Chapter 5
Rory
Massage chairs. They’re all over this room, and I’d completely forgotten about them. Now that I’ve landed in one, I have no intention of leaving anytime soon. If someone would offer to give me a pedicure and full leg wax, I’d stay here forever. Except Colt what’s-his-last-name keeps looking at me like he has someplace pressing to be. But the only place that might be is spot under a cold terminal window.
I’m not going back to that window. Ever.
Surprisingly, I’d rather he not go back either. Not that he has to stay with me. He doesn’t. In fact, I’m perfectly fine if he leaves right now and—
“I think I’m going to go.”
“No,” I say a little too forcefully, then try to cover it up. “I mean, why don’t you sit down in one of these chairs and relax instead of taking off? You look like you want to bolt out of here.”
“I was going to say I’m going to look around for toothbrushes, but okay.” He draws the okay out like I’m a time bomb and he’s about to run out of it. Time to escape, that is. I don’t like his tone. Not at all.
“Oh. Then look for toothbrushes and come back.” I close my eyes and sigh. The massage thingys are currently kneading the knots out of my shoulders, and I give an audible moan of pleasure, stopping myself before things stretch out and become embarrassing. Cracking an eye open, I see Colt staring at me with a smirk on his face. “You’re still here? Why aren’t you looking for a toothbrush?” What I want to say is What did you just hear? but I don’t. No need to place emphasis where none should be. So I redirect and point to the chair next to me.
“It won’t bite, you know. And it feels amazing. You should try it.”
He doesn’t move, just gives a passing sweep of the room before shifting from one leg to the other and nailing me with a look again. He seems uncomfortable, like luxury airport lounges aren’t something he’s accustomed to. Something tells me that isn’t the case. “We came in here for deodorant and a toothbrush. I’m going to find both, and then let’s leave.”
I settle further into the chair and give a tired sigh. “Feel free to go if you want to, but I’m staying here.” Even as I utter the words, I can’t ignore the odd pang of regret that comes with them. It must be the strange city and the strange airport and the strange VIP lounge and a serious lack of oxygen making me lightheaded. There is no way I’ve already grown attached to this guy.
He gives a single nod and pats me on the shoulder, then takes a step back. In response, my heart lurches forward. He’s leaving. He’s leaving and I’m an idiot for caring.
“Suit yourself,” he says. “I’m going to make a quick stop at the bathroom, find what I can, and then I’m out of here.” With a lingering look at me, he turns to walk away, leaving me gazing after him like a child who lost a shiny new toy on Christmas morning that she barely got to play with.
Not that I want to play with him. Because I don’t.
The embarrassment that thought conjures up doesn’t have a chance to materialize thanks to the man who sits down in the chair next to me. He’s older, a couple decades older than me if I were to guess. Salt and pepper lines his temples and sideburns, but only a light scattering of it. In a black suit and pale pink tie, he looks respectable enough. A businessman away for the week, perhaps. Wife and kids at home, two aging dogs and an abandoned swing set in the back yard.
I’m a visual girl. Point out a random person, and I’ll make up their back story and entire future in two minutes flat. It’s the creative side of me, the side that can’t be helped.
With a push of a button, the man’s massage chair comes on, the faint hum of the motor filling the space around me.
“You’re Rory Gray, aren’t you?”
My nerves stand on alert. I don’t like being recognized. It’s the worst part of the job.
I look over at eyes that smile at me in a way-too-familiar way. They aren’t exactly friendly. They’re half closed and filled with expectation. I’ve seen this look before. I’ve never once liked it. I feel sorry for the man’s wife…the one I’m not even sure he has.
“I am.” I nod.
He doesn’t respond, just gives me an intense perusal that travels the length of me and suspends on a particularly embarrassing part of my anatomy. I feel my face grow warm. You’d think I would be used to this by now, but you would be wrong. I’m not sure any woman could ever grow comfortable with being publically ogled, especially when they’re wearing street clothes. When I’m working, I can handle almost anything. Expect it, even. But when I’m private, I like to remain that way.
“Did you have a question?” I ask.
“I can’t believe I just sat down next to Rory Gray.” Well there he is. Talking. And still staring. But not asking a question.
I’m growing increasingly uncomfortable but try not to show it. “It doesn’t seem fair that you know my name and I don’t know yours,” I say. “Should I start guessing?”
He doesn’t respond, just connects with my face as his smile tilts to the side, too lazy to make a full half-moon. So I begin.
“Larry?”
His lip falls a bit.
“Jim?”
His eyebrows scrunch together.
“Owen?
He rolls his eyes, clearly not amused with my little game. Then again, I’m not exactly enjoying his either. Except I keep playing.
“Jeff who has a wife at home that probably wouldn’t like you talking to me?”
“My name isn’t important. Nor is my marital status.” He sniffs, then settles his gaze on me again. This time, he makes no attempt to be charming. “What are you doing after this?” In a move bolder than any I’ve seen before, he reaches out to swirl his index finger in a figure eight across my knee. It’s all I can do not to flinch. “Because if you don’t have anything else to do…?”
My temper flares. “I can do you?” I ask. I’m not normally this blatant, but then again it’s been awhile since I’ve been hit on in such a pathetically obvious way and I’ve forgotten how to handle it. My composure is gone. My heart explodes. My hands shake.
I’m a model. I’m not a hooker. Surprise, surprise. I actually have high standards and strong feelings. Why do so many assume otherwise? Why does everyone judge on appearance?
“Well, I wouldn’t have put it that way, but if you’re not doing anything else…”
And now to top it all off, my eyes begin to sting.
I never, ever cry.
It’s this outward display of vulnerability that makes me really angry. I might be a model who sometimes poses in her skivvies for all of America to see, but my job is respectable. My job pays well.
My job doesn’t mean I deserve this.
“Get your hand off my knee.”
When he ignores me, when his hand slides up my thigh, I blink in stunned shock. But when another hand shoots out and pulls the guy out of the recliner and into the wall, I scream and jump out of my own chair. My phone falls to the floor as a few people gasp and a kid cries from somewhere I can’t see. The empty chair hums and vibrates. It isn’t until all this happens that I remember to look over at the person attacking the jerk who hit on me.
Colt.
Turns out he hasn’t left after all. And he’s ticked off.
So am I. A tear slides down my cheek. Some people yell when they’re angry. It used to be my reaction, too. But for the first time in six years, four months, eighteen days, and seven hours…
I cry.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Colt demands, his voice booming through the room. No one dares to move. His kind of anger doesn’t need to be challenged, it needs to be unleashed in a fury and allowed to cool, though I don’t see the latter happening anytime soon. “What did you say to her?”
The guy scrambles to stand up straight, his smug look swiftly replaced with an awareness that Colt’s anger is intensifying.
“I was just asking her on a date,” he says, his gaze flicking to me to verify the story.
I don’t, and instead look at him like he’s insane for looking at me like I’d claim otherwise. Colt doesn’t miss the exchange and grabs the guy by the collar, giving him another rough shove away from me. If Colt notices the still gaping faces of everyone around us, he doesn’t stop to acknowledge them. Then again, I don’t think they’d like anything he’d have to offer considering his adrenaline is flaring high enough to scare even a superhero.
I, on the other hand, practically melt into a puddle of hormones and gratefulness and teenage-girl crushes.
I like everything I see. I’ve turned into a cliché. A damsel in distress rescued by a tough talking prince. For the first time in my life, I find myself enjoying a sappy fairytale. So much so, all I can do is blink and stare while my heart beats so fast that I actually feel like singing.
When Colt speaks again, I honestly contemplate it.
“If I see you so much as turn your head and look at this beautiful lady one more time, I will personally kick you and your skinny little a—” Before he finishes the sentence the man is out the door, leaving me staring into the open hallway too numb and stupid to think anything but this one thing: beautiful lady?
Though I’ve heard the term a hundred times before, it’s never sounded quite as good as it sounds coming from the lips of Colt Ross. From him, it’s somehow genuine. He isn’t the typical man who compliments me to get a better photo or hits on me with the hope of taking me home. Colt doesn’t frighten me or care what I think. When Colt says beautiful, he means it.
It’s the reason I stand here, smiling like an idiot.
“Are you okay?” He turns me to face him, both hands gripping my shoulders as he gives me the once-over. And that’s when I know. I know that five minutes ago I was prepared to let him walk out of this room without me. Now he’s stuck with me whether he wants to be or not.
It’s all I can do not to reach for his hand in a show of solidarity. Or possessiveness, whichever.
“I’m fine. I’m used to dealing with jerks like him, though no one has ever been so overtly crude before. But I’m okay, especially now.” That stupid smile won’t go away, even when I try to force it.
Either he doesn’t see it or it isn’t as obvious as I think, because just like that, his hand falls away and he takes a step back. “If you’re sure. Okay, well I’m going to go then. I can’t take another second of this place.” And just like that he turns. Walks toward the door. Opens it. And walks out.
On me.
Without me.
What is he doing?
It takes me a long moment to get myself to move. But then I’m speed walking for the door, banging my way out of it and jerking backward when my backpack gets stuck on the door knob.
“Wait,” I blurt a little too loudly, twist around, give a yank or three, and finally make it outside. “Where are you going?”
Colt makes a half turn and studies me over his shoulder. “I’m leaving. I hate VIP rooms in ways you can’t even imagine. Not interested in staying another minute. But have fun.” He gives me a shrug as if it hasn’t occurred to him I might want to come along with him. Something about the gesture sets off my nerves, and the temper I’ve managed to bury a whole ten minutes comes rushing back like a woman escaping the grave with mere seconds to spare.
“You’re going to leave me then?”
I hear his sigh from six feet away. “I think your exact words were, ‘Feel free to leave if you want to, but I’m staying here.’ Figured I’d take you up on it. So I’ll see you later, I guess.”
Before I have a chance to object, he’s walking down the corridor, a slap in my face without actual contact. My skin stings anyway as if the blow was a real one. Embarrassment. Anger. Shock. Irritation. All flow through me in the time it takes to take a breath, along with the sensation that none of those things will bring him back. All, however, will keep me from finding him if he disappears somewhere in the throng of bodies hanging out in this airport.
So without thought or time to question whether I’m doing the right thing, I grab my bag that now holds a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a travel size men’s deodorant Colt managed to pilfer from the bathroom, and search for him.
I spot him twenty yards ahead of me and take off running.