All of Me (Inside Out Series Book 6) (4 page)

I don’t want to feel like I’m in a fish bowl when I get married, and I don’t believe that’s what Chris wants either, but I can see Katie’s excitement spiraling out of control. A conversation about the wedding planning with her and Chris is clearly needed.

“Let’s go back to dresses,” Chantal says, removing her iPad from her purse and setting it on the table. “I want to show you some of the designers you have to choose from right here in Paris.”

The macarons arrive and I end up lost in sweet treats and gorgeous dresses, fretting that the fancy gowns I love would be overdone for the size of the wedding I truly want.

When Chantal hears my concern, she says, “Even if it’s just you and Chris, you wear what you want to wear.”

The hour passes by quickly and by the time we’ve paid our bill, I’m officially excited about visiting a few designers. I’m marrying the love of my life. I want to enjoy every second of it.

As Chantal and I stand and slip into our coats I say, “Chris should be done soon, but I was thinking of strolling the shops nearby until he calls. Want to join me?”

“I’m always up for shopping,” she agrees eagerly. “Let me buy some pastries for my grandmother before we go.”

“Go ahead,” I say. “I’ll just step outside and try to confirm with Chris how much time we have.”

“Perfect.” She hustles away and I pull my phone from my purse as I step outside, almost running into a man on the sidewalk.

I gasp as his hands come down on my arms and I blink up at an all too familiar face. “Tristan.”

“Amazing how small the world is when we all live a few blocks apart. Maybe too small.” He lets go of one of my arms and uses the other to drag me forward.

I stumble and my mind races in circles that get me nowhere. “What are you doing?” I demand.

He stops, and though he releases me, I now have a wall at my back and him at my front. “We need to talk.”

“Yes,” I agree, hugging myself against the cold. He is taller and bigger than I thought. “Yes, we do. Chris—”

“Will drag you down just like he did Amber. Open your eyes, and see beyond the money and the power.”

Indignant, my hands go to my hips. “I don’t care about his money and power. I love him.”

“Right. Whatever makes you feel better in the morning. Get out while you can.”

I open my mouth to defend Chris but stop myself, certain that he’s baiting me and wanting to turn the tables on him. “Amber would want you to have The Script and the apartment.”

“Even if I was willing to take Chris Merit’s blood money, which I’m not, I can’t stand to be anywhere that reminds me of Amber—and that includes The Script. I’m getting the hell out of this place.” His lips thin; his expression tightens. “She was just like you, you know? She didn’t need a whip. She didn’t need pain. He did that to her. He’ll do it to you.”

“Chris didn’t—”

“Don’t,” he spits, running a hand through his long hair, the wind licking at the loose locks. “Don’t tell me what he did or didn’t do. He kept her close to him, like a pet. I tried to get her into rehab I don’t know how many times, and she wouldn’t go. She used him against me, pushing me away, always throwing around Chris’s damned name.”

“Did you tell Chris you were trying to get her into rehab?”

“Chris wasn’t supposed to matter,” he says through his teeth. Pain ripples through the words. “He wasn’t supposed to matter.”

“Tristan—”

“She was obsessed with him, and I see the way you look at him. You’re just like her.”

“It wasn’t Chris she wanted, Tristan. It was about pain. Pain she was running from. She didn’t want to face how deep it ran, and you made her face it.”

“Stop pretending that you knew her.”

“I know what I saw in her eyes. I know what I felt when she reached out to me.”

“You know nothing—and that’s the problem. Get out of his world while you’re still whole. I didn’t, and clearly, neither did Amber.” He turns and starts walking.

“Tristan,” I call out, shocked when Chantal, who has just emerged from Ladurée, calls his name at the same time.

I look to my left as she takes off running after him. “Chantal!” I shout, racking my brain to try to remember if they were ever at the house at the same time, and shocked when she actually grabs his arm.

I hold my breath for his reaction, watching as he faces her, saying something that she reacts sharply to, her hand dropping away. He starts walking again and she shouts at him. He turns yet again and they exchange words, and I’m certain they know each other well. Tristan gives Chantal his back, his pace fast and unstoppable this time, but she relentlessly chases after him.

“Chantal,” I call out, not even certain when I started running after her, but I am, cutting between the people on the sidewalk. “Chantal!”

She stops abruptly, turning toward my voice as if she’s suddenly remembered that I even exist.

“What are you doing?” I ask, catching up to her, my breathing heavy, the cold air biting at my lips and nose.

“I need to go after him. He’s . . . he’s not good right now.”

“How do you know Tristan?”

“I . . .” She looks flustered. “Sara, he needs me. I need to go.”

Tristan needs her? “How do you know him, Chantal?”

“I wanted a tattoo, and I met Amber once when I was at your place. She wasn’t at the shop when I went, so Tristan gave it to me.”

“You got a tattoo?” I ask, shocked that Ms. Prim-and-Proper would do such a thing.

She looks indignant, her feathers clearly and thoroughly ruffled. “Yes. I did. That’s not a crime. I need to go check on Tristan.”

“He’s gone. Check on him where?”

Her lips purse. “I need to go.”

She knows where he lives. That has to be it. “You’re right; he’s not in a good place, Chantal. He’s a dangerous person to get involved with. What happened to Rey?”

“You said Rey was too old for me, and he agreed. He treats me like I’m a child. I don’t want a big brother.”

Tristan’s just as old, but I don’t have the chance to point that out before she adds, “I’m not a fool. I know he’s using me to get through the pain, but I’m okay with that.”

“He was with some other woman last night at The Script.”

She hugs herself, huddling into her jacket, lowering her head a moment before she looks at me again, but I see pain in her eyes. “I’m his friend,” she states. “Just a friend.”

There’s clearly more to this story than I know. “Chantal,” I start gently, but she holds up her hands.

“Don’t say my name like that. I don’t need pity.”

“Pity? That has to be a translation issue—because where did that word even come from?”

“You feel sorry for me because you think I’m acting like some lovesick puppy. He’s a friend. He doesn’t lie to me. He doesn’t tell me fairy tales. And I need to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.” She doesn’t wait on my reply, darting away in the direction Tristan has disappeared.

I hesitate a moment, and then my protective instincts win out. I start after her, only to have a hand come down on my arm. I whirl around to find Chris standing there.

“Let her go, baby.”

“You don’t understand. She’s involved with Tristan.”

“I heard her, but think about it. If someone had told you to stay away from me, would it have worked?”

“You aren’t Tristan.”

“Sara, he’s not into drugs, or booze, or pain. He’s not a bad guy. He’s just heartbroken.”

“And he’ll use her and hurt her. He was with another woman just last night.”

“She knows. You told her, and she clearly stated she has open eyes. We are all the sum of all our broken pieces. She has to live her life in order to grow, and warning her away from him is only going to make him more enticing. Besides, he’s going to need all the support he can get after what I’m about to do to him.”

“What does that mean?”

“In the middle of the night, the locks will be changed on The Script. In the morning, he’ll be served with papers that give him one of two options. Either he claims ownership in twenty-four hours, or I put all of the equipment into storage and he has two years to claim it.”

I swallow the instant knot in my throat. “He’s going to freak out, Chris.”

“Believe me, I know, baby. But this protects him and me at the same time. It gets this situation behind us so we can all heal.”

“If he takes ownership.”

“Either way, I’m out and protected. As for you, my little schoolteacher, big sister to the world . . .” He pulls me close and l slip under the soft leather of his black coat. “Enrique Estaban is at the Louvre for a meeting. I thought you might want to go meet him.”

I gape. “As in the renowned artist?”

“That would be him.”

“Oh my God.” My fingers curl around his coat lapels. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Please.”

He chuckles, low, deep and sexy, lacing his fingers with mine. “I thought you might be interested. Let’s go play in the calm before the storm.”

Part Four

Acceptance

Somehow Chris and I have a fabulous evening, as if we both just needed to escape the quicksand of all the tragedy we’ve been living inside of for the past few weeks. After we have dinner with Enrique Estaban and go home, I know that Chris has found a window of peace, because we make love instead of fucking. Instead of the dark, turbulent sex of recent days, it’s a slow, tender exploration of everything we’ve become together.

Morning comes, though, and ironically so does another dark, stormy sky. We lie there a long time, curled together, thunder rumbling in the background. We don’t talk, but eventually Chris moves, standing and taking my hand, his green eyes filled with the shadows he can’t escape. He leads me into the bathroom. We’re already naked, body and soul. He turns on the shower and steps in, dragging me in with him. One minute we’re staring at each other, and the next I’m against the wall, my legs around his waist, and he’s buried inside me. He is insatiable, as if last night was right and good, but just not enough. He’d found a sweet, safe haven to shelter us and left the rest of the world behind, but now the world has returned and with it, his demons.

I cling to Chris, panting with the impact of each thrust, desperate to give him the escape he needs, wanting him deeper and harder. On some level, I know this is more than his need. It’s mine, too.
We are all the sum of all our broken pieces.

When it’s over we wash each other off, and still we don’t talk, but we don’t need to. He is dreading today, and so am I.

Shortly after nine, we’re dressed and nursing cups of coffee at the kitchen island counter, waiting for the explosion that’s sure to come. Neither of us tries to eat. However, we do talk, focusing on the Christmas charity event at the Louvre that Chris will be part of, and now me too, volunteering for a number of duties that don’t require French.

I’m refilling both of our cups when Chris’s cell phone rings. We exchange a silent look, then he glances at the number and back up at me. “It’s the attorney,” he murmurs, hitting the Answer button as I set the coffeepot back on the burner and sit down on a barstool, running my suddenly damp palms over my black velour sweat suit.

Chris says a few short words into the phone, ending with, “Then we wait. Right. We’ll see who hears something first. Let’s make this end today.” After saying goodbye, he makes another call that is quick and in French before setting his phone on the counter, crossing his arms over his black
Sons of Anarchy
T-shirt.

“The locks were changed as planned, and Tristan was served the paperwork in person. The process server said that as he was walking away, Tristan let out a loud growl and punched the wall. So I think it’s safe to assume he read the documents. I have Rey headed this way just to be safe.”

I swallow hard. “You don’t think Tristan would do anything crazy, do you?”

He unfolds his arms, reaching for the creamer to top off his coffee. “I’m just being safe. But at least we’re getting a reaction. He needs to deal with this, for his own good.”

The pounding starts on the door, a moment before the bell goes nuts.

Chris pushes to his feet. “And that would be him.”

“That was fast,” I say, also standing. “I don’t even want to know how this is going to go down.”

“Stay here,” Chris orders. “I don’t want you anywhere near this.”

He takes a step toward the stairs, but I grab his arm. “You don
’
t know what to expect, and you’re concerned enough to have just called Rey. Let me stand back on the stairs and be prepared to call the police, Chris. I’ll stay out of the way.”

The knocking erupts again, and there’s resignation in the furrow of Chris’s brow. “The emergency number is 17 here.”

The bell rings over and over, setting my already frazzled nerves on edge. “I know. I’ve got it.”

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

We go down the stairs into the living area, and my gaze catches on the furry cream-colored rug beside the couch as we pass. It’s the same rug where I’d lain naked with Chris on my first night in Paris, and Amber had let herself inside and surprised us. I’d been appalled and embarrassed—and confused by her comfort level in entering Chris’s home. She’d been beautiful, bitchy, and yet wounded in some way that kept me from hating her for that meanness. Maybe that’s what kept Tristan with her, despite all she put him through.

“Chris!” Tristan shouts as we reach the top of the stairs, and I’m certain the angry French that follows is mostly profanities.

Chris grabs my arms and turns me to him, his green eyes as hard as I’ve ever seen them. “Stay here, Sara. I can’t worry about you and deal with him.”

“I’ll stay back,” I promise, “but please be careful. You know what pain can do to someone.”

“Chris!” Tristan shouts. More knocking follows.

Chris’s jaw tightens and he walks down the stairs, his pace remarkably controlled, his boots nearly soundless on the steps. He’s wearing his emotional armor, and it’s a good thing, since Tristan appears to have none of his own. Reaching the door, Chris pauses for several beats, in no rush to invite Tristan inside. I can only hope that the overhang above our door is keeping Tristan dry, because wet and angry has to be worse than just angry.

Holding my breath, I watch the slight flex to Chris’s shoulders and I can almost feel him mentally steel himself for the confrontation.

When he finally opens the door, Tristan immediately demands, “What the fuck are you trying to prove?”

I gasp in horror as Tristan shoves Chris against the wall, water dripping off of his black rain jacket, his long locks in wild disarray. “What the
fuck
are you trying to prove?” he demands again.

My heart lurches and I raise my phone to dial the police, when Chris shifts and turns, and suddenly it’s Tristan who’s against the wall. “I gave you two options,” Chris growls out, hands clenched around Tristan’s jacket lapels, “both of which save you from your anger and pride. Take the damned tattoo parlor, and I’m out of your life.”

“I told you I’m trying to buy it—but you had to be a little bitch and flex all that cash you roll around in.”

“You’re the one being a little bitch, Tristan,” Chris replies. “Hate me. Blame me. But man up and do what we both know is smart. Sign the papers.” He lets go and puts two paces between them. “End this now, Tristan. You want to buy the place? Send a donation to the Children’s Cancer Association.”

“Right. Your charity. Your way to convince yourself your soul isn’t absolute oil. But we both know the truth, now don’t we?”

Chris just stares at him, hard and long, and I count one, two, three, and never make four on account of the sudden quake of thunder that makes me jump. Chris remains unfazed, stone that seems harder with each passing second, and I know that the storm brewing inside him is far worse than the one outside.

Tristan says something to Chris in French and Chris replies in French, his tone cool as he adds in English, “Amber would want you to have The Script.”

Tristan’s lips twist in a bitter smirk. “Amber would want a lot of things; none of them me. She wanted you.”

“She was an addict, and I was the one person who understood the drug. She shut you out to hold onto the addiction.”

Abruptly, Tristan’s head jerks in my direction, his gaze falling heavily on me for two beats that feel like punches, before he looks at Chris again. “She’s the same kind of fool as me. She thinks she can save you, like I thought I could save Amber.”

“Sara did save me,” Chris says, his voice taking on a rough quality. “She pulled me back into this world, and she keeps me here. And I know you think I could have pulled Amber back—but I couldn’t. Not when she looked in my eyes and saw the hypocrite who still needed the drug himself.”

I slump with the impact of his confession, so etched in guilt and self-hatred.

Tristan feels the force, too. I see it in the way his lashes lower, his fingers curling into his palms. “And I was simply the other guy.” His voice cracks, and, obviously shaken, he turns to face the wall, pressing his hands on the hard surface as his chin sinks to his chest.

“Tristan!”

I gape as Chantal appears in the doorway, rushing to him and ducking under his arms to face him. I sway, about to charge down the stairs, but Chris holds up a hand to still me, never taking his eyes off of Tristan and Chantal.

Abruptly, Tristan turns, putting his back to the wall, away from Chantal. His gaze lands hard on Chris and he takes a calculated step toward him again. Chantal insinuates herself between them, flattening her hands on Tristan’s chest, and shouting, “
Non!
” followed by a rant in French.

There is movement by the door again, and my gaze jerks in that direction, where Rey now stands, looking big, broad, and intimidating. His hard stare is fixed on Chantal’s hand on Tristan’s chest. His anger is downright palpable. “Come with me, Chantal,” he orders, his tone as tight as a rubber band stretched to the limit. She doesn’t move, and he tilts his head slightly, his eyes sharpening with a challenge. “I said, come with me.”

She half turns toward Tristan, who cuts off any intent she might have with a command of his own. “Go, Chantal. You don’t belong in the middle of this.”

Her eyes flicker in my direction and then dart away as she takes a step toward Rey, who steps aside and follows her out the door. Watching them disappear, I feel the sting of Chantal’s rejection. Chris was right. If I warn her off of Tristan, I will lose her completely.

“I’ll take The Script,” Tristan announces to Chris, his voice raspy as if he is choking on emotion, “because I’m the only one who held it together when she couldn’t get out of bed from being whipped so hard. You did that to her, Chris Merit.
You
made her the addict that she was.”

Chris doesn’t let himself be baited, simply asking, “Do you have the papers with you?”

Several beats pass and I think Tristan will throw another verbal punch, but he does not. Instead, he reaches into his jacket pocket, removing an envelope and handing it to Chris. “This is the signature page.” The implication is obvious. He signed the contract before he came here. He knew he had to accede to Chris’s terms. He just didn’t like it.

Chris accepts the envelope, opening the flap and unfolding the paper inside to do a quick inspection. “This should do,” he says, stuffing it in his back pocket. “If my attorney needs more, I trust you’ll respond to his calls.” It’s not a question.

“I’ll do what has to be done,” Tristan assures him.

Chris studies him a few seconds and, seemingly satisfied that he means it, he reaches into his front pocket and holds out a key. “This will work on your new locks.”

Tristan reaches for it, closing his hand over Chris’s and holding it tight, but with no aggressiveness in the action. “I want to hate you. I want to blame you for her death. But the truth is that she settled for me, and I settled for her settling. Maybe if I had let her go, she’d have found her Sara, and would be alive today.” He releases Chris’s hand, and walks out the door.

Stunned, I stare after him, and Chris does the same.

Rey reappears in the doorway, glancing curiously at the two of us. “Anything I need to handle?”

“Is he gone?” Chris asks.

“Yes. He’s gone,” Rey confirms.

“And Chantal?” I ask, walking down the stairs to stand beside Chris. “Did she leave with Tristan?”

He gives me a short nod, disapproval etched in those dark, hard eyes. Chris speaks to Rey in French and Rey replies quickly and departs, pulling the door shut in his wake.

Chris finally turns to face me, his hands settling on my shoulders. “Go pack. I need to talk to Rey for a few minutes, but we’re leaving town.”

“What? I thought we weren’t leaving until closer to Thanksgiving.”

“Now we are.”

My brow furrows. The expedited trip and the exchange with Rey in French has me worried I’ve missed something. “Did Tristan threaten us before he left?”

“No. Tristan didn’t threaten us.”

“Then why are we leaving so fast?”

“Because you never taunt a wounded animal.”

I study him, my belly knotting with worry—and not for Tristan or Chantal this time. “You want distance between you and Isabel’s whip.”

“Baby, if I see Isabel, she’s the only one getting whipped.” He cups my head. “I’m fine. I’ll tell you if I’m not. But as much as I love this city, it’s emotional poison to me right now, the way I am to Tristan. Everyone can use some space.”

My hand goes to his wrist. “What happened to ‘what you don’t deal with now, you have to deal with later’?”

“We handled what we needed to handle. This is no different than any newly mended wound. You don’t go pouring salt in it and expect it to finish healing.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “Let’s give Tristan time and space. And let’s give us a break from everything but us.”

He turns me toward the stairs, leaning in near my ear. “And don’t worry about packing a lot of clothes. You won’t need them much.”

I twist around to face him again. “Are you sure?”

He steps closer, his hand settling at my waist. “I meant what I said to Tristan, Sara. You pulled me out of hell. I’m not trying to climb back in.”