The Thrill of It (No Regrets Book 2) Page 10

  “What are you seeing?”

  She flashes a quick smile. “Crash the Moon.”

  “Oh. Cool. I’ve never seen it, but I’ve heard it’s good.”

  “It’s amazing. I’ve seen it several times. This will be my first time seeing it after it swept the Tony awards though—best show, best director, best actress. So what can I do for you? We’re going to need to talk and walk so I don’t miss curtain.”

  “I fucked up big time,” I admit as we head back into the hallway.

  “Then unfuck it up,” she says, as if that’s the easiest thing in the world. She hits the down button on the elevator panel.

  “How?”

  “Well, considering I don’t know what you did, the answer may vary. But it almost always starts with a heartfelt apology.”

  On the ride down, I tell Michelle what happened yesterday with Harley, how I freaked out when I saw the bag from Bloomingdale’s. “I didn’t even give her a chance to explain, but the fact is, she doesn’t have to explain. I believe her. I know I overreacted, because that’s what I do.”

  We reach the lobby and leave the building together. “You need to work on that, Trey. You have a lot of anger and you have some insecurity, but most of all you let fear control you. You can shut off and shut down, but none of those reactions are ultimately going to heal your heart. What will help you is being honest. But don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t make assumptions. Say only what you know to be true,” she instructs me as I keep pace with her down Lexington Avenue. She looks at me as we slow at the crosswalk. “What is the one truth you most want to speak?”

  A bus rolls to a stop, fumes pouring out and flooding the muggy June night. It’s sticky hot, and the nearby garbage can is overflowing, and this city makes me crazy, and I don’t even know if I want to be in New York anymore, in the middle of all these piss-stained sidewalks and never-ending garbage. But in spite of all that is ugly, there is her. Harley is what I want. She is the truth I most want to speak.

  I tell Michelle what I want to say to her.

  “Good,” she says, and smiles. “And now I want you to remember, even if it feels scary to say that, I believe in you. I know you can do this. And don’t forget, we have a lot of other issues to work on still. So you better show up for your next appointment.”

  Then I say goodbye, grab my phone from my pocket, and dial Kristen as fast as I possibly can. But my fingers are shaky and keep slipping off the keypad. I remind myself to slow down, to calm down, to stop being eaten alive by impulses. I don’t have to grab hard at what I want, then run like hell from what scares me.

  I take a moment, take a breath, and Kristen answers on the second ring.

  “Hey. It’s Trey. How are you?”

  “I’m good,” she says with a small laugh. “Thanks for asking.”

  “So,” I begin, as I head north on Lexington. But I don’t even know if I should be heading north. She could be anywhere in the city. “Do you know where Harley is? She went to some”—I pause, fighting every instinct to spit out the next word with disgust—“event.”

  “Yeah. I know where she is. But if you’re going to fuck her up more, I’m not going to tell you. You really did a number on her, Trey.”

  I nod, absorbing the blow, deserving it. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “You need to tell her that, Trey,” she says, and I can picture Kristen, hands on her hips, a sharp-eyed stare through those red cat-eye glasses, all intense and serious.

  “I will.”

  “And she is not in a good place. Her mother worked her over yesterday and said horrible things to her, and then you walked out and didn’t even give her a chance, and she’s a mess, but she doesn’t even realize it because she’s trying to be all tough and badass.”

  “Shit,” I say, feeling horrible for adding to her misery yesterday. “I knew it was bad with her mom. But that bad?”

  “Like you wouldn’t even believe,” Kristen says, punctuating each word, as if she can emphasize the awfulness more that way. “So you need to promise me if I tell you where she is that you’re not going to ruin things for her.”

  “I won’t.”

  “And I’m not doing this for you. I’m doing this for her. Because I tried to stop her. I tried to keep her from going, but she’s spiraling bad. So if you can be the one to save her, then do it. But if you’re going to go show up and make her feel like shit, then I will break your fucking knees.”

  I stop in my tracks. “Kristen, you are one scary bitch and I will never cross you, and that is not why I want to know where she is. I want to apologize. I want to grovel. I want to tell her I want her back. That I want her. Always.”

  “Well then, as Miranda said to Big in Sex and the City, go get our girl. She’s at the Parker New York. Ballroom level.”

  I punch a fist in the air. “I owe you big-time.”

  “If you save her, I owe you.”

  The Parker New York is a swank hotel on Fifty-Sixth Street near Central Park. It’s stylish and cool, with one of those sleek glass entryways tucked into a gray brick building, the kind that’s understated, that says if you need to know we’re here, you don’t deserve to know who we are.

  But inside, the lobby is overwhelming, with towering white columns and slick marble floors. I’d stand out if this wasn’t the type of hotel that attracted all kinds—actors, rock stars, and businessmen—so I walk past dressed-down dudes like me in boots and jeans, as well as the tuxes-and-bow-tie guys and the women in slinky dresses on their arms.

  A metal sign by the escalator tells me there are several ballrooms, so I decide to start on the third floor. I ride up the escalator, mentally talking back to my nerves, which are operating on overdrive. I don’t want to fuck this up. But I know I have to rescue her before she falls too far away from herself. Her mom might have kicked and beaten her while she was down, but I delivered a punishing blow, and now I need to undo it.

  Stepping off the escalator on the second floor, I notice a dude in the bar reading Bridget Jones’s Diary. Weird choice for a guy, but he seems to be the happiest fella in the world, lost in his book. Fine, whatever.

  I head up another flight.

  Soon I find the ballroom on the third floor, and sounds filter out. Waiters serving drinks, glasses being clinked, small talk being exchanged.

  I stop at the doors, and my heart rises to my throat, then lodges there. I stare out at the sea of people talking, toasting, laughing. They’re milling about and chatting, so dinner hasn’t started yet.

  I survey the massive room, scanning for her, wishing I had infrared glasses that would zero in on her instantly. But then, it’s not that hard to find the girl you’re in love with, because she’s often the only one you see. And there she is. Near the stage, a closed-mouth smile on her beautiful face, that dress nestled against her body like it was made for her. Her arm is tucked into the crook of her date’s elbow. I press my fingers hard against my temple to remind myself to think about anything but this red-hot jealousy.

  I step back into the hallway and flatten myself against the wall, as if no one can see me that way. Which is stupid. But still, I need these racing feelings to die down so I can figure out what to do. I don’t even have a game plan. What kind of dumbass am I to show up at a formal event without even an idea in mind?

  But hiding here sure as hell won’t help me get my girl back.

  I flash back on the last week with her, the nights we spent, the things we shared, the stories we told. They fill my body with strength and fortitude.

  Then I turn around, peer into the ballroom, and assess the options. I spot a door leading into the kitchen and take note of how close it is from where Harley’s standing with the little dude by her side.

  I walk into the ballroom, and a woman in a black dress is now onstage, clearing her throat, speaking into a microphone, as I thread through the crowd in Harley’s direction, hoping, praying I can whisper in her ear, grab a quiet moment.

  Everyone begins clapping, and
then the short guy with Harley takes a bow and waves. Harley plants a kiss on his cheek that makes my stomach churn. I grab hold of a chair so I don’t topple over.

  “And now I’d love to invite Mr. Stewart up to the stage to say a few words,” the woman says, and Harley lets go of his arm, squeezes his hand, and watches him walk to the stage.

  I am withering as I witness her work, but this is the moment. This is my golden opportunity, and it’s not going to come around again. I seize it, moving quickly to where she stands.

  As I near her, I’m sure everyone can hear my heart beating at this frantic pace, like it’s riding on a slingshot to the moon and its safe passage hinges on the next ten seconds of my life.

  I reach her, tap her shoulder, and whisper her name.

  She turns to me, shock in her eyes for a nanosecond, but it quickly morphs into a cool, plastic mask. Distance—she’s keeping her distance.

  “Can I talk to you?” I whisper.

  She shakes her head.

  That won’t do. That won’t do at all. I didn’t come all the way in here for this. I came for her, and I’m not leaving without her.

  “I am deeply honored to see all of you here tonight. To know that you have come out to help the plight of orphaned elephants as well,” Mr. Stewart begins from the stage. The lights shine brightly on him, and I hope to hell they blind him to the audience and to what I’m about to do.

  As he continues speaking, I eye the door to the kitchen, then the stage, then her. I can do this. I have to do this.

  I inch closer, lean in, and whisper in her ear, “I’m so, so sorry for what I said. I’m so in love with you, and I can’t stand the thought of losing you, Harley. Please talk to me.”

  She doesn’t speak, but her breath catches in response, and that’s all I need to know. I nod to the kitchen door, not far from here. She says yes with her eyes, and I step away first, not drawing attention, not making a scene. She follows me, so casually, so coolly, she could be heading to the ladies’ room to powder her nose, for all they know.

  Well, if the ladies’ room were in the kitchen.

  But I stop caring what anyone else thinks when I push open the silver door, and seconds later she’s behind me. Waiters bustle in and out with plates on trays, and cooks plate food for the next round of servers. They are too busy to care about us.

  “What the hell?” She holds her hands out wide in question. The softness of the moment has unraveled. “You can’t just come in here and do this, Trey. You can’t. I am working. I’m on a job. And you can’t show up and whisper this shit in my ear and make it seem like everything is okay. You can’t,” she says, but her voice is trembling with emotion, on the brink of tears.

  “But it’s true, Harley. It’s true, and I’m sorry I was a dick yesterday. I’m sorry I freaked out. It’s not like I know what to do when I feel this way. I’ve never felt this way. I barely even know what it is. But I know I’m crazy about you. I love you, and I’m in love with you, and it’s real and true and messy and sloppy, and I don’t care, because I want you back. I want you with me. I want an us. I want you,” I say, and I am helpless before her. I am serving myself up to her, giving her my bleeding heart, and hoping to hell she doesn’t take a knife and stab it to pieces, then eat it for a snack.

  She winces, as if this pains her.

  “How can you do this?” She speaks in a low voice. “How can you just say these things? It’s so unfair. I’m working, don’t you get it? This is me. This is who I am. This is where I belong. This is the only place I’ve ever belonged. You fell in love with a whore, okay? I know that’s what you were going to call me yesterday,” she says, nailing me with cutthroat honesty.

  “But I didn’t,” I plead. “I didn’t say that. Because you’re not. You’re not a whore, you’re not a slut, you’re not anything but the most amazing, resilient, badass, tough, cool, hot, smart, and brave person I have ever known.” I take a step closer, reaching for her hands, risking it. She doesn’t brush me off or push me away either. “You told me I was brave, but I think you are too. And I want to be brave with you, Harley. And stupid with you. We can be better together.”

  She glances to the door, her eyes etched with longing. But for what? For what’s out there with that guy who hired her to play pretend? Or what’s here?

  “Harley,” I say, gripping her hands tighter. She starts to squeeze back, and the small gesture emboldens me. “You don’t belong to him or them.”

  “I do,” she says, but her voice is fading out, like maybe she doesn’t believe it anymore. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever belonged to.”

  I shake my head adamantly. “No. You belong to a stained-glass window in an abandoned building. You belong to the flower in the junkyard. You belong to the beach that you miss. You belong to your shoes—those Mary Janes that I hate, but also the combat boots that I love,” I tell her, and her lips part, her shoulders rise, and she laces her fingers through mine. She is all I will ever want on this earth, and I have to make sure she knows without a shadow of a doubt that we might be damaged, but we are perfectly damaged together. “You belong to the beer you never drink, and to your friend Kristen, and to that group that I used to wish I never went to, but now I’m so damn glad I did because it might not be how I met you, but it’s how I fell in love with you. And you belong to my brothers,” I say, and it’s then that a tear slides down her cheek. “And to the trees you kissed. Most of all, you belong to the ugly beautiful. You belong to this messy, crazy, brave, and honest love.”

  She breaks her hold on my hands to loop her arms around my neck, her body trembling against mine. She seems to never want to let go as she brushes her fingers against the ends of my hair and says in a broken, but strong voice, “When I walked into No Regrets more than six months ago, I had no idea that I was getting a whole lot more than a tattoo. That I was getting you, and us, and a place to belong. Because I belong to us.”

  The breath I didn’t know I was holding, the fear that lined my heart, falls away, crumbles to the ground, and turns into dust and shadows. I pull her close, but she pushes back, her palms firm against my chest.

  “But you have to understand that you can’t freak out all the time,” she says. “My past is messy and it’s unfinished and it will spill over into the present and the future, and you can’t walk away when that happens.”

  I make the easiest promise in the world when I say, “I won’t. I promise.”

  “Then take me out of here.”

  I glance at the door we came through, then look for another one. A waiter about my age, with a pierced ear and a tat on his neck that’s barely visible under his white button-down shirt, grips my shoulder. “There’s another door that way. It’ll take you to the escalators.”

  I clap him on the back. “Thanks, man.”

  21

  Harley

  “I have to tell Cam,” I say as we step onto the escalator. I expect Trey to fume, but he doesn’t.

  “But you’re going home with me.”

  “Seriously?” I roll my eyes. “Of course I am. Tonight, every night. Always.”

  I want to run down these moving stairs with him, leap off the escalator like a ballerina, and fly out of here. Not because I’m running away, but because I’m running to something. I’m running to a new beginning, a new start, a new hope. Where I don’t erase the past. Where I own the past, but I claim the present and all of the future too.

  Except I don’t want to trip on an escalator and catch my dress in the metal teeth of these steps, so I walk carefully in my four-inch heels, then turn the corner to the bar.

  Trey waits by the door as I find Cam where I left him, happily parked in a black leather chair with chrome armrests, a vodka glass on the table in front of him, his paperback open wide. He’s chuckling to himself, shaking his head as if he can’t believe what he’s reading.

  I’m nervous as I walk to him, the unmistakable sound of my heels clicking against the floor. But I’m also not nervous. Because I can
be scared and I can be strong at the same time.

  “Hi, Cam.”

  He looks up, surprise registering in his big baby blues. “What’s going on, baby doll? Is he giving you trouble? ’Cause if he is…” he says, his voice trailing off as he smacks a fist into his other palm.

  I shake my head. “No. He’s a very nice man. But I can’t do this anymore.”

  He sets his book on the table and rises. “Now, now. You don’t mean that. You’re just nervous. You need your old man Cam to give you a pep talk? That’s what I’m here for.”

  “No. I don’t need a pep talk. I’m sorry, Cam. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m sorry to walk out in the middle of a job. I’ll pay you, if you want, for the money you’re losing. I’ll give you the dress back too. And I’m sure you want to convince me, and there was a time a few weeks ago in Bliss when I wanted to be convinced, but not anymore. I have to let Layla go, Cam,” I say, and there’s a note in my tone like begging, as if I’m pleading for him to go gently into the night, to let me float away like a bubble blown into the breeze. But there’s another part of me that’s firm and resolute in a way I wasn’t at Bliss. I was toying then, teasing then, and he knew it. Now, I am serious, and he senses the change. “I have to let her go for me, and I have to let her go because I want to know if I can love for real with that boy over there,” I say, gesturing at Trey who’s waiting as patiently as he can—and I know this is progress for him—by the entryway to the bar.

  But Cam is not happy.

  22

  Cam

  That’s why I felt off earlier.

  That’s why I was nervous when I watched her walk upstairs.