Rebound (18 page)

W
hen I wake up, Ali is sprawled across the bed beside me. I have to smile at how much real estate her legs take up.

“Look who’s a little bed hog.”

My lowered voice sounds louder than it should. The quiet and stillness in here is the kind that’s only possible in the middle of a blizzard in the mountains. Through the window, I see snow coming down heavily, but it’s not a whiteout like last night.

I take a minute to appreciate the long, graceful groove of Ali’s spine. All that smooth, flawless skin sweeping down and then back up to the curve of the one round cheek not covered by blankets. Toned legs that go on forever—one of which ends with a thick bandage.

That ankle’s putting a definite damper on my sexual prospects for the foreseeable future. She’s a temptation. I’ve never wanted
anyone this much, and I’m aching for her. But I won’t do anything that could worsen her injury.

I’m glad she seems comfortable asleep.

Climbing out of bed, I pull on sweatpants and find the bag of supplies from the clinic in the living room. Laying a pillow under Ali’s leg, I break open the activator in an icepack and drape it over her foot. Then, reluctantly, I pull the blankets over her. It’s a crime to cover her body, but the room has a chill this morning.

She stirs a little, sweeping her blond hair away from her face. “Adam?” she says, sleepy blue eyes fluttering open.

“Right here.” I sit next to her and smile, loving that she asked for me before she was fully awake. I reach under the blankets and rub my hand over her warm back, then brush her hair away from her shoulder. “Hey, beautiful. Go back to sleep. It’s early.”

“Why aren’t you in here?”

“I will be in a minute.” I’d join her right now, but I hear my phone buzzing in the other room, and part of me never fully relaxes when I leave Grey alone for a few days.

“Good.” Her eyes close again. “We have unfinished business.”

“Is that right?” Just like that, my body’s responding. “What about your ankle?”

“You can’t keep using that as an excuse, Blackwood.”

I laugh. “Okay. You’ve talked me into it.”

Smiling, she peers at me through her lashes, sleepy and seductive, and I find myself wanting to frame her face and stare into her blue eyes, because anything less than that feels like not enough now. Amazing how that happened. She flipped a switch inside me with that sweet smile, and I want her. Body. Mind. All of her.

“Sleep a little more, Ali. We have time. We’ll get to everything.”

“Everything? That sounds good.”

“Aim higher than good, Quick. We’re going for mind-blowing.”

“You mean again?”

“I mean always. Every single time.”

She laughs. I kiss her bare shoulder then give her perfect ass a little pat on my way into the living room.

“Hurry back, lovely,” she says, already sounding sleepy.

“Will do, you exquisite creature of beauty and light.”

In the living room, I throw a few logs on the fire to get it burning again, then I grab my phone from the coffee table, and set it down when I realize that Ali and I have the same model, and hers is the one I heard buzzing.

I find mine in the inside zipper of my ski jacket. There’s a message from Rhett—nothing from Grey—but what grabs me is the time. I’m shocked to see that it’s ten o’clock in the morning. I can’t remember the last time I slept this late. And I can’t remember the last time I felt this good, either, and then I’m just a complete idiot blinking back tears in my sweatpants, staring at my phone, because
holy shit
. It feels so good to feel this way and I never thought I’d have it again. I never thought I’d have anything even close to this again, like I want to do everything for a girl.
Everything,
just like I told her.

It’s real, and I feel different inside, like I’m vibrating with this insane power. This
need
to protect her. To hold her. Make her happy. And then I’m fighting off a laugh, because Jazz had it right.

I
am
made up of millions of energetic molecules—and each and every one of them feels charged and sure and just—fucking—
awesome
because of Ali.

I want to head back to her side but instead I summon a huge amount of willpower and check Rhett’s message. He wouldn’t call unless something legitimate was up.

When I play it, the quality of the recording is poor, like the storm’s affecting service.

“Adam, hey. It’s Rhett. You’re not going to like this but, remember I told you I was looking into things? Well, I just heard from my contact at Quick Enterprises. Graham Quick’s been digging around.
He’s doing deep background checks on you, man. He’s spending a mint on them. And he’s been in contact with the Board, too. He’s met with Inoue and Sladek in private. This looks like mighty shady shit, Adam. He’s pulling out all the stops trying to get some dirt on you. I wanted to tell you as soon as I heard. Call me back.”

I’m hitting the call back icon before the message has fully played, pacing up to the window. There’s nothing outside but snow. No one and nothing. Just the white, rounded shapes of the lodge, the restaurants below. The trees and mountains in the distance.

The call doesn’t go through. I try again, and get nothing again. And then I turn, because Ali’s phone is buzzing on the coffee table.

I grab it to turn the ringer off so she can sleep. When I pick it up, I see a string of messages lit up on the main screen. It’s an exchange between her and her father, and how can I not read them when my name jumps out at me? When they’re communicating about me?

             
Dad:
 Text when you arrive, and let’s make a plan of attack.

             
Ali:
 
  
I’m here. Let me do things my way. Trust me.

A heavy weight settles in my gut.

             
Dad:
 Any progress?

             
Ali:
 
  
Just getting started. But I told you, I’ve got it. Will fill you in tonight.

Text after text like this. I scroll through dozens of them until I get to the end of their exchanges.

             
Dad:
 Really hope you’re getting the goods on Blackwood.

             
Ali:
 
  
Definitely getting everything I need.

And then Graham’s reply, which came through just now.

             
Dad:
 Good girl. Call me ASAP. I need to know what you got on him.

I go so still I’m pretty sure I’m not even breathing. I can’t make sense of it. Nothing adds up in my mind.

I flip the silence button on the side of the phone and set it down.

Chloe
.

My deceased wife is the “goods.”

That’s what Ali has wanted this whole time.

Information for her father. Dirt, as Rhett called it.

Leverage.

Blackmail.

Two days ago, in the partner trust exercise, I told her my wife died in a drunk driving accident—something I’ve been covering up for years.

But now that they know, if they dig enough, they’ll find the police report.

Could I have possibly given her a better weapon?

Graham has everything he needs to publicly humiliate me and rock the company I’ve built to its foundations. To drag Chloe’s memory down and—

Alison.

Who I thought was . . .

How?

How could she do this? How the fuck could I have missed it? Did she know who I was all along on Halloween? Did she come after me?

I move back to the bedroom and stare at her sleeping form. I want to rip the blankets off her. Let out the rage that’s ripping around inside me, tearing me up.

I talked to you.

I fucking
trusted
you.

I was ready to give you my goddamn
heart.

But I don’t say a word.

It takes me less than two minutes to pack up the few things I’d taken out of my bag. I do it without making a sound. Without looking at her again. Then I grab my ski jacket, even though there’s nowhere to go in this storm.

I’m not trying to go anywhere.

All I know is that I can’t be here with her.

I
wake, smiling, to a knock on the door.

“God, those room service people are persistent.” I turn, expecting to find Adam there, but his side of the bed is empty.

“Adam?” I call. No answer.

I hear the electronic beep of a key card in the door, and struggle to sit up, pain slicing through my ankle. Adam must have gone for some breakfast—or lunch, I think, noting the high slant of a pale sun through the suite’s picture windows. Outside, the snow’s still falling, but the sky is blue beyond, and the fierce winds seem to have tapered off a bit.

The door swings open, and Darla, from the clinic, comes into the room.

“Good afternoon,” she says cheerily, but even from across the suite, I can see that her mouth is set in a grim line.

“Hi,” I say, drawing the blanket hastily around me. “What—”

“Mr. Blackwood asked me to stop by and look in on you.”

“He did?” My brain is awash in static. I look at the window again, look around the room. Something’s wrong. “Where is he?”

She comes to the side of the bed and sets down a navy blue medical bag. Her broad, friendly face looks troubled. “Can I look at your ankle?”

“Of course.” I gather up the blankets, pulling them off my feet. “But what did Adam say?”

Darla focuses on unwrapping the bandage on my ankle. I can feel her weighing her words, and my heart starts a wild crashing in my chest.

“He left,” she says, finally. “He asked me to look in on you. And I know he made arrangements with the hotel. Paid for the room and all incidental charges.”

“Was there an emergency? Is everything okay?”

I pick up my phone from the nightstand and don’t see anything from Adam. No calls. No texts. Only one from Philippe, saying everyone got back safe and sound, and one from my father, nagging me for details.

Darla peels off the last of the gauze covering my foot. The bruise looks worse—mottled purple and yellow—but my ankle’s less swollen. “I’m pretty sure this is just a bad sprain,” she says. “But the roads are better. We can get you to the hospital for an X-ray if you want.”

What I want is to know where Adam is. I think back to last night, to his eyes on mine, to our connection, which felt truer than anything I’ve ever felt in my life. What happened between then and now? Where is he?

“Darla,” I press. “How did he look when he talked to you? Did he say anything else? I’m worried.”

She shakes her head. “He just looked . . . in a hurry. Distracted.
He came by and gave us a ton of cash and asked us to make a house call up at the resort. Gave us his key card and your room number.”

“That’s it? Nothing else?” I brush my hair back from my face and try to map it in my mind. I half-remember a drowsy, affectionate conversation in the morning. He pulled the blankets over me, touched me sweetly. Smiled. Everything was fine. Or seemed fine, at least.

“He just said he’d cover any other expenses but that he had to go,” Darla tells me. She finishes rewrapping the bandage. “Why don’t you talk to the hotel? I know he talked to the manager and the concierge. Maybe they can tell you more.”

I nod, but in my mind, I keep reliving the steady, serious gravity of his eyes staring into mine.

“
Do
you want to go to the hospital?” Darla asks again.

I shake my head. “You’re pretty sure it’s a sprain?”

“Ninety percent.”

“I’ll take my chances then.” I want to be left alone. I need to get Adam on the phone, to find out what’s happened.

Darla offers me a painkiller, and my ankle hurts enough that I take it.

“All right,” Darla says. “We’re in good shape here.”

You
might be, I think.

She props my crutches next to the bed and brings over a robe and a change of clothes. “The concierge is standing by to assist you,” she tells me. “Anything you need. Help with anything. Just ask. Can I help you change before I go? Take you to the bathroom?”

As if I don’t feel humiliated enough. “No, I’ll be okay. Thanks for your help.”

She goes, and
I pick up the phone to call Adam. My pulse spikes, and I feel like I can’t swallow.

My call goes straight to voicemail.

I pick up the phone to text him, but I can’t find the words.
Where are you? Why did you leave? Did I imagine everything about last night—about us?

I’m scared of what he’ll say. Scared that I’ve been so wrong about him—about everything.

Where is he?

A powerful desire pulses in me. A need to dull things, to blunt the ragged fear coursing through my body. I can’t sit with it. I’m scared to feel what it will mean if he’s left me here. If he never really cared about me.

I struggle up with the help of my crutches and hobble across the room. Everything feels strange, vertiginous, like I’m going to plummet through the floor or fly off into the atmosphere. My ankle lashes me with pain, and it seems to take me forever to cross the few yards to the mini bar.

There I unscrew a small bottle of Absolut and gulp it down straight. Then I do the same with a bottle of Tanqueray, chased with a slightly larger bottle of white wine. So thoughtful of the Four Seasons to keep so much in stock.

For a second, I think I’m going to be sick, but I breathe, get ahold of myself, feel the warmth of the alcohol spread through me. With the painkillers, it’s a different kind of buzz, like having my brain encased in plastic. The room is a boat, and I’m riding wave after wave. I can’t feel my face or my hands. Or much of anything. Which is what I wanted.

I make it, barely, back to the bed and sink onto it, throwing my crutches onto the floor, the whole bed swaying. The pain in my ankle’s remote now. The room stretches around me, growing cavernous, white and sterile like a mausoleum.

My phone buzzes in my hand, startling me. I drop it and search through the folds of the heavy comforter for it. Finding it, I see that it’s Philippe.

I’m almost crying as I answer. My lips feel numb. I can’t feel the phone when I lift it to my ear.

“Jesus in a hand basket,” Philippe says over the line. “It’s Armageddon around here. What happened?”

For a second, I can’t speak. I don’t
know
what’s happened, and it’s like I’ve been turned inside out and emptied of everything.

“What’s going on?” I manage, and my tongue feels thick in my mouth. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, sharply. “But are
you
? You sound weird, Ali.”

“I’m . . . fine. What’s going on?”

“Rhett just kicked us out of the offices. The whole team.”

“What?” This would be the part where I jump out of bed and start putting on clothes, go into emergency coping mode. But I’m too busy drifting on my mattress—so much white everywhere. It feels like the absence of everything—not just color but life.

I make myself focus, try to home in on Philippe’s words.

“He didn’t look happy about it, but yes. He came in about fifteen minutes ago and told us we had to go.”

“Had he talked to Adam? Did he say?”

“No, but I assume the order came from on high. Isn’t he there with you? How’s your ankle?”

“It sucks,” I say. “All of this sucks.”

“Ali-girl, what’s going on? You don’t sound right.” The concern in his voice makes the tears come for real, and then I start to sob. My body’s wracked with it. I can’t breathe for a long moment. I can’t make sense of anything.

“I don’t know. Adam just left. He threw a bunch of money at people to look in on me and disappeared.”

I hear Philippe’s intake of breath and then a long moment of quiet as he tries to process. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No,” I say, shakily. “It doesn’t.”

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know yet,” I tell him. “I guess just clear out and—”

“Already done.”

“Okay. Tell the team I’m sorry.”

“There’s no reason for
you
to be sorry. Something’s fishy here. I’ll dig around, try to find out what’s up. And I’m going to call your dad.”

“No, wait—” I start to say. If my father gets involved, he’ll want information from me. Want me to tell him everything I know. But I need him to help me get out of here. And I
need
to get out of here.

“Go ahead,” I tell Philippe, and we end the call.

Family’s everything,
I hear his voice say.
We need to choose each other every time.

But I haven’t chosen family. I’ve chosen Adam.

And look where that’s gotten you,
the voice in my head tells me.

My phone buzzes in my hand again, and I know without looking that it’s my father. I put it on speaker. I’m too tired to hold the phone anymore.

Vaguely, I hear him speaking to me. His tone is soothing, solicitous.

“ . . . can’t believe that jackass left you there . . .” I hear, and I want to argue, but I can’t believe it either.

“Alison, honey,” he says. And his voice is quiet, confidential. “I’m getting on Thad Weaver’s private jet, and we’re coming to get you. Give us a few hours, and we’ll come take you home. Okay, sweetheart?”

I nod, though I know he can’t hear that. I want so badly to be at home, curled in a ball in my bedroom. I want my mom and dad. I want not to hurt anymore, not to feel the grief and anger carving into my high.

“Tell me what’s going on,” my father says, in that same gentle tone. “What did you find out?”

Collapsing back against the pillows, I look around the suite. The
snow’s died down. The room is quiet, filled with Adam’s absence. Not a trace of him. Like none of it happened. Anger sweeps through me, searing away everything else.

“Nothing, Dad,” I say, but I start to cry again, and I know he knows I’m lying.

“Alison,” my father repeats, and his tone is so gentle, so wheedling. “I’ll be there in no time, but you have to tell me. What did you get on Blackwood?”

I’m tired. So tired. And I can’t think of a reason to protect Adam. He’s not here. He’s not the one who’s going to bring me home. I look down at the phone for a long, long time.

And then I tell my father everything.