Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
It took Charline longer to get out of her house than she’d planned.
Of course, because she’d had the foresight of a mole and had to mention her engagement to her mother and sister.
She was lucky they let her out at all—except that she was going to see her betrothed.
She’d promised to return later that night even though Suzette insisted she should stay over.
Shoving her car into reverse, Charline wished she were driving an Austin-Healey or something fast. Then she could race around and take out all the frustration and worry and anxiety on a car and a road.
But that wasn’t her. She wasn’t reckless. Or she hadn’t been until recently.
Taking a deep breath, she pulled onto the street with her usual caution.
She could do this. She could handle it—all of it.
Her need to see Trent right now ballooned to desperation.
He was the only person in the world she could talk to right now about everything and she desperately needed to talk, to share the crushing burden of her predicament, of their predicament.
Who are you kidding, Charline—your heart isn’t pounding in your chest because you’re anticipating talking to him. Talking has nothing to do with it. It was like her sister’s voice inside her head, bringing her to ground.
Charline stepped heavily on the gas without thinking and drove well over the speed limit the short distance in the light traffic to see Trent.
By the time she arrived, her nerves were so keyed-up and vibrating with tension that she felt like a tuning fork.
It was true. She was driven by more than a desperate need to talk about their shared predicament.
She needed to finish what they’d started on his couch that day.
Desperately. There was something about him that captivated her, took hold of her and wouldn’t let go.
But being with him was the one thing she should absolutely not do.
Not when they had this business, this nasty secret between them.
The game film of their upcoming opponent played on the computer screen in front of him but he couldn’t remember the number of the defensive tackle he was supposed to watch out for.
His concentration was shit. Picking up the tall glass of ice water, he checked his watch and stood, automatically rolling his shoulders to un-bunch them.
Wandering from his dining room table where he’d been sitting, he glanced fleetingly at his couch.
And thought of her, giving his nerves a jump of excitement and anxiety and foreboding all at once.
When the hell was she going to get there?
And why the hell had he asked her to come over?
Aside from the obvious and unwise answer to that question, he forced himself to acknowledge his fear.
Fear about what he’d gotten himself into and how much he’d put at risk if anyone found out.
That had to be why he so desperately needed to see her, to be with her.
He needed reassurance. He needed comfort.
He needed her more than anyone he could remember needing in a very long time.
The door buzzer spun him around and he put the undrunk glass of ice water on the counter as he rushed to open the door. He didn’t bother asking the doorman who it was first. If it was some lucky bastard guy from the press, so be it.
It wasn’t. It was Charlie.
He opened the door wide and she stood on the threshold and they looked at each other. Not smiling. No pleasure, no questions, no explanations. Mutual raw need in every nerve leapt across between them, bouncing around and making him sweat and making his heart pound and his stomach clench.
He closed his eyes, stepped aside and turned from her to walk back down the hall ahead of her.
He hit the living room and headed toward the massive wall of windows overlooking the Charles River.
It glittered with lights reflecting and decorating the night, dressing it up as if there was a perpetual party going on around him.
Perfect. He didn’t stop walking until he stood two feet from the windows where the door was cut into it, giving him access to a balcony.
He thought of going outside, needed air and felt a need to escape.
He assumed she followed behind him, but she hadn’t said a word and might have turned back around and left after the reception he’d given her.
Forcing himself to turn, to confront her, his need, and his demons all at once, he faced her.
She stood a few feet away, stock-still and watching him. Wary and needy and worried and—something else.
“Are you all right? What’s the matter?” he said.
It was that vulnerable look she had. It made him take a step toward her, to let all the rest of it drop away.
“I could ask you the same thing.” She looked past him to the window with such an expression that he stepped closer and took her into his arms.
“No jumping. You need to see this through. We both do.” He quirked his mouth to lighten his statement. To relieve the tension. It didn’t work.
She looked back up at him without a smile and said, “My boss is blackmailing me.”
She didn’t tell him her mother was dying a slow, agonizing death. She didn’t tell him her sister was doomed to the same fate, that both her mother and sister were counting on her to save them. That her father had asked her from his deathbed in a dying wish to save them, to find a cure.
Everyone counted on her and the pressure was crushing.
Not entirely true. She didn’t tell him that the pressure came from her counting on herself to save them, to find the miracle cure. She didn’t explain that she had set out to do the impossible and now, on the eve of a breakthrough, everything was going wrong.
And most of all she didn’t tell him that he was the monkey wrench in it all.
Not entirely true.
She’d sabotaged herself the minute she stole those vials. And that’s what she needed desperately to tell him. Now.
“What the hell? Blackmailing you? Who—the director of research?” He sounded as outraged as she might have hoped on her behalf and that made her smile.
He hadn’t accused her of overdramatizing or, hell, of making it all up.
She wanted to tell him how grateful she was for that, but couldn’t find the words.
He prompted, “Don’t give me your sad little smile—you look like a brave little martyr and it kills me.”
“What then?”
“Tell me. Give me the answers. What the f—ck are you talking about? Blackmail?”
He didn’t say, “Blackmail for what?” because she figured he knew and wanted her to deny it. He knew. Amazingly he knew that she’d stolen the serum without being told.
She stood mute and gave the smallest nod of her head possible.
“Are you shitting me? You didn’t?” He withdrew his hands from her arms and backed up, brushed one hand through his hair and put the other on his hip.
“I stole the serum. I took four vials—about a hundred doses—to bring home for my mother and sister and lied about having an accident and losing it to breakage. My boss, Dr. Hogarth, is no dummy. He doesn’t know—but he’s guessed, speculated and he’s not above using it against me.
He suspects me because he knows my mother is sick. But I haven’t confessed.”
“You just did.” His voice sounded flat and defeated. She dared a look at him and saw the disappointment.
“My mother and sister are both sick. They have dermatomyositis.”
He snapped his eyes to hers and held for a long moment. Then he came to her and she leaned in against him.
“I’m sorry, Charlie. So sorry.”
“You know what it is? What it does?”
“Yes.”
She squeezed her eyes shut and willed herself not to cry, certainly not for herself.
For her mother and sister, for what they would face if she couldn’t get them this treatment, if the treatment didn’t work.
They faced progressive muscle weakness involving the muscles closest to the trunk, in the hips, thighs, shoulders, upper arms, and neck.
The weakness would gradually worsen. The cause was unknown, but the disease had much in common with autoimmune disorders, in which the immune system mistakenly attacked body tissues.
Small blood vessels in muscular tissue were particularly affected in dermatomyositis, eventually destroying the muscle fibers.
If the condition affects the chest muscles, there may be breathing problems, such as shortness of breath and heart muscle inflammation and in some cases lead to congestive heart failure.
But lung disease and scarring was more likely and the risk of developing cancer all over the body, increased with age.
She was close to realizing her breakthrough.
This drug trial would make or break her research.
She would see it through. Blackmail be damned.
She just needed to lean for a minute, to lean into Trent’s strength, his solidness, his simplicity.
She tried keeping the feelings of shame from creeping in, from ruining the moment of solace, the warmth and comfort in his arms. She breathed in the headiness of his scent, his closeness, and let out the relief she felt in a shudder.
His hands stroked her back, his lips caressed her hair, his breath warmed her cheek and neck as he dipped his head and whispered soft words.
He wrapped his arms closer and his body’s hard strength and heat surrounded her.
The clenched muscles in her chest and gut gave way as if a spring had been released and her breathing eased.
“I don’t know how we’re going to deal with this, Charlie,” he said. “Not yet. But we will.” He pulled back and she looked into his intense eyes. A shudder of tension and dread went through her.
“It’s not your problem.”
“Last week it wasn’t my problem, but today,” he paused a beat, hefting a breath.
Then he continued with a determined hard line to his mouth, “Today it is very much my problem. Today—and for the foreseeable future—your problems are my problems.” They separated fully then, both of them pulling back in unspoken synchronization like a pair of dancers practiced in mirroring their moves.
“Why are you doing this, Trent?”
“Doing what?”
“The treatment? You don’t need this. You could finish out the season and retire.”
“I doubt it.”
“Doubt what?”
“That I could finish the season.”
“You could sit on the bench and finish the season and ride off into the sunset with a spectacular career behind you and start the next phase of your life.”
Bile kicked up and the overwhelming urge to puke reared up so that he turned away.
He bent over and willed it to pass. Her words slammed him, rolled around in his gut, and no amount of squeezing his eyes shut, bunching his shoulders, and willing every nerve in his body to calm down saved him from the sickening feeling.
“Are you okay?” She put a hand on his back and reached with her other to touch his face, like a doctor or a lover.
He wasn’t sure which, but either way he wrenched away from her.
No way would she understand. He barely understood himself.
A slimy sweat covered his skin and he didn’t want her touching it.
Didn’t want her to know how pathetic he was.
“I’m fine. I’m not ready.” He had no more explanation. He didn’t know why he couldn’t let go. Could not even think the words she’d said aloud. Start the next phase of your life.
He didn’t talk or think about it. No need to think about the inevitable, only a need to avoid it for as long as possible. Avoided it like death. It would be like a death for him. The Trent Lockheed he’d been since he could remember would be gone. He had no idea who would take his place.
She left him alone. He could feel her judgment weighing on him, unspoken. But it wasn’t her, it was all in his head. She couldn’t think he was pathetic, not any more pathetic than she was, anyway. They were a pair. A needy. Pathetic. Pair.
And spectacular. They were world class in their fields, accomplished and poised to take the world by storm.
If her miracle drug tested well, she could accomplish all her dreams. If the drug worked on him, he could accomplish his dream.
A third Super Bowl win would clinch a place in the Hall of Fame for him, while his father was still alive.
He could give his dad the one thing he’d worked for, the one last final proof that he’d made the right choice in his life. If the old man’s pacemaker held out.
If he and Charlie could hold on, if they could carry off this drug trial, see it to the end.
If no one found out about their deception.