Page 45 of The Cruiser
“While you’re at it, can you call off Flynn? She’s on me like a pit bull on a steak. I’m just getting some clothes out of my own fucking house.”
The phone goes dead and I’m stewing hard when I notice Morgan has slipped in beside me, unseen.
“Everything all right?” he asks.
“Oh, you scared me! Yes, I’m fine,” I say, fake and bright. “That was, uh, my maid calling. She couldn’t find the vacuum.”
I pump up my smile, but Morgan’s not buying the brittle show of teeth. “Why don’t you take a break?” he suggests. “It’s been a long day. Mielo’s about to leave and the last meeting isn’t important. The awards show doesn’t start until seven.”
“I can stay. It’s not a problem.”
He leans against the railing, not letting go of my eyes. At the best of times, I’m a horrible liar and overcompensate when I do try. I can tell he’s working out what to say next, and I start randomly counting the quiet seconds to calm myself. I’m at five when he reaches for my left hand, fisted against my thigh. His touch rattles every nerve and I react with a jolt. All day, I watched his graceful fingers wrapped around a sleek Montblanc as he scribbled notes and sketches. Remembered the violent plunge of them deep into my flesh last night.
“I appreciate your diligence, Vandana,” he says. “Among other things.”
Slowly, he spreads my fingers apart like he’s untying the knot in my heart. A circling storm in my throat makes it difficult to breathe. At this point in my life, I’ve gotten used to being the comforter, not the comfortee, but deep down there’s nothing more I crave than understanding. That it’s not easy to prop up neurotic clients and fight the ruthless media and manage my career and Derek’s, and do it all with a smile on my face.
I’m not a machine.
“I’m excited for tonight,” he continues, massaging my palm with deep strokes of his thumb. “If I win, how will we celebrate?”
“Um …” My brain needs a second to reboot. I’m in a trance from his caresses. “With the best champagne?”
“Sounds like a good start.” One by one, he works every finger, turning them into putty. He’s highly attuned to my reactions, watching every bat of my lashes, every rise of my throat. “Just be forewarned,” he adds. “These events often get messy.”
“Messy, huh?” His drug-like effect is like all drugs. I want more. I start to twine my fingers into his, but he lets my relaxed hand fall limply.
“It might require a vacuum.”
He smiles and I know he knows my phone call had nothing to do with a vacuum. Why else did he just linger on my ringless finger, rubbing heat on it as if he could darken the white ring of skin? Why else did I crash reckless against him last night, pulled in by the fierce undertow of desire?
Other things.
There are times I know I’ve won. Times when I know I’ve lost the game. But to know I’m losing before I even start is entirely foreign.
Like a shark, he senses I’m drowning, flailing in the depths and getting weaker.
He’s in the dark water, circling patiently.
Waiting for the right moment to strike.
