Page 51 of The Cruiser
With my hand on her elbow, I steer us away from the other couples spilling out from the hotel. She’s stiff and resisting and I have no idea why. I land only on this afternoon’s events. Her personal pain was broadcast so crudely. Is she still in love with her husband? With Stryker? (God, I hope not.) I want to ask all these questions, even though the answers might kill me.
Instead I ask, “Was it wrong … what I did in there? I apologize. Heat of the moment.”
“Oh god, no,” she says, with so much true intent, my spirts lift out of the murk. “I think I just…” She touches her forehead as if checking for fever. “I drank too much. That, and the jet lag. All the excitement. It’s catching up with me.”
Another lie.
“Honestly, I’ll be fine. A good night’s sleep will help. What time are we leaving tomorrow?”
Tomorrow.
No, I want to say, let’s talk about tonight, now. How you feel so right in my arms. How your endless legs need to be wrapped around my face until your clit is raw and nothing else matters because we’re both losing our minds.
“I have a meeting at eight, but it’s personal,” I say. “You can sleep in.”
More crowds gather outside and her eyes dart from face to face. Watching for something. Or someone. The thought of her alone tonight in a troubled mindset is enough to foist myself on her, but if I’ve learned anything, she is American to the core. Strong and independent. And yet, fragile and giving in other ways. This I sense implicitly. The combination is driving me to a frenzy. With nothing vital on the agenda tomorrow, it’s time to strike.
“I was thinking we could do a tour tomorrow. There’s a beautiful little town I’d love to show you. It’s on the way back. We could have lunch, walk around.”
Her face brightens. “That sounds great. I’d like that.”
“We’ll leave at ten. That gives us most of the day.”
“Perfect. Meet you in the lobby at ten.” She pats the sleeve of my tuxedo, a send-off if there ever was one. “Please enjoy your night, and know I’m thrilled for you.”
The edge is coming off, shoulders less tense, hand no longer clutching her evening bag like an eagle with a fish in its talons. But her voice is wavering and she’s still hard to read. There’s no point waxing on. She’ll offer nothing else, of this I am certain. The best I can do is ensure she’s safe in a taxi, with strict instructions for the driver to make sure she’s in the hotel door before he drives away.
How out of my league it all feels. Unable to pry out a simple rationale for her behavior. This is madness. Back inside, I investigate the balcony and find nothing. Flighty isn’t anything I associate her with, and it leaves a strange taste in my mouth. Propping me up for the rest of the night is her goodbye kiss. I was worried the emotional scope of my actions scared her off. But she let me know, without words, that whatever we started has only just begun.
