Inescapable

Chapter 13

Iris remained in her room for the rest of that day and most of the following one. Luna had come scratching at the bedroom door about an hour after Iris’s awkward, silent breakfast with Trystan.

Iris had let the dog in and Luna was now stretched out on the bed—taking up pretty much all of the mattress space—and snoring away contentedly. Iris had retreated to the comfortable easy chair in the corner and, after updating her journal, had tried writing a few chapters. But her concentration was shot, and she couldn’t stop thinking about Trystan, and the things they had done to each other yesterday.

Worse, she couldn’t stop fantasizing about doing it, and so much more, again. Was she being foolish in denying them both what they so desperately wanted? Probably, but she couldn’t allow herself to be vulnerable around a man like Trystan Abbott. He would soon come to his senses and realize that everything she’d said was true. He didn’t really want her, he wanted what he thought she represented. And Iris didn’t think she’d be able to survive being carelessly discarded by him. He’d become too real to her.

Iris shook herself as she realized that she’d been staring into space for a good five minutes. She sighed and set aside her laptop, curling up in the chair with her knees tucked against her chest.

She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn’t hear the quiet knock on her door at first. Luna’s gentle woof snatched her back to reality and her head jerked up when the knock sounded again.

“Yes?” she called hoarsely. “Come in.”

The door opened and Trystan stepped into the room. Iris stared at him unblinkingly for a long, blank moment. He had shaved, and her stomach did a horrible flip-flop as she stared into that very familiar face. This was THE Trystan Abbott. And for a second, she felt a pang of loss that her Trystan had disappeared so completely… and then she finally saw it, the scar bisecting the clean line of his jaw. Without the beard it was more noticeable, a physical reminder of the accident that had killed Trish Nesbitt.

She dragged her eyes away from that still pink, slightly raised thin keloid. It sliced diagonally up from just below his Adam’s apple to the left corner of his mouth and Iris swallowed, her fingers literally twitching as she ached to touch him there, to soothe the wound that had almost completely healed, but for the physical reminder it had left behind. It did not detract one bit from his good looks. Where before his features had been perfect, Iris found that the scar simply added to his undeniable charismatic sex appeal.

“Iris?” He prompted, and she was snatched from her mooning, to meet his eyes. He looked self-conscious and achingly vulnerable; his eyes filled with naked fear.

“Trystan, it’s?—”

“It’s Quinny,” he interrupted, his voice harsh. “For you. He says he can’t reach you on your phone.” She noticed only then that he held his mobile phone out to her.

“I lost my phone. That night.” She didn’t have to elaborate—he’d know exactly which night she meant. She was confused and out of sorts, still distracted by the scar. She took the phone from him and he immediately retreated, slamming out of the room.

She sighed. Well, that was something that would need to be resolved quickly. He clearly had the wrong idea about why she’d been staring.

She lifted the phone and was surprised to see Hunter Quinn’s face on screen. She hadn’t expected a video call.

She schooled her features into neutrality, even though her face wanted to default into a pissed-off scowl.

“Yes?” she barked, unable to keep the annoyance from her voice.

“Miss Hughes, I see you’ve been trying to reach me and?—”

“You knew I would be trying to reach you once your client discovered that I’d shown up on his doorstep unannounced and you chose to go on some stupid silent retreat right when I was due to arrive here. I’m pretty sure that the timing wasn’t a coincidence.”

He stared at her, clearly taken aback by her immediate offensive. Before now, she’d been nothing but polite and professional toward him.

“This entire situation has been sorely lacking in professionalism, and I must say I’m very disappointed in you, Mr. Quinn. You allowed me to walk into this situation like a lamb into the wolf’s den. Do you even know what hell I’ve been through since arriving here?”

“Trystan has informed me, yes.” His voice and demeanor were surprisingly subdued and that disconcerted Iris. She’d expected suave apologies, schmoozing, spin-doctoring, but what she got was, “I’m so sorry, Miss Hughes, I was out of line. So was Trystan. I should never have put you in this position. It was unconscionable. And you’re right, it was unprofessional. I was just—” He swallowed and shook his head almost helplessly. “I mean, you’ve seen him. I don’t know… I’m not sure how to fix it.”

“What did you think sending me here would accomplish?”

He scrubbed a hand over his mouth.

“You have a sincerity, an earnestness that I thought would appeal to him.”

“Did you think I’d fall into bed with him, and somehow seduce him out of his depression?”

“What?” He looked genuinely shocked. “No. Nothing like that. I simply hoped that he’d respond to your—well, there’s no easy way to put it— you appeared to hero-worship him. It was sweet, so fucking pure and innocent and I wanted to remind him that there were people like you out there, people who enjoyed his work. I hoped he’d remember everything he used to love about his job.”

“The adulation, you mean?” she asked cynically, and he shook his head.

“No, in the beginning, he took real joy in what he did. He hasn’t in a long time, since before the accident. You seem to carry that joy with you. And I’d hoped he would recognize it, respond to it… and—yeah—it was fucking stupid. I used you. And it was wrong. Rest assured, Trystan has already torn me a new one and . . .” His deep blue eyes shadowed and a flicker of sadness crossed his face. “Well, there will be consequences for my actions. I just wanted to sincerely apologize to you. Whatever story you decide to write?—”

“There won’t be a story.”

“What?”

“Trystan refused to do the interview, and I won’t write about him if he doesn’t want me to.”

“You could still write about your stay with?—”

“No. I can’t. I won’t. If he wants privacy, that’s what he’ll be getting from me. That’s what he should have gotten from you.”

He had the grace to look ashamed, and his eyes were downcast as he nodded. When he lifted his gaze again, he had the tiniest of smiles on his lips.

“I was right about you, though,” he said. “You’re good for him. This is the first time in a long time I’ve seen him so passionate about anything. And even though it meant him ripping me a new asshole and firing me, it was worth it just for that. Because, regardless of what you may think of me, Miss Hughes, I love him. He’s one of my best friends, and I’m glad to see some of that spark back in him.”

“Wait, he fired you? But?—”

He smiled again. “Goodbye, Miss Hughes.”

The screen went blank before she could say anything in response to that. She stared at the phone for a long moment before shaking her head and swearing beneath her breath.

She surged to her feet and stalked out of the room in search of Trystan.

She found him in the solarium, hands in the pockets of yet another pair of obscenely butt-hugging gray sweatpants, staring out at the lake.

“You idiot,” she launched into him as soon as she caught sight of him, and he turned to face her in surprise. She marched right up to him and thrust the phone against his chest.

He took it automatically and stared at her in consternation as she planted her hands on her hips and glared up at him.

“You fired your best friend? Why?”

“Why?” he repeated, his voice incredulous. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

“Of course I am. He has your best interests at heart, he cares about you. Yes, he’s an idiot, but that’s no reason to fire him.”

“Iris, you nearly died the other night!”

“I’m well aware of that,” she retorted. “But Mr. Quinn isn’t the reason I was out in that storm.”

“He might not be directly responsible, and ninety-nine-point nine percent of the blame lies on my shoulders. I know that, but that one percent falls on him, and that’s unacceptable to me.”

“Trystan, he’s your friend.”

“And you’re my—” He cut himself off, staring at her in mute frustration, clearly not sure how to end that sentence.

“I’m your nothing,” she finished it for him. “No, that’s not right, I’m your unwanted guest. A complete stranger to you and as such, you had no way of knowing I’d react the way I did.”

“You tried to tell me.”

“To be honest”—and Iris was always honest to a fault. It would be so easy to keep blaming and punishing him, he might even deserve it, but that wasn’t who she was—“It had never been that bad before. Even I didn’t know I’d react like that.”

“But you did react like that, sweetheart. And that’s on me. And on Quinny for sending you here in the first place. He knew I wasn’t myself, knew I was irritable and unreasonable. Before coming here I’d been unfairly ripping into—and snapping and snarling at—everyone around me. He had no reason to believe I’d behave any differently with you. I can’t trust his judgment anymore. Not after Trish and now this.”

She sighed and her gaze roamed over his face, coming to rest on that scar on his jaw. He lifted a self-conscious hand to it and she shook her head, her own hand intercepting his and pulling it away from his face.

“Don’t,” she implored and he stood there, raw dread and insecurity in his eyes, as he allowed her to look at him. After a long moment, she ran trembling fingertips over the raised flesh and he leaned helplessly into her touch. “I knew this was there, I saw it after you trimmed the beard. I didn’t recognize the extent of the damage until you shaved though.”

He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing convulsively and betraying his apprehension.

“Are you going to have it surgically removed?” she asked and his eyes flickered, before he shook his head.

“Why not?”

“Trish can’t get her life back, why the fuck should I get my face back?”

Iris sucked her lower lip into her mouth and kept her gaze locked onto his before she sighed and took his hand again.

“Come,” she urged, tugging him toward a sofa. “Sit with me.”

He followed almost passively and sat down next to her. She turned to face him, her eyes probing his troubled gaze again.

“Did you love her?” She held her breath, not really wanting to know and yet needing to.

“Love her?” he repeated. “Who? Trish?”

“Yes.”

His eyes darkened and he shook his head resolutely. His denouncement was immediate and unequivocal “No. Absolutely not.”

Well, denials didn’t get more vehement than that, and Iris felt a heady sense of relief, which didn’t last long when he continued with, “But maybe I should’ve and that’s the problem.”

“Explain.” He hesitated and she squeezed his hand. “Please, Trystan, I want to understand what’s going on with you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re hurting and I want to know how to make it better.”

His mouth trembled and shockingly his eyes flooded with moisture. He blinked rapidly, looking self-conscious about the moment of vulnerability.

“In light of everything that has happened between us and everything that I’ve done to you, Iris, you might have difficulty believing this,” he said, his voice choked. “But you make it better just by being here.”

Oh God, how the hell was she supposed to resist this man when he said things like that?

“Please tell me what happened with Trish.” She wasn’t sure he would, and so was surprised and relieved when he started speaking without even the slightest of hesitations.

“We met while working on Cryo Cop.” Iris nodded. This was common knowledge; the press had been abuzz about the apparent chemistry between two of Hollywood’s brightest and most beautiful stars. And then, when they’d started dating just a few short months later everyone had been speculating about secret weddings and possible pregnancies. The rumor mill had been agog, the paparazzi had stalked them and their star appeal had gone through the roof.

“Trish and I got along, we enjoyed each other’s company, we had fun and had some great on-screen chemistry… then her manager and Quinny decided a good way to generate buzz for the movie would be to fabricate a behind-the-scenes romance between us. That was all it was at first, a little light flirtation in public, a few dinners, being seen out together, attending functions as a couple. Nothing serious, just enough to fuel public interest. One night, it got physical. I drove her home, and we fell into bed together.” Iris nodded, swallowing down a wave of nausea at the thought of him with the beautiful Trish Nesbitt, which was ridiculous since she’d known about their relationship. “I immediately knew that it was a mistake. We were colleagues, friends. And I didn’t want sex muddling that up. It felt wrong, and very uncomfortable. I was on autopilot, y’know? Insert tab A into slot B type of shit, just going through the motions. But she seemed so into it. I kept asking her if it was okay, if she was sure because I didn’t feel like it was okay and I absolutely wasn’t sure about it. And… fuck, I should have called a halt to it. I don’t know why I didn’t.

“Safe to say it was the world’s most mediocre sex, for both of us. From beginning to end I just wanted it to be over and I couldn’t understand why I felt that way. Afterward, we had an awkward discussion about our relationship boundaries. And we agreed that it could never happen again. Well, I thought she agreed with me. But after that she was—I don’t know—more physical in public, more brazen with her hands and mouth. I was surprised. Shocked. So fucking uncomfortable. She was such a great woman, she appeared so grounded and stable. But—” His head moved, a short jerk of denial, as if he were still trying to wrap his head around these memories.

“The night of the accident we were at a premiere party, and as we pulled up she told me she was in love with me.” His brow lowered and his eyes went distant, as if he were so immersed in his memories that he no longer saw Iris. “It came out of left field. I was shocked and, as a result, I wasn’t as kind as I should have been. At that point, I’d been trying to ease out of the agreement with her for weeks. I’d spoken to Quinny about how we could end it. I knew she was getting too emotionally invested. And I tried to be sensitive of her feelings, but then she started showing up at my home, and once she even crawled into my bed while I was asleep, for fuck’s sake!

“We’d made the commitment to go to the party together months before, and I didn’t want to humiliate her by not showing up. But by then, the situation had escalated so badly, I knew it had to be our last social event together. I’d told Quinny and her manager beforehand, told them I was ready for a public break-up. They could paint me as the bad guy, I didn’t fucking care. I was done.”

He made a quiet, despairing sound in the back of his throat, his hand tightening around hers almost to the point of pain, but Iris said nothing, not wanting to distract him.

“The night of the party, after she told me she loved me, I slammed out of the car and dragged her to a private room. Once there, I told her I didn’t feel the same way, that I never would. That she was delusional if she thought what we’d had was in any way real. I was . . . cruel. But I was frantic by then. I didn’t know how to handle the situation any longer. She was a fellow professional. I tried to respect that, but her behavior frightened me. I felt stalked. Hunted.

“She went eerily calm after I exploded. She apologized for misunderstanding the situation and I thought, ‘Finally, she gets it. Thank God.’ I thought that was that. We left the room and spent the party doing separate things. We’d gone in my car, and I felt obligated to drive her home. When we were both ready to leave, she offered to drive because I’d had a couple of drinks. I agreed because I wasn’t in the mood for another confrontation. But once we were in the car her demeanor changed.

“She went from relatively pleasant to almost catatonic and, I don’t know, I can’t describe it. I’d never seen anything like that in my life before. She was lifeless, almost robotic. And she was speeding. I wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t even slightly buzzed. I was sober, but like I said, I’d agreed to let her drive because she was insistent and I didn’t want another argument. I just wanted to get the evening over and done with and move on with my life.

“I told her to slow down. It was about three in the morning. The roads were empty…”

He stopped speaking, again getting that faraway blank look in his eyes.

“Trystan?” Iris whispered. Her voice jerked him from wherever he’d gone and his eyes were tormented as they swept over her face.

He gulped in a breath of air like a man deprived of oxygen, and when he spoke again his voice was shaky, almost reedy.

“I haven’t told anyone else,” he admitted. “Not even Quinny or Dazza. It was just… so—” His words failed him and his lips thinned as he retreated into silence again. Not for long though and this time she didn’t have to prompt him. He continued as though compelled to. “She told me she loved me. That I belonged to her. That if she couldn’t have me n-no one else could, then she jerked the steering wheel and drove the car straight into a tree.”

The silence was broken only by his harsh gasping breaths. Iris, however, found herself quite unable to breathe as the shock of his words stole the air from her lungs and left her reeling in horror.

She desperately cast about for something—anything—to say, but he spoke before she could, “It wasn’t at all how I’d imagined something like that would be. Like the movies”—his mouth twisted in irony—“make it seem. I was fully aware throughout it all. I was in pain, bleeding, I knew something was wrong with my face, but the shock kept me from recognizing the full extent of my injury.”

His fingers absently brushed over his scar. “They told me the shard of glass that caused this missed my carotid by half an inch. But I didn’t know that at the time, of course. I didn’t care about me right then. I was more concerned about Trish and she was—” His face spasmed in grief and horror, and Iris’s hands went up to cup his jaw, her thumb tracing the ridge of his scar. “Trish was groaning, her face and head were…” He shook his head and made a low, despairing sound, as if he were reliving the moment. “I couldn’t help her, my arms felt like lead. I tried to reach for her, to stem the bleeding, but she was gone seconds later. And even then, I didn’t pass out. I wish I had, but I remained conscious, trapped with her corpse until the rescue services arrived. I was told it was under five minutes. It felt like five hours. The first person to arrive was a pap…” Now it was Iris’s turn to moan in horror. “He took pictures while I begged him to call an ambulance. To this day I’m not sure if he was the one who called 911 or not. The rest you know. Trish died. And I lived. But there were times”—his voice was bleak and Iris wanted to stop him from saying what she knew he would say next. Only, her throat had seized up and her eyes were blurry with tears and when he said the inevitable, her horror emerged on a broken sob—“there were times I desperately wished I hadn’t lived. Because having her death on my conscience is eating away at my soul.”

“Trystan, no,” she moaned, her face wet with tears. She leaned toward him and pressed her lips to his for a brief, heartfelt kiss. “Please, don’t say that. You didn’t kill her, her death does not belong on your conscience.”

“I knew she was troubled, Iris, I should have helped her. But all I could think of was getting her the hell away from me. I should have left her alone. I should never have slept with her when she was so broken.”

“You didn’t know. How could you have?”

“I can’t forgive myself for not seeing it until it was too late. I felt like the worst kind of abuser. She was vulnerable and I used her.”

“You had consensual sex, there was no coercion or manipulation involved. Did you make any promises to her when you got together?”

His eyes flickered uncertainly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean did you talk about having a long-term or permanent relationship with her?”

“No, from the very beginning we were clear on it being a promotional stunt. When it got intimate, we both agreed afterwards that it shouldn’t have happened,” he tilted his head as if he was remembering something. “In fact, Trish was the one who instigated the sex. When I protested beforehand that we were making a mistake, she kissed me and said something along the lines of, ‘If only all mistakes could be such harmless fun.’ That’s what she called it, harmless fun.” His lips twisted at the memory. “I came here to try and make sense of it all, get my head straight, think about where I go from here.”

“You didn’t come here to do more than that, did you?” she asked because it needed to be asked, but his look of shock and horror gave her the answer before he could verbalize it.

“No, sweet, of course not. I was angry at myself, the world, at Quinny for coming up with the idea of faking a relationship with her in the first place. And I dreaded anything to do with Cryo Cop. All interviews would center around Trish, the accident, my relationship with her. Her manager wanted me to claim that we were engaged. Can you fucking believe that? Quinny told him to fuck off and threatened to sue him if he leaked the lie. I was grateful for that at least because at the time I just wanted to be left the fuck alone. I still do.”

“And then I came along and disturbed your peace,” Iris murmured, absolutely appalled. It was so much worse than she’d ever believed.

“No, Iris, then you came along and I finally started to feel alive again. And yeah, I’m not gonna lie, it pissed me the hell off. I’d gotten so used to walking around feeling half-dead, that when this wet, bedraggled little dynamo showed up at my door, screaming about wolves and cliffs and dying phone batteries, I was unprepared for the fucking jolt of electricity straight to my heart. You woke me up, and I didn’t like it. And to my eternal shame, I treated you dreadfully as a result. Suddenly I was starting to feel things again. Things like irritation, amusement, curiosity, desire, and fear. And that unsettled me. It fucking terrified me.

“When you ran off into the storm, I knew that I’d failed you as well. Once again, I’d missed the signs… no, this time I’d willfully ignored them. I could have gotten you killed too and that fucking destroys me, Iris. It felt like that night with Trish all over again. Only so much worse because you’re someone I’ve come to care for a great deal in an absurdly short span of time. I know you think I’m making that shit up, or that I’m craving normalcy or whatever the fuck bullshit you said earlier, but it’s more than that, Iris. You make me feel—” He paused as if he were searching for the correct word, then he smiled, a small, beautiful smile and repeated it, this time with a period at the end, “You make me feel.”

She sobbed, and her replying smile was a tearful, trembling mess.

“Trystan,” she whispered. “I’m not Trish Nesbitt, I’m nothing like her. I allowed my phobia to get the better of me, and responded in an irrational manner. I didn’t go out into that storm to kill myself; on the contrary, it was an illogical act of self-preservation. I’m so sorry it triggered memories of that awful night for you.”

“No, sweet, you don’t ever apologize to me for that night. Never, you hear me? It wasn’t your fault.”

“Oh, Trystan,” she murmured, her lips curling into a sweet smile. He leaned forward and then stayed the movement, his mouth a breath away from hers.

He waited and Iris closed the gap, her lips making contact with his in a soft, hungry kiss. His hands tunneled into her hair as he pulled her head closer to feast on her mouth.

When they came up for air again, she was straddling his lap and his lips were suckling at the sensitive skin of her neck.

“Iris, baby,” he groaned against her skin. “I want to fuck you.”

She moaned helplessly and thrust herself against him.

“No,” he whispered, tugging at her hair to pull her head back, exposing more of her neck to his hungry lips. “I want to do much more than that. I want to love you. Will you let me do that, Iris? Will you let me love you?”

“Yes,” she breathed, while his lips explored the sensitive skin of her throat.

“Thank Christ because I fucking ache for you,” he whispered to Iris, who was enthusiastically grinding herself up against his big, thick shaft.

“Show me how much you ache for me, Trystan,” she encouraged and he growled deep in his throat, before getting up and lifting her in the process. It was yet another thrilling show of strength that reminded her of the time he’d picked her up in the shed—what felt like months ago—and she squealed in delight, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and her legs around his waist as he carried her toward his bedroom.

Luna, who’d been sleeping in the kitchen, got up to follow them, but Trystan commanded her to stay, as he very quickly made his way to the bedroom and gently deposited Iris onto his king-sized bed.

“God, the colors you wear are seriously blinding,” he said with a half-laugh, taking in her electric blue long-sleeved T-shirt, which she’d combined with a pair of fluorescent pink leggings and neon yellow leg warmers. “You’re an ‘80s throwback.”

“Keep it up, mate, and you’ll be getting no nookie.” She stretched luxuriously on his bed, parting her thighs slightly in invitation.

He laughed, the sound lighthearted and filled with joy.

“You always look beautiful, no matter how brightly adorned you are,” he told her, settling between her thighs, his erection hot and heavy against the crotch seam of her leggings.

He kissed her and she sighed in contentment, opening her mouth for his tongue and languidly returning his kiss, stroke for stroke. Her hands burrowed beneath his black Nirvana T-shirt, finding the smooth, taut skin beneath and exploring the perfect musculature of his back and chest.

“You’re beautiful too,” she whispered after he let her up for a breath. She ran her lips over his freshly shaved jaw, and sighed as his stubble scraped against the sensitive skin around her mouth.

“Why’d you shave?” she asked and he lifted his head at the question, his gaze probing.

“Don’t you like it?” He sounded genuinely dismayed at the prospect and she laughed softly.

“Trystan, you have to know you’re gorgeous with or without the beard. I’d just grown used to it, and I felt like it was a version of you only I got to see. This Trystan is instantly recognizable and beloved by millions?—”

“Fuck the millions,” he interrupted harshly. “I’d rather be beloved by one.”

“But that’s not your reality.”

“It is if that one is the only one who truly matters to me.”