Vegas Miracle (11 page)

Simmering garlic permeated the air.  Minutes later, redressed in jeans and a tee shirt and sitting back on the balcony, Ryan jumped when Henri pressed a cool glass of ice water to his temple.  Ryan smiled at the vision of his lover, dressed only in jeans holding a plate of something delicious.  He accepted the morsel of warm cheese drizzled with olive oil and caramelized garlic.   When Ryan’s phone buzzed with a text, Henri grabbed the device, frowned at the screen, then handed it to him.  "I think you have some ‘splainin’ to do."

 Ryan stared at the screen.

"Don’t bother coming home.  I’m sure you can buy whatever you need for your trip tomorrow.  It remains to be seen if I’m here when you return," leapt off the screen and put a vise around his heart.  He stood up, grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and pulled it on.  Henri just sat and watched him scurry around.

"How are you going to fix this?"

Ryan ran a hand through his hair.  His shoulders slumped as he realized he had no idea.  But he had to do something. He wouldn't let Grace go, not even for Henri.  He kissed his lover’s cheek then his lips before standing up and taking a deep breath.

"I don’t know.  But I’ll figure something out."

"Let me know if you need me."  Henri leaned back in the lounge and finished his drink.

Ryan didn’t answer, just watched the last sliver of the balcony disappear between the sliding doors of the penthouse’s private elevator.   Heart pounding, he left rubber marks on the concrete in his haste to get to Grace, to salvage the marriage that meant more to him than his physical need for another man.

Chapter Nine

Thirty minutes later...

Grace glanced up when she heard their door slam.  Stifling a shudder of dread, she realized she was actually going to have to go through with her vow to keep Ryan at arm's length, to give him a dose of his own aloof prescription in order to retain her sanity after this crazy night.  One hand kept a death grip on the glass of red wine, the other was clenched in her lap, clutching her knee in anxiety.  She loved this man, had let him seduce her, leave her, then sweep her off her feet knowing full well his emotional limitations.  So here she was.  Her bed to lie for certain. And she had been rolling around in it too long avoiding the emotional connection she needed.

Ryan’s heavy footsteps approached but she remained seated, staring out at the panoramic view of the Detroit River, taking shaky sips of wine to show her indifference.  She didn't look up when Ryan stood right in front of her although it took everything she had not to leap up and throw herself into his arms.  To beg him to tell her everything was fine, that he wasn’t fooling around, that he still loved her. 

Grace had tried being emotional before, to draw him out of the shell he crawled into.  Hadn’t worked then and she didn’t think it would now.  So here they were, Grace staring at the floor, at the tips of her husband’s shiny shoes, anywhere but into his deep blue eyes.  She could hear him breathing, standing so near she could reach out and touch the crease of his trousers.  But she remained stock still, not realizing she was holding her breath until he finally spoke.

"Grace," Ryan knelt down.  She looked away and exhaled.

"Please look at me."  She moved her knees out from beneath his hands.   Ryan remained kneeling in front of her, hands clenched together and she shut her eyes against the temptation to cry.

"I deserve the silent treatment.  God knows I’ve used it enough myself, right?"

She stayed quiet.

"So, tonight. I, um, probably shouldn't have made it a surprise.  I guess I thought you wouldn’t even consider going if I told you what it was."  Grace kept her gaze trained on the horizon outside their window.  The memory of Henri’s hands, lips and tongue on her body still lingered just below the surface.  She wrapped the robe closer around her body.

Ryan ran a hand across his hair and down his face.  Grace knew this gesture like she knew her own physical ticks.  Heart clenched at the thought that this may be the last serious conversation they had as a married couple, she took a deep breath and continued to just listen.

"I wanted you to have a good time tonight.  I, um, know the guy who owns the place and who hosts and, well, I know you’re researching to write some steamier stuff.  It just seemed, I don’t know, helpful for you to see some of that scene for yourself."  He stood and walked over to the bar but instead of pouring himself a glass of wine, he put both hands on the copper surface and hung his head.

Grace watched him as the unasked questions she had bubbled up in her mind. How do you know him?  Why do you know about "that scene?" Her throat tightened in agony.  But she remained still, unbending.  There was a peace in the silence.  For once she wasn’t formulating her answers before he finished talking, trying to figure out a way to make him communicate better or stop being mad for whatever reason.

He kept his head down.  "Grace, I'm sorry.  I should've never made you feel bad for,” he stopped, seeming to choke back words.  She held her breath again, "for being with him."  Ryan seemed to deflate.  His large frame slumped from the shoulders as his hands dropped to his sides and he turned to look at her.  The depth of sorrow in his gaze caught her off guard.   The long- suppressed tears behind her eyes slipped out and she let them flow.

He took two steps to the couch and pulled her to her feet, his mouth on hers, his strong arms holding her shaking body.  For a moment, she let herself enjoy it, to experience heart-bursting relief that he seemed to still want her.  But the memory of his look as he gazed at her and then at Henri back in that bedroom forced her to struggle out of his embrace and step back.   She brushed the tears away and resumed her silence.

Ryan stood there, his arms still out as if cradling a ghost, his face was a mask of regret.  Grace decided to speak.

"Tell me Ryan.  Tell me what you’re feeling right now."  When he moved towards her, he she took a step back and held out her hand.

"Don’t touch me.  Don’t come near me.  Stay over there and just fucking talk to me."  Grace was proud she kept the tears out of her lowered voice.  Her hands no longer shook as she put them on her hips.

"This has nothing to do with the fact that I had sex with a complete stranger at a party you took me to, does it?"

Ryan shook his head.  Keeping his stubbled jaw clenched without speaking, he spoke volumes with his eyes.  But Grace wasn't going to let him off that easy.  She stood silent, waiting for him to say something.

He lowered his head then looked back up, his eyes glistening.

"I love you, Grace.  I'd never do anything to hurt you.  I have never, ever felt the way I feel about you before, but I was never taught how to be close, how to open up or let anyone in on my thoughts.  If my parents weren’t screaming at each other and throwing shit, they were drunk and ignoring each other.  I have zero frame of reference for anything like a healthy adult relationship.  It’s why I avoided them for nearly forty years.  Until I met you."

He took a shuddering breath and kept talking.

"I spent hours shut up in my room, wishing I was anywhere but in my own house waiting for my father to throw my door open and start berating me for anything and everything he could think of, even though I made straight As, played two varsity sports, made my own money mowing lawns and kept my room spotlessly clean." Ryan’s knees appeared to buckle as he collapsed into the nearest chair.  "It was never enough.  Luckily, he rarely laid a hand on me.  But my brothers weren’t as fortunate."

Grace put a hand over her mouth.  She knew things were not good between Ryan and his older brother, and both of his parents had died years before.  She was very close to her father, who was still alive and enjoying retirement in his little slice of heaven in the Carolinas.  Her sister, Alice, was one of her best friends.  Their mother died of breast cancer when Grace was in her twenties.  Even though that had been brutally hard on her family, Grace had no frame of reference for serious dysfunction yet the thought of Ryan, small and sad, hoping to please an impossible father, nearly broke her heart. 

She took a step towards the man who now sat with his head pressed between his hands as if hoping to squeeze memories out.  As she stood in front of him, hand reached out to touch his hair, he looked up and grabbed her, just when she was about to ask why he said "brothers" when she only knew about one.

"Please Grace, don’t leave.  I can’t imagine my life without you.  I’ll do anything." He stood and pulled her close, covering her lips with his, the very masculine scent and feel of him making Grace’s unshed tears wash down her face, giving their desperate kiss a salty tang.

Ryan seemed to want to possess every inch of her, his usual slight reserve when it came to kisses completely gone.  Grace wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck as he picked her up and they collapsed onto the couch, lips never breaking contact.  Grace pulled away, her head spinning with emotion.

"Ryan, wait."

She struggled out of his arms trying to put together what he said.  They still hadn’t addressed the looks she'd seen exchanged between him and Henri.  Regaining a seat, Grace tried to ignore the voice in her head that told her to let it go, to enjoy Ryan as the man she knew.  Ryan turned over and laid his head in her lap, a familiar position for them both after a long, stressful day.  Grace ran a hand through his thick, blond hair.

"I thought you only had one brother."  Her voice was barely a whisper.

Ryan covered his eyes with one hand, the thin platinum band on his ring finger catching the lamplight.  Grace put her hand over his, wanting to feel the heat from his skin, hoping he was ready to tell her more.

"I had two.  Liam was between Sean and me."  He took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling, his deep blue eyes hard with anger.  Grace ran a hand through his hair again, a familiar gesture, one that usually calmed him after a tough meeting or a bad plane ride.  "Liam was my hero growing up.  He was just a year and a half older. They didn’t call us Irish twins for nothing."  He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes.   "I followed him around from the minute I could walk. We slept in the same bed for years even though we didn’t have to.  Sean was busy staying out of our father’s way, then playing baseball. He had no patience for snotty nosed little brothers."

Ryan stayed silent a full minute then took the hand Grace threaded through his thick hair and kissed her palm.  She shivered.  Putting it over his beating heart, he continued.

"Liam took the brunt of our dad’s anger. He was quiet, bookish, not athletic. The only one of us who made straight A’s all the way through high school but." Ryan swallowed hard. "That day. He’d just been accepted to Yale and all our father could say was ‘Well son, you could've picked a cheaper school.’  And when Liam finally started to defend himself, as our mom started her usual mix of crying and drinking, the old man really let him have it."

Grace’s eyes widened.  "You mean he hit him?"

"Christ, Grace, he beat the living shit out of those two on a regular basis.  His prerogative you see, as the man of the family.   My mother was useless by the time I was born.  She was worn out by five straight years of being pregnant and emotionally abused by her husband.  Somehow I managed not to piss him off or he just didn’t care enough about me to hit me quite as often."

Ryan turned to his side, facing out into the room.  Grace held back tears, her hand on his shoulder, hoping he wouldn’t resent her for this, but knowing he needed it, they needed it.  He had to tell someone or he was going to implode and take their marriage with him.

"Our father kept calling Liam a "know-it-all, a fucking bookworm, a show-off brainiac who’d never get laid by a real woman.  Jesus but the man was evil.  ‘Look at your brothers!’ he’d point to Sean who just sat staring straight ahead, ignoring everybody in the room, his main defense.  He’d point to me, usually cowering behind Sean.  ‘They're gonna be real men like me!’ He’d thump his chest like a God damned ape, drink half his beer in one gulp."  Ryan took a shuddering breath.

"This time, though Liam stood up to him.  Told him no real man beat his own children or his wife and whored around every weekend at bars like a middle class loser.  Liam, was going to break free of our life.  He was going to Yale to study economics. He wanted to save the world.  And he could have."

"I never really knew what the old bastard had against Liam.   The emotional abuse was leveled at him constantly. That last day, the day Liam killed himself, he said something to our old man I'll never forget and I'll always admire him for. It’s the thing that’s made me what I am, for good or ill." By this time, Ryan was clutching Grace’s knees, hanging on as if to let go was to fall back into his life as the abused son of an alcoholic father.

Grace kept silent, letting him finish, not sure if she wanted to hear what came next.

"After our father hit him twice in the face, Liam not even trying to defend himself, the letter from Yale still clutched in one hand, Dad stood over the three of us, reeking of beer, red faced and angry for reasons none of us could  fathom." Ryan rubbed a hand over his eyes and Grace could see him, just a boy, trying to find his way, looking to his older brothers for guidance only to be completely cowed by the bully in the house.  She suppressed fury at her husband’s long-dead father.

"He pointed one shaking finger at Liam and called him a show-off loser, a boy who would never be a man like his brothers.   Liam let go of my arm, stood up right in the old man’s stinking face and said he, Liam, would rather die than be anything like the man standing in front of him."