Page 84 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“Did he know you’d be there?”
“He knew I’d started working for Brad, but—”
“Youwhat? Since when?”
“Since yesterday morning, and don’t ask.” I groan and rest my chin on my knees. “Turns out, the devil’s spawn has a cute smile and abs to die for, but really ugly ethics.”
“Complete dickhead, is he? Well, I could have told you that,” she says sternly. “No self-respecting brother would have moved on you that fast. Mind you, he’s technically a Dalton, and between them they’ve screwed most of Hollyw—” She cuts off when she sees my face. “Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.”
“Doesn’t matter anymore.”Yes, it does.“Jake can screw who he likes.”No, he can’t.The thought of his mouth on someone else’s body makes me feel sick.
“You need to go to him,” she says, taking my hand and squeezing gently. “One last time. All in. You need to tell him everything. You have to make him understand.”
I’m arriving at the same conclusion myself. One problem. My thoughts and actions have very different pain receptors. “What would I even say to him? How do I start? ‘Thanks for the amazing sex, but sorry for punching you in the face and then siding with your arch nemesis. Oh, and let me tell you all about my fucked up past while we’re at it. Better still, I’ll write it down so you’ll never forget—’ ” I stop mid-rant. My mind is working overtime. “Lucy, where’s my laptop bag?” I ask suddenly.
She frowns at my abrupt turnaround. “Try the lounge—no, the kitchen. I think I saw it under the table.”
She joins me as I’m emptying the contents of my laptop bag all over the kitchen floor tiles. She sits down on a nearby chair and opens up a can of diet coke. “What are you looking for?”
“A letter.”
“What sort of letter?”
“This letter!” I say triumphantly as my fingers close around the white envelope that Jake stuffed there during our naked disagreement in Marrakech. I have to jostle it free—it’s become entangled with an old shooting script and my laptop charger. When I do, I’m hit by a wave of memories.
I’m back in that suite in Morocco. I can smell the candle wax and hear the cicadas underneath our bedroom window. I can feel the raw heat of his body lying next to me, moving inside me…
“Aren’t you going to open it?” Lucy stands up and peers over my shoulder to get a better look, cocking her head to read the writing.
Am I?
With trembling fingers, I rip the small envelope apart, collapsing into her empty chair as I do.
Letters are like apologies for me, Books. They’re only produced in rare circumstances or under extreme duress, yet here I find myself backed into a corner on both accounts. I fucked up last night when I said I didn’t trust you, and when I fuck up, I make things right. I find myself compelled to always make things right with you because somehow you make everything all right with me.
No declarations or proclamations. I know words are your thing, but I’m going to keep this simple: forgive me. Come and find me.
I’ll make it worth your while.
“This is from Jake, isn’t it?” whispers Lucy.
I nod and let the paper part from my fingertips. A splinter of hope is lodging deep within my thoughts.Are his words still relevant even after everything that’s happened?
“Charlie?” She’s studying me closely, trying to gauge my reaction, her avid gaze raking across my skin like sharp talons. “What are you going to do?”
There’s only one thing I can do.
“I’m going back to L.A.” I tell her.
It’s my turn to make everything right this time.
Chapter Forty-Eight
I’m sitting in a hotel chair next to a window some thirty-four floors up, hugging my knees again and gazing out at the lights of Hollywood. In the bed next to me, Lucy is out for the count and snoring softly.
She insisted on coming. There was no way she was missing out on all the excitement. She’s even managed to wrangle an interview with Matt Damon to justify the entire trip on expenses.
At the airport I sent a message to Rachel saying I needed a few days away. I feel bad for ditching her without a proper explanation, and I can just imagine Max wringing his hands in glee at my apparent career suicide.
