True North (Compass series Book 4) (34 page)

“Dammit.”

Either it’s the office with something important or… My heart kicks at the possibility that it might be Pressly. Maybe she needs me too.

But when I pick it up and turn it over, the screen flashes
RLW
. Rey. Ugh. I’ve been dodging his calls all week. I do not want to talk to that man. He’s going to have a lecture, and I don’t want to hear it. I know I’m fucked up, and I don’t want his healthy, come-as-you-are attitude. I want to drown my feelings in drink and forget all about it. And on Friday, I’ll stock my liquor cabinet so full that I’ll have to have Jenny call to make sure I wake up in time for my flight on Monday morning. What I wouldn’t give not to have to go back to New Orleans.

The ringing stops and then starts again, and I throw the damn phone across the room. It hits the back of the couch and slides down into the slouch of a blanket that’s been there for days because most of the time I don’t make it to my bed at night. Why bother?

The muffled jangling sound comes to a halt, and I slump back into my chair.

I’m only vaguely startled when there’s a knock at my door. My mutter of “Are you fucking kidding me?” is mostly for show. Because am I really surprised? No. Nor would I be surprised if he picked the goddamn lock if I didn’t answer. Probably taught himself how to pick locks in case anyone ever lost a key to some handcuffs or because he fancies himself Houdini or some shit.

When I’ve stumbled my way to the door and nearly clocked myself opening it because I’m less steady on my feet than I thought, it’s to an unimpressed Rey Walter in a goddamn impeccable suit leaning a hand against my doorframe.

“You brought this on yourself,” he says as he breezes past me into my house and drops a messenger bag just inside. “Go get in the shower because you smell even worse than you look. I’ll put on some coffee, and then you and I are going to have a little chat.”

“Rey—”

“No. I just spent five hours on a plane, you’re the first of three stops I have to make tonight, and I don’t have time for your self-indulgent bullshit.”

“Is this how you talk to India?”

“No, it’s not. You want to lay with your head in my lap while I stroke your hair and coddle you?”

It was an off-hand mutter, and I’m surprised he actually answered me because he takes his promises of confidentiality annoyingly seriously. And with that…India’s more like a lynx than a kitten, but maybe for the right man, she’d purr. The image is too much for my sodden brain to handle. I can only respond to his challenge with a grumbled “No.”

“Didn’t think so. Get in the goddamn shower.”

A good twenty minutes later, I make my way downstairs. A hot shower turned cold with a thorough wash of my hair and a scrupulous scrub of every inch of my body with soap, I’m dressed in clean clothes. I feel comfortable enough with Rey not to put on a suit but instead pull on lounge pants and an old law school T-shirt. What I’m wearing isn’t going to change his opinion of me, for better or for ill, and frankly even the idea of fastening buttons and drawing up a zipper is exhausting.

Rey’s sitting on the living room couch scrolling through his phone, but I see that he’s tidied the space and some in the kitchen. My chest burns with embarrassment that he knows what a fucking disaster I am and that he felt the need to clean up after me. Is he going to charge me the same exorbitant rate for this as his other services? Or is this a complimentary house call?

I dump myself into a chair, and Rey absently hands me one of the coffee mugs from the table. Black. Good man. I wait for him to finish with his emails or whatever it is he’s dealing with. A resigned shake of his head and putting the phone facedown on the table signal that it’s my turn.

“What are you doing here?”

“Must be something in the air around here because you all are in need of some supervision.”

“So it’s not just me?”

“Not even close.”

That makes me feel better. At least he didn’t make the trip just for me. How much of a mess would a person need to be for that to be true?

“But I’m your first stop?”

“Yes.” He leans back against the couch and crosses an ankle over a knee, looking like this is the millionth time he’s been in my house instead of the first. His ability to look at ease is remarkable. I can only picture him looking more comfortable if he had his feet propped on Matthew’s back. It’s probably that effortlessness that lets him look at me over his coffee mug like I’ve got some explaining to do.

“I thought the next time I was out here I’d be joining you and Press at the Black House or sipping cocktails with you over dinner while she suffered through sobriety because she’s carrying your child. What the hell happened? You had the perfect opportunity. You of all people should understand that. Work the crisis, man. Adrenaline, intensity, knight-in-shining-armor, all that good stuff. So why are you here and without Pressly?”

“I don’t deserve her.”

The tick up of his eyebrow is the only indication he finds my candor surprising. “Not if you’re going to sit here sulking, you don’t. But other than that, I’ve got a news flash for you, Slade.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, threading his fingers together. Professor Walter has arrived and class is in session. “It doesn’t matter what you think. What matters is what she thinks, and she believes in you. She desperately wants you to step up and be that guy. Be a husband, be a father. She has an inordinate amount of faith in you, in spite of your myriad fuckups, and all you have to do is claim it.”

“What if I’m not good enough?”

“You’re not an imposter. You belong here. You’ve earned everything that sits around you. This house, your title, the clothes on your back, and the money in your bank account. Do you feel like that yet?”

I take a minute to consider, because he’s really asking. And the thing is, after years and years, the answer is finally, “Yeah, I do.”

“And how’d you get here?”

“I faked it.”

“So why can’t you do that with her? Put on the dog-and-pony show of being good enough, throw up a Potemkin village of the life you want with her, and sooner or later it’ll become reality. That’s how it’s worked with everything else, right? Why not with her?”

Rey might be the most infuriating man on the planet, and if he weren’t so goddamn right all the time, I’d want to deck him. Well, I still want to, but I won’t because he’s worth far more to me with his exasperating brain in his head than splattered all over my living room floor.

“You think that’ll work?”

“I do.”

His confidence bolsters something inside of me, but there’s an obstacle he hasn’t considered. And it’s kind of a big one, what with his insistence on respect for boundaries and all.

“She doesn’t want to see me.”

“Correction: she doesn’t want to see you making the same old excuses. There are circumstances under which she’d be thrilled to see you.”

The cunning gleam in his eye gives me pause, and by pause I mean, makes me feel like there’s a rock in my stomach because I’m not going to like this. But if he thinks there’s a shot at me getting Press back, I’ve got to know. “And what might those be? If risking arrest by trying to get close to her wasn’t proof enough, what does she want from me?”

His eyes narrow thoughtfully, and he stares into the distance. Even strokes his clean-shaven chin. If I’ve stumped Rey, we’re all in trouble. But eventually, his face gets bright, like a light bulb turned on above him.

“Was that difficult for you? Rocking up to her office building, all ready to be the hero?”

“With a live shooter on the loose? It’s fucking dangerous.”

“That’s not what I asked you. Was it hard for you? Did it take you out of your comfort zone? Aside from your worry about her—which I totally believe was genuine, otherwise I wouldn’t be here—was it unpleasant?”

If I put aside the dread that something had happened to her, the concern that I was going to get thrown in the back of a cruiser for obstructing a police action…no. If anything, it’d made me feel heroic and like a big man. And that’s not a bad feeling at all. “No. It wasn’t. What exactly are you getting at?”

“I think she wants you to make a sacrifice. Do something for her. Not in any way, shape, or form for you. Just something you think she’d like, no matter how much it makes you feel like you’re wearing a wool sweater in July.”

I scrape fingernails over the side of my neck because I can practically feel the scratchy fiber rubbing the wrong way against my sweaty skin. Beyond that, it makes me queasy. But I can understand why she’d want that from me—she’s tired of always being the one who can do something for other people. For once, it would be nice if someone were willing to put aside their needs and wants and put hers first, no matter what it costs them. As vomit-inducing as it is, I think I want to be that guy. For her.

“If that’s what it takes for her to believe that I really want her back—all of her—I’ll do it. Please tell me you have something in mind.”

“As a matter of fact, I do. How do you feel about grand gestures and groveling?”

‡

J
esus, these pants
are tight. And it doesn’t help that I’m sweating like a pig. And my face itches. I scratch at the two-day scruff on my jaw before I tug at the shirt clinging to my abs. Then Rey knocks my hand away.

“Stop it. You’re going to make it all loose.”

I reach to pull at it again because, with the cotton adhering to me like Saran Wrap, I feel like I might as well be naked. “Maybe that wouldn’t be such a—”

The vise grip of his hand on my wrist halts me mid-yank. “It would be a bad thing. You look great. I promise. Would I let you look stupid?”

“You are, in fact, encouraging me to make an ass out of myself, so yes. You would.”

He grins at me, those straight white teeth shining out of his enviably clean-shaven face. “Yeah, but this is for a good cause. And it’s going to work. Also, if you’re going to make an ass out of yourself, you may as well do it properly.”

I roll my eyes, but I have to concede. “Yeah, all right.”

He lets go of my wrist, and I shake it out while he looks me up and down again like he’s created some masterpiece. “In my professional opinion, you look hot. She’s going to love it.”

She’d better. When Rey and I had brainstormed a couple nights ago about the perfect way for me to apologize to Press and make her see that I’m willing to go to any lengths to have her, I hadn’t actually thought he’d make me go through with this. But here I am, dressed like a pop idol tweens lose their shit over.

It’s Talent Show night at the club again. I use the term loosely. It’s usually some mash of burlesque, suspension demos, and an orgy. I guess it takes some amount of talent to make public sex appealing instead of awkward? But this is going to be a little different.

Applause for the last act sounds from the other side of the rigged-up curtain, and bile churns in my gut. It’s go time. But not without one last petulant snap at Rey.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

“I’m not making you do anything. You can walk away, and no one except me will be the wiser. But I’d urge you to consider the consequences of that first. How long are you going to keep running away from what you want?”

Mashing my hands into my eye sockets and over my forehead, I know it’s now or never. I can do this. I can do it for Pressly. It is the very fucking least I can do for her.

I shake it out one last time and head for the gap in the curtains, surprised when a very firm smack lands on my ass. Whipping around, I’m met with Rey’s toothy grin.

“Go get ’em, tiger.”

“Are you shitting me with this?”

His brows crease in mock confusion. “What? Is that not a dude thing?”

“Only in sports.”

“Right. Note to self: learn how to play golf.”

Given his facility in all other things, his complete and utter lack of knowledge about sports has got to be an affectation. Right? Although I suppose his erudition must know some limit. He can’t actually be omniscient. Can he? “Not—”

“Gotcha.”

Fucking Rey Walter. But his antics have loosened the panic curled tight inside me and I roll my eyes as I step through the heavy fabric.

Once on the stage, I can’t see anything at first because the lights are shining bright in my eyes. Maybe this is better. It’ll be easier if I’m performing in front of an abyss and pretending there’s no one here except Press. But the murmurs and a couple of giggles shatter the illusion.

I grab the microphone standing in the corner of the stage and tap it to make sure it’s on, cringing at the feedback when I get too close to the amp. “Sorry, sorry.”

My eyes have adjusted some, and I can make out shapes in the audience, including what I’m pretty sure is Rey darting across the room and dumping himself into a vacant chair at a half-full table. And that’s when I see her. Not clearly because the lights are still interfering, but there’s an expanse of creamy cleavage framed by blonde hair and a candy-pink corset top. To the side of the table are legs crossed at the ankle, one over-the-knee leather boot laid against another encasing fishnet-clad thighs.