Rebound (12 page)

A
s we fly through a yellow light passing Malibu Inn, I downshift and glance at Ali. I find her watching me with an expression like she’s dreaming with her eyes open.

“What’s on your mind, Ms. Quick?”

“You love this, don’t you?”

It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking about driving the Bugatti—not about being with her.

I nod. “Cars are something my dad and I always did together. He runs a few restaurants and bars back East. He was always busy. I didn’t see him at all during the week or on Saturdays, but Sundays we spent together. We went on drives or to car shows. We took care of his car collection.”

She’s still watching me, like she wants to hear more. I let myself keep going.

“When I was thirteen, he bought a Shelby Cobra kit, and we spent that entire year building the car from scratch on Sundays. It turned out perfect. Well, almost.”

“Oh, no. What happened?”

“My younger brother, Grey. He was around eight at the time and he didn’t have the attention span to help out. I don’t think he has that attention span now, at almost nineteen, but anyway. Dad and I had just finished the car. The paint was barely dry when Grey flew into the garage on his skateboard and wiped out. The board popped out from beneath him and smacked the Cobra’s driver-side door. The jury’s still out on whether he did it intentionally. He never copped to it.”

Ali laughs. “Poor kid.”

“Poor Adam. I busted my ass for a year on that car.” I shake my head, remembering. “I was so pissed at him.”

“What about your dad? Wasn’t he angry?”

“Oh, he went red. But he never punished Grey. See, our dad was always telling us it’s good to leave evidence of your impact on the world. It’s why he’s into restaurants and real estate . . . ‘Get out there, make your mark,’ he’d say to us. ‘It means you’re living.’ Well, Grey quoted those words right back to him. He stood there and told our dad he’d left evidence of his impact on the world on that Cobra. He got off scot-free. The car’s still in our garage back home. Still has the dent, too.”

Ali giggles. “Your brother sounds like a handful.”

“You have no idea.” I realize I’ve been talking her ear off. “What about you? Tell me about the horses you love so much. Do you do dressage—that kind of thing?” That’s about as knowledgeable as I can sound on the subject of horses.

“When I was younger, I did.” She turns in the seat a little, to face me better. “Show-jumping. Competitions, horse shows. All of that.”

“You don’t anymore?”

“No,” she says. “We had to put down my horse, Zenith, a few years ago. I loved him. I’ve never found another horse I trusted like that. Who trusted me. Now I just ride. And rehab them. I’ve grown to love that just as much.”

“What does rehabilitating involve?”

She tells me about how it varies, case by case. Some have poor health, or injuries that require nurturing that’s primarily physical. Others need treatment that focuses on their behavior, or rebuilding trust. She tells me she’s only been rehabbing horses for about a year, but she sounds sure of what she’s saying and passionate about it.

“The ones who’ve lost the ability to trust are the hardest,” she says, “but those are my favorite to rescue. They’re the most rewarding.”

Some invisible force pulls my eyes to her; I couldn’t stop it if my life depended on it. The canyon walls rise higher, and shadows bleed across the dashboard. All I can see is her shining white-blond hair and the sparkle of the charm bracelet on her wrist. I want to reach for her hand.

“Will you show me?” I ask instead.

“You want to see my horses?”

“Yes.” But the truth is I want to see
her
with her horses.

I have to focus on the road again as we reach the turnoff to her home. The engine rumbles deeper as I decelerate, a reluctant, displeased growl that’s a good reflection of my mood. This drive went too fast. My time with her is almost over. What an idiot. I should’ve driven fifteen miles an hour all the way here.

“How about tonight?” Ali says. “If you wanted to . . . How about right now?”

“Sure,” I say. “Now works.”

We reach her house, and Ali gives me the gate code. Heavy wrought-iron gates swing open, and I drive into the property.

I rarely come up to this part of Malibu, with its sprawling
ranches. Suddenly, it feels like we come from different sides of the track, even though my house is only a mile away and on the beach side of the highway. My place is house, sand, ocean. Simple. This, I see as I pull inside, is an estate.

A long crushed-oyster-shell driveway leads to a main house, which sits up on a slope. Even from a distance, I can tell it’s massive—a Mediterranean villa, all stone columns and topiary hedges. To my left, I see the white fencing of a horse enclosure. To the right, well-lit paths weave through landscaped gardens.

Wealth doesn’t intimidate me. I grew up rich and got a lot richer on my own. I like finer things. More than that I like the ability to execute on just about any desire I have. It’s not the extravagance on display here that unsettles me. I can’t really place what it is. But I feel a sudden protective urge to whisk Alison away from this place.

She directs me to a tidy white building with a red tile roof. She’s practically out of my car before I put it in park, but she waits for me to join her.

“I know it’s hard to believe,” she says, “but I usually don’t ride in dresses.”

“That’s not what my sources say, but okay. I believe you.”

She laughs and slips off her heels, slinging them over her shoulder. “Hope you’re okay with a little hay and horse smell.”

“I’m okay with making hay. Does that count?”

“Blackwood, are you flirting with me?”

“Sorry, Quick. I’m here strictly for the horses.”

“Then you won’t be disappointed.” She drops her heels by a shrub and unlatches double doors. They’re heavy, and I’m mesmerized by the sight of her, barefoot, in an elegant dress, using all the strength of her slender body to slide the doors open. She steps inside, hits the lights, and twirls around, flourishing a hand. “Behold! The glory of a real-life stable.”

Everything,
I think as I follow her inside. Everything she does when she’s playful this way is perfect.

Inside, there are four stalls on either side of a central dirt corridor dusted with strands of hay. Leather gear hangs from hooks along the walls, and the smell of horse and hay is potent. I glance at Ali, who’s pulling on some boots by the door that are way too big for her.

“That’s Persephone,” she says, smiling. “She’s my girl.” A horse peeks out of the first stall on the right. She’s a stunning animal, big blue eyes, a powerful neck, and a golden coat that shines in the light.

“She’s . . . extraordinary,” I say, stepping closer.

I don’t think I’ve ever looked at a horse the way I am now, through Ali’s eyes. Knowing what she told me on Halloween night about how much she trusts them. Knowing how much they mean to her.

Persephone looks from me to Ali, ears flipping back and forth. She’s curious, but she looks intelligent and somehow regal.

“Thank you,” Ali says, patting her neck. “I think so too.”

She takes me to another stall, where a horse is hidden in shadows at the far end. “That’s Suede. We’re just at the beginning of a long road, but I know it’ll be worth it. I just picked him up a week ago.”

“I know,” I say.

Ali looks at me. “You do?”

“I’ve heard you on the phone. In our office.”

“Oh,” she says. “Sorry. I try not to take personal calls—”

“It’s okay. Don’t apologize. I like hearing you talk about horses. It’s sexy. All that talk about teaching softness by being soft,” I repeat her own words back to her. “Knowing just how much hard is required.”

Ali smiles. “Soft just means responsive.”

“Still hot.”

“In horse talk, a hot horse is one that has plenty of energy to burn.”

I open my hands. “I rest my case.”

She laughs and clomps over in her sexy dress and huge boots to a wood locker in the corner, rummaging inside. “Here, Suede,” she says, coming back to my side with two carrots.

Slowly, the horse moves forward, and I see an animal that’s in much worse shape than Persephone. Suede’s eyes are glazed, he’s less muscular, and his coat doesn’t have the same luster.

“He’s a little nervous,” Ali says, “but give him a second. Here. Give him your bare hand first so he can smell you. Then you can feed him.”

Ali hands me the carrots, then makes a kissing sound. “Come here, gorgeous boy.”

I step closer to her. “How’s this?”

Ali rolls her eyes at me then turns back to the stall. “It’s okay, Suede. You can trust him.”

Finally, Suede comes close enough. He doesn’t peek his head out of the stall like Persephone, though, so I reach carefully inside.

“Hey, there,” I say, holding my hand out. Suede’s horse lips flutter around on my palm for a few seconds. “No pressure, buddy, but it’s really important we get along. I need to stay on your owner’s good side.” Suede smells the carrot, his head bobbing toward it, so I give it to him. “There you go. Good for the eyesight, carrots. But don’t eat too many or you’ll turn orange.”

I feel Ali smiling beside me and find that I’m smiling too.

“He likes you.”

“Well, he’s my favorite horse. I think he senses that.” My eyes go to her bare shoulder. She has goose bumps.

Before I can think about it, I reach out and run my hand along her arm. Her skin is smooth, softer than anything I’ve ever felt.

Alison goes perfectly still. I keep going, drawing my hand over her shoulder and burying my fingers into her hair. “Are you cold?”

Her lips part as she inhales. “No, I’m . . . I’m fine.” She shakes
her head a little, then she lets out her breath, long and slow. Her blue eyes stare into mine, open and gentle. I’m so here with her. I want anything she’ll give me, but it’s more than that. I’m going to lose my mind if I can’t have her.

“Tell me you want this,” I say.

She’s been drinking. I can’t forget that. She’s sobered up since the restaurant some, but there’s no denying it.

Her hand brushes along my chest and stills on my neck. “I want this.”

That’s all I need. I crush my lips to hers, and it’s fast—and hot. I can’t take it slow. Our tongues are darting, doing an urgent dance as I pick her up and lift her against the wall. She wraps her arms around my neck and I yank her dress up to get her legs around me. Her heavy boots clunk to the ground, one, then the other. Then her ankles lock behind me, and she pulls me in tight. I let out a groan at the feeling, her pressed to me, open for me.

Alison feels me and moans low, kissing my jaw and my neck. I shift, freeing up one hand, and try to draw the sleeve of her dress down, but it won’t budge.

“Ali. I want to see you.” I don’t have to explain. Both of my hands are occupied, holding her up.

She straightens and tugs at a zipper along her ribs. Her blue dress loosens and slips to her waist.

I
can’t think of anything else but Adam.

I don’t want anything else, either.

He looks down at my body, and I drink in his expression, offering myself to him, letting myself be seen in a way I never have before. I’ve been a lights-off girl, an under-the-covers girl. Now, I can’t imagine why.

“Your skin, Ali . . .” says Adam. “You glow.” His hands still cupped beneath me, he hefts me closer, bending over me, his tongue tracing along the lace of my bra, dipping into the hollow of my throat, sucking and nipping and tasting me. “God, you even taste good,” he groans.

“That’s not fair,” I tell him. Again, it’s like I’m someone else with him. Someone with no shame, no guilt, who can speak her desires
plainly. I don’t know what kept me from being that girl before, but I’m glad she’s shown up now, when I need her most. “I want to taste you. I want your tongue in my mouth again.”

He makes a sound like a tortured sigh and presses his lips to mine, driving his tongue between my teeth. My legs lock tighter around him, and I pull him against my body. I’m wrapped in the soft heat of his mouth, his darting tongue, and in the hardness he presses against me, so close, only the sheerest bit of fabric keeping us apart.

I’m no longer drunk, but now I tumble into an intoxicated, elated state so powerful I literally feel like I might faint. I hold onto him, molding my body against his, feeling how much he wants me—it’s all here for me, his hands, his sweet, artful tongue, the feel of him pressed against my core, sending a deep, carving pulse through my entire body.

I reach down between our bodies for his belt. He groans, and the sound shatters me. God, I want him. Somewhere. Now.

“Adam, I need—”

Something pokes me hard in the back, and Adam and I stagger together, breaking contact.

We turn to see Suede’s long elegant muzzle right up close to us. He knickers softly.

“What’s wrong, boy?” Adam asks, lowering me to the ground.

Heavy footsteps crunch on the drive, and in lightning quick succession, Adam pulls up my dress and zips it, then buckles his own belt and takes a subtle step away from me, his expression reforming into one of nonchalance.

My father appears in the stable doorway. He’s in jeans and has an ill-fitting sweater tossed on over his pajama top, making him look old and disheveled.

“There you are!” he exclaims, as though he’s searched the ends of the earth for me.

My heart pounds so hard that it’s on the edge of painful. I try to make myself sound normal. “Yes,” I say. “I was just introducing Adam to Persephone and Suede.”

“I see that.” My father’s gaze sweeps over Adam, and there’s a new brittleness to his expression. I can’t read whether it’s disapproval or something else.

“I gave Alison a ride home,” Adam says smoothly. He doesn’t add why, and I know he never would.

My father steps closer, and the space seems to shrink with his presence. His face is ruddy, eyes glassy. I guess I’m not the only one who’s been drinking. Suddenly, I feel like everything about me is pre-designed. Like I’m just part of this great machine, which for generations has been spitting out discontented perfectionists with a fondness for booze.

I pat Suede’s neck and whisper, “Thank you,” in his ear. At least he’s got my back. Adam too, I know.

“And how was your date, Alison?” my father asks. “And how is it that he didn’t drive you home?”

“It’s a long story, dad,” I tell him. “Why don’t you go back inside, and I’ll come tell you all about it in a second. I want to walk Adam out to his car, okay? I know we both have big days tomorrow.”

“Big week,” Adam confirms.

“That’s right.” My father nods. “Your team-building trip.”

Adam nods. “Yes, lots to do before we head out.”

“Well, I won’t keep you,” my father tells him. Once again, his eyes move between us, but I keep my expression neutral. Masked.

“Thank you,” Adam replies. “When we get back, I’d like to sit down with you, go over final details. I think you’ll have everything you need for a decision by then.” His eyes shift to me.

“We’ll have much to discuss, I’m sure,” my father says.

I settle Persephone and Suede in for the night, and Adam draws the big double doors closed behind the three of us. We head toward
the drive together, and I expect my father to part ways at the path up to the house, but he remains with us, claiming he wants to take a closer look at Adam’s car.

It’s quiet now. Only our footsteps and the light murmur of the surf fill the air. I think about how often I’ve wished to go backward since I’ve met Adam, back to the breathtaking moments we’ve shared. Maybe they’re better than normal life because they’re forbidden. Or maybe they’re better because it’s just the two of us, sharing some raw part of ourselves we tend to keep hidden from view.

I don’t know what it is, except that those moments feel high-definition to me, every touch and breath sharper than life.

We reach his car, and after giving my father a quick tour of the interior, Adam slides inside and pulls the seat belt across his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and his eyes say so much more that I want to dive into the seat beside him and have him carry me off into the night.

But I just smile and say, “tomorrow.”

Inside, my father fixes himself a bourbon and ice then sits in our formal dining room, looking strange and shrunken at the head of a table that can be set for twenty.

“Nightcap?”

“No thanks,” I say.

“Well, sit with me, anyway.”

I pull out a chair and sink into it. Suddenly, I’m exhausted. I just want to crawl up to bed and relive every moment with Adam, and then wake up to a new day where I get to see him again.

“Already had yours?”

“Yes,” I say, because there’s no point lying about it. “I had a few. That’s why Adam drove me home.”

“Did you make any inroads with Blackwood?”

The air seems loaded with double meanings, and I feel a sudden tension, like I’m about to walk into a trap. “Not so much,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm. “He doesn’t open up about much.” And as I say it, I realize how true it is. For both of us. Our bodies are way more honest with each other than our words seem to be.

“No, I imagine he wouldn’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, let’s just say I found out something interesting today. Or at least the first part of something interesting. I’m not sure what to do with it, but I think that’s where you come in. If I can trust you to stay the course.”

“Of course you can.”

“I don’t mind you getting close to him. In fact, I applaud the strategy. But you can’t lose your head. You have to stay in control. On top. You understand?”

I don’t know what to say to any of that. Everything that’s happened between Adam and me is the furthest thing in the world from a strategy. Or control. But if I explain that to my father, he’ll question my loyalty.

“Okay, Dad,” I say. “Yes, I understand. What did you find out?”

My father takes a long swallow of his drink. He sets the mug down with a thud and says, “Adam Blackwood’s been married.”

The words crash around in my head for a second but don’t line up in a way that makes sense. “What?”

“Married. He was married. When he was just a kid. But there’s something more there. I know it.” His eyes glimmer in a way that bothers me.

I can’t understand why this is important. Or how I’m supposed to feel about it. I know it must mean something—but I can’t imagine what. Only that Adam loved someone deeply enough to marry her, to feel sure he’d spend the rest of his life with her.

“When?” I ask. “To who?”

“A girl named Chloe Randall. She died.” He shakes his head. “Twenty years old.”

“How?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. That’s where you come in.”

“But, I mean, when was this?”

“About three years ago. They were only married for a few months. Information is locked down tighter than Fort Knox, and I need to know why. I think we’re onto something here.”

“But how does any of this really matter?” I ask. “I mean . . . whatever the reasons, why do we even have to know?”

“Because I’m giving this guy twenty million dollars. And he’s keeping secrets. Expensive secrets. However this girl died, it should be public knowledge, but there’s nothing. Not a newspaper article or police report. At least none that we can find—yet. He covered it up for some reason, and that doesn’t look good.”

“Then how did you find out?”

He waves a hand. “Don’t worry about that. I need to know what this is about though. You’ve got four days with him now. Work on him.”

I feel queasy, imagining that. Imagining trying to “work” Adam for answers. But my dad’s right. I don’t want to admit it, but that’s a lot of money. Family money. And Adam’s hiding something. From the world, not just us. For three years, he’s built his life on a secret and seemed to go about it so coolly, with such ease. It makes me feel like I can’t trust anything at all.

“All right, Dad,” I say and get up from the table. “I’ll get answers. I promise.”