Chapter 9 Nisha
nine
nisha
Let Me Feed And Water You
One Year Ago
Isquint as the road curves upward into the hills, turning into a stretch of dark asphalt with nothing but scant shrubs flanking both sides and the lights of L.A. glittering somewhere in the distance.
He’d sent me the address, along with a message saying, The road will be a little windy, but don’t fret.
Don’t fret?
Don’t. Fret.
My maps app practically had a panic attack getting here, and he says, “Don’t fret”?
I spot the small turnout ahead and slow down. The tires of my SUV crunch gravel as I pull up next to a sleek black Escalade I assume is his car, given the two familiar faces of the men from his security team loitering around it like they’re coming off the set of Men in Black.
Both give me nods as I climb out of my car, wordlessly directing me toward a short wooden bridge that looks like it was built approximately five-point-two million years ago. The “guardrails” on this thing are frayed ropes that look like they’ll give out if a bird perches on them.
I lean forward, peering across the bridge for a sign of Patton before taking a tentative step. And if I die, I hope whoever recovers my body at least comments on my winged eyeliner technique, curved and pointed like a dagger.
Footsteps rustle on the other side, and a moment later, Patton emerges, smile stretched and those earthy eyes twinkling against the setting sun.
His gaze travels over the ribbed black tee that shows off my sleeve of tattoos, distressed black jeans tucked inside black combat boots, and my shoulder-length, stick-straight black hair waving in the breeze.
Patton drags his tongue over his bottom lip, slow and deliberate, and I don’t have to worry about whether I’m still his type. The desire in his expression says he’s still imagining me beneath him.
Moaning his name. Clawing at the sheets. Meeting him, thrust for thrust.
He’s the only one who’s ever made my body rev. The only one who’s ever held the keys.
I clear my throat, forcing away the memory. “Let me guess . . . you’ve been planning my murder for six years, and today’s my lucky day.”
He laughs, his voice low and rough, hitting me square in the chest. I’ll admit, it’s a sound I’ve been dying to hear. Not through his movies or his interviews. Not through the million videos I have of us on my phone from all those years ago. But in real life.
“Relax,” he says, striding across the suicide bridge like it’s the damn red carpet. He reaches for my hand, pulling me behind him like we haven’t just reunited after six years. Like I’m still his and this is all just normal. Like we didn’t just spend years missing our friendship or love.
I know I did.
A part of me, hardened by time and pride, wants to pull back and tell him that we don’t do this anymore. But the other part—the traitorous, hopeful, and a little slutty one—has always given in when it comes to him.
“I brought tacos,” he says while my eyes stay glued on our locked hands.
I take careful steps behind him, not daring to look down at the rocky creek a hundred feet below. I’m not scared of much, but there’s brave and there’s stupid. And right now, my one partially working brain cell is waving a red flag.
Patton turns to look over his shoulder at me. “Plus, if I wanted to kill you, this would be too cliché. I mean, give me more credit than that. I’d be way more creative.”
“Well, that’s refreshing to know.”
“I’d probably come over to your house and fuck up your color-coded closet, stab your seasonal throw pillows, and rip pages out of your neatly stacked magazines.”
I gasp. “So you’d kill me by giving me a heart attack. You’re a monster, Pierce.”
He chuckles again, and I remember how easily we used to make each other laugh.
“You won’t think I’m too big a monster when you see the margaritas I also brought.”
“Pineapple flavored?” I ask as we make it to the other side of the bridge.
“Uh, yeah. Do you take me for an amateur? It’s still your favorite, isn’t it?”
I give him a simple nod, but a bit of the ice I’d formed over the years loosens in my chest. The fact that he remembered something as simple as my favorite drink after all this time . . . It shouldn’t feel like a big deal, but it does.
I look up as I trail behind him, and that’s when I see the flannel blanket at the end of the cliff, secured by a couple of large rocks. In the middle of the blanket sits two bags of tacos I recognize from a food truck we used to frequent and a large cooler.
“Can’t believe Cheeky Mike still has his food truck,” I say, feeling breathless for reasons I don’t want to admit.
“He’s grown the business, actually. He has six or seven trucks all around town now.”
“His tacos were always my favorite.”
“I know,” he says, stopping at the edge of the blanket to share a meaningful look with me.
But that look is cut short at the sound of my stomach rumbling, making us both chuckle.
Patton waves at the blanket. “Come. Let me feed and water you.”
I laugh, recalling how he always said that to me when I was PMSing, hangry, or just stressed. It was so silly and stupid, but it was . . . us.
Taking my boots off, I reluctantly climb on, something inside my head telling me this—whatever this is—could be dangerous.
I haven’t seen or talked to the man since our divorce was settled, and now, just like that, he’s back in my life out of nowhere?
It’s just for a few hours, Nisha, says the slutty, sex-starved girl inside my head.
She’s the reason dreams of other hot Hollywood men turn into dreams about my ex-husband.
Just live a little, bitch. Like he said, he’s not asking for forever.
Not again. You can leave at any time, as long as you don’t die falling to that creek going back.
As Patton pours me a glass of margarita, I watch the tiny city lights dance like gems in the distance below us. The wind rustles through the short brush and trees, lifting my hair, and for a moment, everything feels . . . exactly how it should.
Patton plants himself beside me, handing me a taco and drink. Our thighs brush, and so do our forearms, as we eat and drink, sending little goosebumps racing across my skin that have nothing to do with the breeze.
“Did you know there’s no concrete origin story for the margarita?” Patton asks, taking a sip from his glass. “There are several theories; some say it was created during the American prohibition, and some say it was created by a bartender for a showgirl who was allergic to everything but tequila.”
I smile, studying the glass in my hand.
I’m not big on drinking, or on consuming anything that will loosen my grip over myself and my surroundings, not unless it’s for a special occasion. But one taste of a margarita, and all that sense and control goes down the drain. Or rather, my throat.
“I see you’re still a book of random historical facts.”
Patton smirks. “Well, I can’t coast through life on just a pretty face.”
I laugh, even though a part of me hates that he still knows how to pull that so easily from me. “I’m pretty sure you actually could.”
Patton smiles, and I marvel at the faint color that rises to his cheeks.
Even after all the fame and celebrity—literally being the face of billboards all over the world—he still doesn’t quite know how to take a compliment.
It’s a glimpse into the man behind the actor, the unsure and unguarded boy I once knew.
“So,” I say, chewing the last of my taco slowly. I’ve already finished off my second margarita and am feeling the effects. “Was this what you wanted? To seduce me with Cheeky Mike’s, a spectacular view, and margaritas?”
Patton taps my knee with his, taking a sip of his drink. “Is it working?”
“No,” I lie.
“Well, the night’s still young. Maybe that’ll change by margarita number three.”
“Or maybe you’ll just tell me where this is coming from, Patton. Especially after all this time.”
He shrugs, balling up his taco wrapper and tossing it into the brown bag. He secures a corner of the brown bag under the cooler, stopping it from blowing away.
“Like I said, I’ve missed you, Neesh. You’d asked me never to contact you, never to come chasing after you, and I’ve respected your wishes.
I’ve also been . . . working on myself.” He looks out over the clearing, his brown hair sexily tousled from the wind.
“I found out you were coming to town and decided to see if you’d give me a chance to talk to you.
I wanted to see how you were doing.” His eyes lock with mine again. “I wanted to see you.”
My mouth opens to respond. I want to ask him what about himself he’s been working on or who told him I was going to be here. But what comes out is, “I told you never to contact me, never to chase after me . . . and you just listened?”
Patton stares at me for a beat, seemingly flustered. I don’t blame the guy, because I’m more than a little flustered at my indecisiveness. I literally told the guy I didn’t want to rehash anything not even two hours ago, and here I am, asking him to do the very thing.
The thing is, I’ve always been the type of girl to say what I mean and mean what I say.
Always.
Except when it comes to Patton Pierce.
Back when we were together, I hadn’t fully grown into this independent, take no prisoners and speaks her mind version of myself.
I felt like an imposter in my own body, especially as it related to him, my up-and-coming Hollywood star husband.
How could a gorgeous man like him, who had every woman begging to have a place on his arm, want me?
How could I ever compete with all those other women? How could I ever deserve him? Who was I anyway?
And then, when he started to climb that stardom ladder, and our time together was often either cut short or interrupted with phone calls from his agent, his director, his producer, or even a cast member, I started to believe that maybe all my insecurities were correct.