T's Trial: A Bone Cold--Alive Novel (26 page)

Lyla shook her head, gifted his sleepy form with a smile. She kissed her fingertips and held them to his lips. He kissed back. “Like where else am I going to go?” She slipped from the bed, tugged his shirt on over her bare torso and went to the kitchen.

Henry Mancini had long since given up and the rocking of the water against the boat was the only sound. The illumination from the running lights was barely sufficient to see to get a plastic cup left from the afternoon. She knocked T’s wallet, which she’d pulled from a drawer when looking for the eight-tracks, off the counter in trying to find a cup. “Oh, damn,” she muttered as she picked it up and turned to close it. His driver’s license picture caught her eye and she leaned closer to the outside lights to see what he looked like.

She didn’t recognize him. The picture was all wrong. This man had blond hair that disappeared behind his shoulders and an insolent attitude evident even in the formality of the pose. His eyes seemed to ask what right the license bureau had to demand he have his picture taken. Whose wallet was this? Surely not Sam’s. She squinted in the dim light and read the name of Edwin Thomas Samuels.

The cup bounced into the sink. Her stomach sank. Her heart started racing. Clutching the wallet, she drew another cup of water and went out the sliding door and around to the first deck above the cabin. She sat down on a built-in bench, its plastic covered cushions cracked and dry. She gulped water and then reread the license. She searched the face in the brighter light, could only come back to the same conclusion: Edwin Thomas Samuels and Sam Thomas were the same. She’d just made love to and professed love for a most notorious man.

Lyla had no idea how long she sat there. She became cold but wouldn’t go in for more clothes. She drew her knees up inside his shirt, not caring if it stretched out. There was no noise but the lapping of the water on the sides of the houseboat and the occasional rumble from a distant vessel night-fishing. The only light visible belonged to the boat, the moon, the stars, and the isolated house on the shore.

T awoke to find her gone. He checked his watch: 2:15. She’d come out to the house about ten, and he couldn’t have been asleep more than thirty minutes. He didn’t feel forward motion on the houseboat, just gentle rocking. His shirt was missing, so he grabbed his shorts and hastily pulled them on. He seemed to recall she had said something about a drink of water.

She wasn’t in the kitchen. He ventured outside, calling her name. No answer. His heart rate picked up. Surely she hadn’t decided to swim back. He went around to the first deck and found her huddled up on the bench. Despite the late summer heat, she was almost shivering.

“Lyla?” He jumped up the last two ladder rungs. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” The word of endearment slipped effortlessly off his tongue. It was as if he had always called her that. He moved quickly to her side and sat down beside her. He reached to envelop her in his arms, but she pulled away. He knitted his brow. “Hey, don’t have second thoughts.”

“Oh, I’m way past second thoughts.” Her voice was hoarse, as if she’d been crying. She hugged her knees even tighter.

“Can I know how far past?” He kept his tone cautious. Regret from a woman would be a new experience for him. He surely didn’t want it from this one.

She pulled her knees out of the shirt and stretched her legs down to the deck, resolutely placing them side by side. A serious stance in a sitting mode. She braced herself with a hand on either side and only looked at him when she decided to speak. “I’ve been to about number one hundred, T, and then through the alphabet.”

“You are going to have to do better than that—” he realized what she had said and his voice trailed off. “What did you call me?”

“T.” She reached over for the wallet. “Isn’t that the proper thing? Too familiar? Prefer Mr. Samuels?” Her voice choked as she flipped the leather open and displayed his license as if it were a detective’s badge.

“I’d prefer Sam.” He took it from her, folded it closed and slipped it into his back pocket.

“I don’t even know where to start.” Her voice broke and she looked away.

“Start anywhere. Shall I start?”

“Oh, that would be good. You go to bed with strange women, use assumed names all the time, do you?” Tears welled in the corners of her eyes.

“There’s a couple of questions there, Lyla. I’m not real proud of how I’m going to have to answer them, but I’m going to be honest.” He didn’t reach for her, but he wanted to. “Yes, I’ve gone to bed with strange women. No, I’ve never used an assumed name before. You’re not a stranger. I love—”

She cut him off. “Why, Sam?” Her voice cracked and the tears rolled down her cheeks. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were? If not at first, I understand that, but at least before—before we did this!”

“Because I was afraid you’d have nothing to do with me.” He searched for words. “When Fletch and I came here, it was to hide. To let me get a foot back in the real world. And you were—oh, God, this sounds awful—you were a target. Someone to goad, to set up.” She looked askance at him. “Never in my life did I think I’d fall in love. Love was sex and vice-versa, but, Lyla, I—” he stumbled and realized his own tears were close to coming, “I did. My grandmother would have said I’m just getting a taste of my own medicine. Please, I couldn’t tell you. You’re not the kind to hold Eddie T in very high esteem. Any esteem, for that matter.” He started to reach for her, again withdrew his hands. “I wanted your love too badly to risk having you find out who I was. Fletch had invented Sam and I became him.”

“Then what the hell is Fletch to you?”

“Bone Cold—Alive’s manager. He got religion and decided to save me when I teetered too close to the edge.”

“You mean when the lawsuit from hell reared its ugly head.”

“Money had something to do with it. I’m surprised you paid any attention.”

“Couldn’t even watch turn on the TV without hearing about it. Attempted rape on the stage in front of 70,000 people. News like that’s too good for any journalist.”

“There was no attempted rape.” T closed his eyes. “Please believe me, Lyla. It was another lifetime. I have taken the cure.”

“Oh? Everything’s straight forward, aboveboard now?” She looked at him, dropping her mouth open in unbelief. “So what was going to happen when you left?” She swiped at her tears. “Would I get some prime concert seats or a charity donation?” She leaned her head back and laughed. “Oh, God, everything just falls into place now! All that attention while you shopped wasn’t just money, it was notoriety. And The Manorborne! I seem to recall a near-riot there the last time you were in Dallas. No wonder they were reluctant to seat us. No wonder we got star treatment, a back table, and a quick exit!” She clasped her hands and shoved them between her knees.

“When I got to number one hundred on that list, when I’d gone through the alphabet and back, it all came back to my naïveté!” She looked at him. “It’s not you I’m really mad at, Mr. Samuels, although you’ve got some of it, it’s mainly me.” She thumped herself in the chest.

“Lyla, please, it was like magic. You were misdirected every time someone thought they had the answer.”

“Arial and Andi.”

“Who?”

“The Palmer twins. They sat there in church and knew it was you and told Harrison. Did I believe him? No, no. Arial even tried to convince me again tonight. She got one of those unbelievably nasty tabloids and found a picture of your twin. He was draped with women and practically indecent in a still photo.” She looked at him squarely. “Hell, it’s been you plenty of times, hasn’t it?”

There wasn’t anywhere for T to run. It was an inquisition he deserved. “Yes.”

“Bertie!” Lyla stood. “I’m going to kill Bertie!” She doubled her fists and punched the air. “How did she know? And she set me up!” She rose, paced, turned. “What did you do to get her to do that? Did you pay her?”

“Pay Bertie?” He was incredulous. “She doesn’t strike me as the bribable type. No amount of money would make her betray you. It never crossed my mind. Lord, Lyla, she loves you like a daughter. Can’t you see that?”

“Yes, I see that. That’s the point! You don’t betray your daughter!”

“Well, maybe she didn’t look at it as betrayal.”

She stopped her pacing. “Oh?”

“Maybe Bertie saw it as helping nature along its course.”

“She looks at you, the rock star from hell masquerading as a homosexual, she looks at me, a widow she’s known all her life, and wham! We’re a match made in Bertie-heaven!”

“Something like that.”

“Your hormones are still in charge of your mind.”

“Well, it’s kinda hard for them not to be when I know all you’ve got on is my shirt.”

“Oh!” She drew the word out and her face reddened. “I can take care of that!” She balanced herself at the top of the ladder and jumped down, quickly disappearing around the deck and into the cabin.

T heard a door slam. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. What a mess! He might join Lyla in killing Bertie. He was sure all this was her fault. Or Fletcher’s. Anyone’s but his.

His reverie ended with the sound of her sandaled feet and the slap of his shirt and the rest of his clothes on his lap. She launched them at him from the ladder on her way up to the steering deck. He had already heard the sound of the anchor being hauled up.

“Get dressed! We’re going in!”

“You sure Harrison didn’t get that red hair from you? That is one hell of a temper you have, Lyla.” He pulled the shirt over his head. It smelled like her. He stuffed the boxers in his back pocket like a handkerchief. He was putting on his shoes when the question came to him. “Tell me, Lyla,” he leaned on the ladder that led to where she was fumbling with the lights and keys. “Just exactly how had you planned for this scenario to play out? I mean, what if I wasn’t Eddie T? What if I was Sam Thomas, chauffeur and protégé to some old geezer from LA? What were you going to do when we left in a week? Were you going to be mad or guilty? Were you going to beg me to stay? Go with me? Just exactly how had this played out in
your
mind?” He pulled himself up the first rung and continued talking to her back. “And I know it had. You don’t sleep with just anybody. Hell, I’d say you hadn’t slept with anybody in a very long time!”

She left the keys and the controls alone and balanced herself on spread out arms as he talked. She threw her head back, then hung it as he finished. He meant his words to hurt, was sure they did.

“I hadn’t.”

“You hadn’t what?” He came up another rung. If he stretched, he could touch her.

“I hadn’t played it out in my mind.”

“I don’t believe that.” He was on the top rung. “You don’t live that way.”

She turned on him. “How do you know how I live? Just assume that because you are so extreme one way, everyone else lives in direct opposition to you?”

He was on the deck with her now, two feet separating them. The boat’s rocking became more pronounced now that it wasn’t anchored. “No. You’ve got a planned little life, Lyla. You don’t take chances. Except in two things as I see them.” He V’ed his fingers.

“Oh, I love this. You’ve known me all of a week and now you’re qualified in psychoanalysis. I really must read your biography.”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard her. “Number one. You haven’t married Tib. Marriage is always chancy, I mean you might actually lose someone, just like you lost Wes. But it’s even chancier to stay single in the face of all the opposition you have and risk being alone the rest of your life. For some reason or other, you’ve chanced that.” She had no comment, so he plunged on. “Number two. You’ve taken a chance by sleeping with me. Highly irregular. If they voted on it, half the populace here would deny that that’s what you did even if the video went viral! It’s so un-Lyla. Maybe you really didn’t play it out in your mind. Maybe for once you just went with the old emotions. Hell, maybe it wasn’t an emotional thing at all. Maybe it was all hormonal.” He put his hands down. “But I love you, Lyla. And we’ve got a hell of a mess if you really love me back.” He turned his back to her, leaned on the railing. “Jesus, I hope it is hormonal on your part. It’ll just be me that hurts.”

Lyla killed all the lights but those needed for identification. “T—Sam—”

“Sam.” He whispered it over his shoulder in her direction.

“Sam.” He felt her move toward him, felt her hands above his back, but she didn’t touch him. “I do love you. I didn’t know it until I shared the piano bench with you, until I felt your spirit, your soul. So you see, I didn’t plan the what-ifs before I came up tonight because if I had, I’d have never made love to you.” Her voice softened. “My hormones got the jump on my better judgment. I thought about when you leave and decided if I didn’t like what I found with you, it was no problem. An interlude.”

He closed his eyes at that word. Hadn’t he begged Fletch for an interlude?

“And if I did like it, then, I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. I was going to have my fling. I never thought I’d—I’d,” she stumbled over the words. He turned to face her, touched her chin, lifted it so her eyes met his.

“Finish, please.”

“I never thought I’d fall in love. That doesn’t happen to thirty-something widows with a child and a business and more busybody neighbors than a person needs.”

“Does it happen to recovering rock stars who’ve never loved before? At least, you’ve loved, Lyla.” He chanced running his fingers through her hair. She didn’t resist, instead moved easily into his arms and kissed him, shivering slightly as he circled his arms about her. He pressed her so tightly he wondered she didn’t need air. Instead, she was squeezing him, trying to draw them as close together as she could.

He pulled his lips from hers. “Lyla, just one more thing.”

She moved her arms to around his neck. “Ask.”

He carefully watched her expression. “Why have you never married Tib?”

A smile cracked the corners of her mouth. “It’s going to sound trite.”

“Like he never asked you? That would be trite. I hope I can give him more credit than that.”

She pushed herself away from him slightly. “Give him lots of credit. Tib has a never-say-die attitude. It’s me. I don’t love Tib. Least not the way a woman is supposed to love the man she marries. I guess I love him like—sort of like a brother.”