, past the sizable crowd now standing around whispering while gazes jump between us and the crumpled heap of the whimpering Clay.
I stare at the size difference between our hands, his engulfing mine, veins bulging as he secures his grip. My thumb runs across the sides of one of his calluses. Like mine, they are a tangible representation of my passion. His hardened from years of maneuvering a stick across the ice; mine from thousands of hours pouring into songs on my guitar.
“I’ll make sure you regret this,” Clay yells, spitting blood onto the cement. His eyes lock on Rook before they flash toward me. Rook flinches at the response but doesn’t react, just tightens his grip on my hand.
We enter the parking lot with no difficulty; the crowd stepping aside for us after witnessing Rook’s wrath. We weave through the busy lot, working our way towards the back, where parked along the back fence is a sleek black sports bike.
I should’ve assumed by the helmet that he rode a bike, so I don’t know why it still feels like a surprise when he walks us towards it. I come to an abrupt halt as Rook strides ahead, his grip on my hand pulling me back towards him. Without hesitation, he halts and turns around.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, face softening.
My eyes dart between him and his bike as I point at it with my free hand. “That is a motorcycle,” I say, causing his mouth to twitch, the hint of a smile dancing across his lips. He looks back at the bike as if double checking my assessment, those blue eyes gleaming with amusement when they land on me.
“That is a motorcycle,” he agrees.
“You can’t be fucking serious…” He chuckles as he lets go of my hand and walks towards the bike. Trying to recapture the warmth he brought, I rub my hands together but come up empty.
He finally reaches his bike and unlocks a box, revealing a plain black tee. With the tee in hand, he begins to meticulously rub the visor of his helmet, wiping off Clay’s blood. As I stand there, I can’t help but feel self-conscious, hugging my arms around my body.
As he steps closer to me again, my heart pounds in my chest and butterflies flutter in my stomach. The helmet is now the only thing separating our bodies. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” The words tumble out my mouth before I can even think about a response. Those eyes. They appear to swirl with flecks of darker shades of blue and he seems pleased with my answer.
“Good girl.” My thighs involuntarily clench as warmth floods my core. Our eyes stay locked on each other as I bite my cheek, resisting the urge to groan at his praise.
He smirks, raising the helmet above my head and slides it on. His fingers adeptly adjust the buckle, his knuckles grazing my chin as it tightens. Both of us pause and his eyes flick up to mine through the visor.
He looks away first, turning back to the bike, maneuvering his body to kick his leg over and straddle the death machine. With his attention elsewhere, my thoughts regain clarity, anxiety creeping back.
“Ah that’s okay.” I try to fiddle with the impossibly tight straps holding the helmet to my head. “I can just order a ride. It won’t take one long to get here.”
Sighing, he holds out his hand for me to grab. “Just get on the damn bike, Othelia.” He must read the hesitation that crosses my face. “I promise. I won’t let anything hurt you.”
He has more than proved that tonight. Stepping in with Clay, helping with Layla, seeking no sort of praise. He has looked out for me when I thought no one was. It’s a simple decision.
I step towards him, placing my hand back in his, my body humming at the contact, kicking my leg up and over onto the bike behind him.
“Wait,” I say. He turns enough so I can see his face. “You don’t have a helmet.”
“Worried about my safety, Rockstar?” His smile grows.
“No, I just don’t want to explain to Rian why his best defenseman is now roadkill, if you crash this thing.” He snorts and I grin along with him.
“You think I'm the best defenseman?” he asks, leaning to the side so I can see his face as he crooks an eyebrow and a hint of a smirk. Now it was my turn to snort.
The bike roars to life and startles me, my hands gripping tighter into his hoodie. When I realize what I’ve done, my hands snap back and I try to recover, looking nonchalant, moving to gently brace myself on his waist.
“I know the thought of touching me is unappealing, but you’re gonna need to actually hold on to me,” he says, looking over his shoulder, that small twitch of a smile apparent again.
“What are you talking about? I am holding onto you.” I tap his sides for emphasis.
He sighs, tilting his head to the sky as if begging for mercy, before leaning forward and revving the throttle. With a sudden jolt, I can’t contain my squeal. The movement pushes me forward in my seat, and I collide with him. I can feel the pressure of my thighs against the outside of his and my chest tightly pressed to his back.
Letting go of the handlebars, he intertwines his fingers with mine and pulls my hands tighter around his waist until I’m embracing him in a warm bear hug. I feel his chuckle vibrate through me as he tilts his head so I can hear him.
“ Now you’re holding onto me!” he yells over the rumble of the engine. Using one finger, he flips down the visor I didn’t realize was still up, it now safely covering my face.
I can feel the muscles in his back tensing as he pulls on his riding gloves before leaning forward, positioning himself. Lord, this guy is seriously ripped.
Being this close, his smell is almost overwhelming in the best way. The metallic tang of blood I was smelling is now replaced by the scent of his soap mingling with a cologne that feels distinctly like Rook. Masculine, grounding.
The feel of him against me, the vibrations of the bike and the memory of how he made me come in his hotel room, has my clit throbbing. I squeeze my thighs together to gain some friction, forgetting they’re currently wrapped around him and he tenses with the movement.
As we vanish into the darkness of the night, all I can process is the click of cameras and his sharp intake of breath.