Inescapable

Chapter 11

Iris opened her eyes to an unfamiliar wall. It was gloomy, but despite the poor light she could tell that the wall was dark blue and not the creamy off-white to which she’d become accustomed these last few days.

She should have felt refreshed after what had to have been her first real sleep since her arrival but instead she felt exhausted… and anxious.

Although the anxiety was nothing new, not when every day brought with it seeping dread and building panic at the stark reality of being trapped in a room where the walls felt like they were closing in more and more every day.

But today’s anxiety felt different, and as she became aware of the heavy male body spooned behind her, she began to get an inclination as to where the dread and anxiety stemmed from.

She was confused. This man—who was giving off enough heat to power a furnace—was pressed so close to her, it was hard to figure out where he ended and she began. His bent knee was thrust between her thighs and his other leg was thrown across hers. One of his long arms was under her neck, while the other was draped over her waist, his hand pressed between her—naked—breasts.

Yes, she was naked. And he was very close to naked. Hard to miss that fact with the amount of hot, bare flesh plastered against her back.

Oh, and he had an erection. The fabric of whatever underwear he was wearing did very little to conceal that fact. He wasn’t grinding it against her or anything like that, but it was tapping insistently—almost politely—against the small of her back.

Please ma’am, would you let me in?

The absurd notion had her snorting and she felt him tense behind her.

“Iris.” The instantly familiar voice was gravelly with sleep and despite the placating tone in that single word, Iris went still as a statue. Even her breathing stalled.

Of course she’d known that it was Trystan Abbott in bed with her. Who the hell else could it have been? But the confirmation still shook her.

What the hell was going on here?

She tried to remember what had happened last night, but—while attempting to remember sent feelings of breathless panic, desperate fear, and pulsating anxiety threading through her veins—the memory remained elusive.

She didn’t try too hard though, the negative feelings convincing her not to prod too much right now. It would come back soon enough.

“Are you okay?” Trystan asked into her hair and… did he just drop a kiss onto her head? “How do you feel?”

Iris didn’t think they’d had sex. She was certain she’d remember that. And her body would definitely know. But what other explanation could there be for this level of intimacy?

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “Why am I here? And why are we in bed together?”

He laughed quietly, but the sound was almost despairing.

“I like how you always get straight to the point.”

He did? That was news to her. She’d always thought her bluntness annoyed him.

“What do you remember about last night?” he asked, somber now, all trace of laughter gone from his voice.

Iris searched her memory. They’d watched movies all afternoon, talked, joked, laughed and then he’d—he’d…

Her breathing came faster as remembered fear and panic flooded her brain. She began trembling, teeth chattering with the intense vibrations of her shaking.

“You locked me in again,” she said in a small, broken voice that would have embarrassed her if she hadn’t been so very distraught at the memory that brought her fear surging back as if she were locked in right now.

She was aware of him talking, his hold on her tighter, his voice urgent, but soothing.

“—open. Do you hear me, Iris? The door is unlocked. And open. You’re safe, you’re okay. You can leave anytime you want to.”

“W-what?”

“Look,” he instructed her, pointing toward the door, which looked wrong. It was crookedly hanging off the hinges. “It’s open. You’re fine.”

“It’s broken,” she pointed out nonsensically, and he chuckled, a rusty, relieved sound.

“Yeah, I had to get in here in a hurry and my hands weren’t free.”

“You kicked the door in,” she remembered. It was all a bit vague, but she did remember that. “You could have hurt yourself. Broken your foot, or sprained your ankle, or something. That was really reckless.”

“You scolding me right now, Hughes?” he asked, no heat in his voice at all.

“You should be more careful. Why did you do that?”

“At the time I was a little preoccupied with trying to get you warm.”

“Oh God,” she whispered in horror and humiliation as the events of last night finally came flooding back. “Oh my God, Trystan. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You weren’t thinking, sweet,” he said, his voice achingly gentle, no reprimand in those words. His chest heaved as he sighed again, and he turned her around with tender hands until she was facing him, her breasts brushing again his hard chest. His erection prodding against her thigh.

But he was ignoring that and so would she. Despite her screaming awareness of the impudent damned thing.

“I put us both in so much danger,” she moaned, covering her face with her hands. “All three of us. Luna was there too, wasn’t she?”

“She’s the one who found you.”

Iris sobbed, the sound despairing and broken. Another one followed.

“No, Iris, sweetheart, please don’t cry.”

But she couldn’t help it. The floodgates opened and she wept. Days of ever-increasing fear, followed by the illogical terror that had shut down the rational parts of her brain until all that was left was an overpowering need to escape, to flee…

In her mind, self-preservation had meant getting out of that room, despite the fact that it was the absolute worst thing she could have done. There had been no rhyme or reason to her fear. Her overwhelming instinct was to get out and she’d stared out into the cold, black night and had convinced herself that—because it wasn’t raining or windy--it was safe and she would be fine.

And once she was out, she’d kept going… no thought in her mind other than, if she could just get to town, everything would be fine. She’d be safe.

“I don’t know why I did that,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. “I was so scared. I can’t even explain it, I just know that I’ve never felt such terror in my life before.”

“It was cold and wet and dark, nobody can blame you for being scared, Iris. I was pretty fucking terrified too. When I saw you standing there. Right next to that river. Jesus.”

He shuddered at the recollection.

“No,” she shook her head in denial, aware that his beautiful chest was slick with her tears. “That’s not what I meant. Being in that room. Locked in. Trapped. That’s what scared me. I wanted out so desperately, I didn’t even consider the consequences of leaving through that window. And that’s what really scares me now. I had no thought of self-preservation. I nearly killed myself—and you—because of what I know is a stupid, irrational fear.”

“It’s not stupid and irrational to you, Iris. And I don’t blame you for what happened. Phobias aren’t rational. You tried to tell me that, and I refused to listen. Worse, I refused to believe you. That’s my fault, okay?”

She nodded, and swiped at her face.

“I got your chest all wet,” she pointed out mournfully.

“It’ll dry.”

He was stroking her back and Iris was once again reminded of their nudity. And now, after the initial storm of regret, fear and despair had passed, it was all she could think about.

“I’m naked,” she blurted the obvious fact without preamble. His hand paused its stroking for a moment before he continued.

“I needed to get you warmed up as fast as possible. That meant a hot shower.”

“You’re nearly naked too.” Gosh she sounded like a complete idiot, but her brain seemed to have malfunctioned and she wasn’t entirely sure what to do with this information, or about the situation right now.

“Skin on skin is the quick and dirty method of getting, and staying, warm.”

“Oh, I’m sure it was completely necessary, only… it’s a little weird now, no?”

“Are you uncomfortable?”

God, no… she was so comfortable and relaxed, she felt like she was on the verge of melting into a pool of gooey liquid. But there was the other matter to consider.

She tried to find a delicate way of phrasing it, but in the end her candidness won out, as always.

“You have an erection.”

“Yes. Can’t really help that, though. Hashtag-woke-up-like-this. But don’t worry, it’s over here, minding its own business. And not worthy of your concern, or your attention.”

His words startled a delighted laugh out of her and she looked up to see his lips curve into a smile.

“You’ve had a traumatic, draining experience, Iris. Get some more sleep. I’ll be here if you need me.”

She felt like she should protest, like she should at least insist on going to her own bed, but she felt so warm and snug and safe that she really didn’t want to. Instead, she snuggled closer, trying not to notice how that extremely persistent hard-on of his briefly slid between her thighs as she wriggled against him.

He muffled a groan and she went still at the sound.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured and he inhaled deeply before releasing the breath slowly.

“It’s all good. I’m just…” He went silent and she waited for him to complete the sentence, but he left it hanging.

“Just what?” she asked after nearly a full minute had passed.

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. About me. I’m fine.” His strained voice made a liar of him, but Iris’s lids were growing heavier and her brain was fogging over. She wanted to pursue the matter but she was asleep before her mind could formulate a response.

When next she awoke,Iris found herself alone in Trystan’s bed. She was sprawled on her stomach in the middle of the mattress and she yawned as she pushed herself up.

The room was dark. And something told her it was very late at night, or possibly very early in the morning. God, how long had she slept? And where was Trystan? Had her restless movements while sleeping sent him in search of a different bed? Who could blame him? She tended to hog the bed and covers because she was unused to sharing.

She reached over to the nightstand and found the switch for the lamp. Half of the room flooded with warm light, and Iris was gratified to note that one of her oversized hoodies—a lime green one—had been draped at the foot of the bed. Silently thanking Trystan for his thoughtfulness, she tugged the warm, fleecy garment over her head and padded to the bathroom.

After taking care of her immediate needs, she checked herself out in the mirror and nearly screamed at the sight. God, what had he done with her hair? It was a tangled, frizzy mess of unruly curls. It was going to take forever to detangle it.

Ugh, that was a problem for later. Right now, her stomach was actively trying to eat her spine, and she needed food. She padded to the door, which was still crookedly hanging from the hinges, and thankfully unlocked. She eyed the damage for a moment, remembering the moment he’d kicked it in.

It had been an extreme action, but—now that her memory was less hazy—Iris could recall his panic and desperation.

It had confused her, that urgency. It still did. Yes, she’d been cold, in shock, but she meant nothing to him. And he’d mentioned on several occasions that his preference would be for her to try and head back to town.

Granted, he wouldn’t have expected her to do it in pitch black, stormy weather, but she still found his level of concern surprising.

She made her way to the kitchen, shuddering when she passed the closed door to her room on the way. Nausea surged to her throat at the thought of returning to it, but she knew she’d eventually have to go back in there. Her one consolation was that it was unlikely that Trystan would lock her in again.

She heard talking before she got to the kitchen and she smiled in anticipation, certain that it was Trystan speaking to Luna… but something in his tone of voice gave her pause and she stopped just outside the door.

“What were you thinking? Why did you send her out here? Was it some twisted game? I…” There was a pause as whomever he was on the line with—and it wasn’t hard to guess it was Mr. Quinn—interrupted him. “What the fuck do you mean you thought she’d get me out my rut? You mean she was a sacrificial lamb you thought I’d have fun toying with, don’t you? That’s twisted, Quinny. I didn’t need to be shaken out of my rut… I’m not in a rut. I’m re-evaluating. And I need you to respect my space and allow me to do that in privacy. I didn’t fucking want her here. She lacks

experience and even beforeI knew who her father was, I told you to cancel it.”

Iris gasped, her hand going to her mouth, and Trystan abruptly stopped speaking, obviously hearing the faint sound.

Aware that the jig was up and that she’d been caught eavesdropping, Iris stepped into the kitchen where Trystan stood facing the door, his mobile phone still plastered to his ear. His eyes were wide as he stared at her, face pale, lips thinned.

“I’ll call you back,” he barked into the phone, before swiping at the screen and tossing it to the counter.

“How’re you feeling, Iris?” he asked, his voice dark and intent.

“That was Mr. Quinn, wasn’t it?” she asked, pointing a shaky finger at the phone on the counter. He tossed the device an impatient glare before closing the distance between them in a few short strides.

“How are you?” he repeated the question, cupping her face and tilting it upward to stare into her eyes.

“You knew who I was when I first arrived, didn’t you?” she demanded to know, her sluggish brain finally making sense of his words. “You told him to cancel the interview, only he didn’t, and when I showed up you were angry with him and with me. Then you accused me of being an intruder when you knew full well that I was exactly who I said I was.”

“We’ll discuss that later,” he murmured, his hands still gentle on her face, his thumbs stroking her cheeks.

Furious, Iris yanked her head out of his grasp and shoved at his stupidly big, immovable chest with the heels of her hands for good measure. Naturally, he didn’t budge.

“We’ll discuss it now,” she insisted, stepping away from him and planting her hands on her hips as she glared up at him. “You knew who I was, you knew I had a legitimate reason for being here, but you left me out in the rain and the cold! And then when I did get into the house, you accused me of trespassing, threatened me with arrest, and kept me locked in that awful fucking room for days on end. I’ve been here for a week, and not once in that time did you think to set my mind at ease and admit that you’d known about the interview all along. Instead, I was left for hours at a time, worrying about what would happen when the police finally came for me. Imagining being locked in a prison cell, exacerbating the terror I already felt of being trapped in that room.”

His throat moved as he swallowed, his face even paler than before, his silvery eyes stormy and troubled.

“I-I was furious with Quinny for ignoring my wishes. And I was pissed off with you as well, for being here, for distracting me from my?—”

“Your what?” she interrupted him shortly. “From your melodramatic moping? Because that’s what you were doing, hiding here, away from the world, with a major case of the sads. Something terrible happened to you, and I’m sorry about that, but that doesn’t mean you get to treat the rest of humanity like shit. It doesn’t mean you get to treat me like I’m somehow awful for having ambition, and for being excited about an interview that more seasoned journalists would be creaming over.”

“You’re right.”

“And I don’t think that—” she stopped as his words sank in, and tilted her head as she eyed him speculatively. “What did you say?”

“I said you’re right. I was being a fucking dick. And I’m—” He shoved his hands into his hoodie pocket as he glared fiercely into her face. Always so damned intense. “I made a lot of mistakes with you, Iris. I treated you badly. And I regret that. I wish… I hope…”

He was really struggling to verbalize whatever was going on in that clever brain of his and Iris remained silent, waiting, not sure if prompting him would send him skittering back into his brittle shell again.

“I know that I’ve said and done some truly shitty and unforgivable things, and I hope that we could possibly start over?”

“Oh, just a clean slate, you mean? Forget everything you did, move on, and pretend it never happened?” Must be great to be a guy like Trystan Abbott. How often did this work for him? Just wave the magic Zero Consequences wand and start over.

She shook her head, and gave a short, incredulous bark of laughter.

“I can’t simply forget what you did to me, Trystan. And right now, I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to forgive it, not after everything that has happened. But what I can do is set it aside for the duration of my stay here, if only to make life more tolerable for both of us. We don’t have to be friends, we don’t have to be anything. We just have to get through however long we have left here together and then move on with our lives. That would be simplest, I think.”

“What about the interview?”

“You don’t want to do it, I respect your decision.”

“And that’s it?”

“Frankly, I don’t care anymore. I just want this ordeal to end so that I can go home.”

He dipped his head and for once he was the one avoiding her eyes.

“Are you hungry?” he asked.

Thrown by the abrupt switch in topics, Iris blinked in confusion.

“What?”

“It’s only four in the morning, but you’ve slept for nearly twenty-four hours. You must be starving.”

It was ridiculously prosaic after the intensity of the last few minutes, but she was hungry and she did need to eat. And since she’d—only moments before—resolved to set the matter aside for now, she might as well focus on something she had some control over. Sulking and not talking to him would achieve nothing and exacerbate an already complicated situation.

“I am, yes.”

“I’ll whip up some breakfast,” he said. “Have a seat.”

“I could help,” she offered, and he eyed her for a moment, as if he were evaluating her condition. Eventually, he nodded.

“I’m making omelets. Why don’t you fix the coffee and toast and set the table?”

Happy to have something to do, she sprang into action.

They didn’t speak much while they each went about their individual tasks, but the silence between them was surprisingly companionable. Luna was asleep in her basket close to the back door, clearly disdainful of so much activity this early in the morning.

“Do you live with your family?” The question, coming as it did off the back of a nearly ten-minute-long silence between them, surprised Iris. She looked up from the mug of coffee she was pouring, but his back was to her as he fried the omelets.

“No. I share a flat with two women in Wandsworth. I’m shocked your comprehensive background check on me didn’t tell you that.” She couldn’t resist the barb.

“If it had, I wouldn’t be asking,” he responded evenly, before continuing. “Sharing for how long now?”

“Nearly three years.”

“And you get along with them?”

“For the most part. Nobody’s ever late with the rent, we’re respectful of each other’s space, we don’t nick one another’s stuff. It has worked out better than any of us imagined it would. Especially considering we were total strangers when we moved in together.”

“I shared an apartment with my mates Dazza—Darryl—and Quinny during and after college,” he volunteered the information freely, as he slid the omelets onto a couple of waiting plates on the counter next to the stove top. He carried the plates to the banquette, while Iris brought over the coffee and toast. “Those were some of the best years of my life.”

Once they were seated, he smiled fondly and continued speaking while he buttered a slice of toast. “Dazza’s the one who wrote and directed Night of the Killer Wētās. He went on to do some pretty amazing shit after that.”

“Are you talking about Darryl Constanza?” New Zealander Darryl Constanza was one of the most acclaimed directors in the world right now—three of his last eight movies had won best picture awards. Everybody knew that the two men were friends, and had been since childhood—when they’d met shortly after Darryl’s family had moved to Australia—Iris just hadn’t realized that Constanza had directed that terrible movie.

“Yeah, he’s a good mate.”

“He directed Wētās?”

“He went by the name Daz Stanza back then. He had aspirations of being an actor and thought it would be a cool stage name. Thank God he eventually listened to Quinny and me when we convinced him it was terrible. But the bastard is lucky, I will be forever associated with that movie, while he got off scot-free.”

“I didn’t realize you and Mr. Quinn went so far back,” Iris said, sipping her coffee.

“Yeah, he and Dazza are my best mates. They have been since we were kids. Quinny has a good head for business, and he managed both Dazza and me when we were starting out.”

“I feel like that’s something I should have known.”

“Not many people know. Quinny kept it on the down-low. He had his reasons back when we were up and coming, and after all these years there’s no point in revealing how close we really are.”

Iris mulled over his words, while Trystan watched her in that unnerving way of his. This time she called him out on it. “Why do you keep staring at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, like you’re mentally taking me apart to see what makes me tick, before very methodically putting me back together again.”

He cleared his throat and lifted his shoulders, his cheeks going red, and this time Iris was the one who stared as she tried to figure out what had triggered that reaction. He replied before she could work it out.

“I-I like looking at you.”

She gaped at him, jaw going slack, eyes popping, head tilted.

“I don’t understand,” she admitted, and he grinned.

“Nothing to understand, Hughes,” Trystan said. He sliced off a piece of omelet with the side of his fork and popped it into his mouth. He chewed slowly and deliberately, while Iris waited impatiently for him to elaborate. “I just like looking at you. You have a very interesting face, and I enjoy the way your individual features fit together.”

“And that’s why you keep staring at me?”

“Why else would I be doing it?”

“I don’t know… to unsettle me?”

He chuckled and took another bite of his omelet.

“From day one, I found you—I don’t know—enjoyable to look at. Your face is so expressive, with those doe eyes that project your every thought and feeling, and that mobile mouth that looks like a furled rose on the brink of blossoming, and I’m quite helpless to do anything but stare in absolute wonder.”

“I have a question,” she announced, choosing to ignore the inflammatory comments that had sent butterflies aflutter in her stomach. “I presume I’m allowed to ask questions without you immediately assuming I’m in interview mode?”

His lips twitched at her dramatic announcement and he waved a hand in her direction, inviting her to continue.

“Have you been able to contact Mr. Quinn this entire time?”

“The other evening—after movies—was the first time I’d tried. I didn’t reach him then,” he admitted. “He really is on a retreat. But he does periodically check his phone. Today, he answered immediately when I called—he’d been trying to return my call, but I’ve been a little distracted, as you know. I think he was hoping to hear I was ready to go back to work. He’s been pushing for this big publicity tour to promote Cryo Cop.”

Cryo Cop was Trystan’s upcoming movie—his and Trish Nesbitt’s—and it was premiering in a couple of months. Iris had had every intention of questioning him about the lack of publicity around the much-anticipated release in her now never-to-be interview. But it was Trish Nesbitt’s last movie and that, along with Trystan’s apparent disappearance, had already created a lot of buzz around the film.

Iris mulled over his words for a moment—they rang with sincerity—and she found herself believing him.

“I heard you accuse Mr. Quinn of using me to get you out of a rut,” she said. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s a meddling bastard who thinks that I just need to be shaken out of my funk before I’ll be ready to start working again.”

“And he thought I could do that?” Jeez, how deluded was Mr. Quinn? And why Iris? She was a perfectly ordinary woman, possessing none of the charms of the other women toward whom Trystan regularly seemed to gravitate. Then again, maybe she was looking at this the wrong way. Maybe that wasn’t the kind of diversion he meant— maybe he’d always intended for Iris to antagonize Trystan. Especially if he’d known who her father had been.

“To be fair,” Trystan said slowly, as he lifted his cup and took a long sip, leaving her hanging. He lowered the cup and eyed her squarely. “You’ve already done it. Have been doing it, are doing it right now. You’ve dragged me kicking and screaming out of—how did you put it?—out of the sads. And, for a gloriously satisfying instant, straight into the mads. With you here, all I’ve been able to think of was how much you annoy me, amuse me, entertain me. And I resented the hell out of you for that because I’m supposed to be here to wallow in my guilt and grief and misery. Not come up with flimsy excuses to keep spending time with you. And certainly not spend hours fantasizing about what it would be like to shut you up by kissing that perfect mouth.”

Uh, what?

“But…” How did she even respond to that? This was not something the Iris Hugheses of the world ever expected to hear from the Trystan Abbottses. In the end all she could come up with was a single-word question, “Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why me? Is it because you’ve been so alone and bored these last few months that you were ripe for a distraction?”

“Hardly,” he said, finishing off the last of his omelet. “You must know that you’re not the first person to have approached Quinny for an interview since the accident? He could have picked anyone else, if that were the case.”

“So, to Mr. Quinn, I was only some court jester to amuse his prized client out of the doldrums? What about the interview? He knew you didn’t want to do it, but he sent me here regardless? Where would that have left me? Professionally?” The magnitude of Hunter Quinn’s manipulation was staggering and infuriating.

“I don’t know how Quinny expected this to go. I don’t believe he thought it all the way through. But it is telling that he arranged for it to take place right when he was uncontactable,” Trystan said, but Iris wasn’t sure if she could trust him to tell the truth right now.

“Is this what rich and powerful men do for kicks?” she asked, her voice bitter. “Manipulate ordinary people like puppets?”

“Iris, if you’re referring to yourself as ordinary, I beg to differ.”

“You know nothing about me, Trystan,” she pushed her half-eaten plate of food aside and surged to her feet. “You’re so far removed from the real world and real people that I’m some kind of novelty to you. But that will quickly wear off and you’ll get bored. I’d sooner skip ahead to that part, if you don’t mind… it’ll save us both a whole lot of awkwardness. Thanks for breakfast. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to be alone.”