Spin (23 page)

Greer’s eyes scream, “Help me.” “Lassie! Have a seat and meet our new friends, Karl and Arty.”

I take a seat next to her. “Nice to meet you.”

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” Arty drawls in an odd half-British accent that reminds me of Connor.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

“My name’s Candie.”

“Nice to meet you, baby.”

“No, not Baby. Candie.”

Karl lets out a guffaw. “What do you know, Arty? We got a feisty one here.”

“I do like ’em feisty,” Arty replies as he flags down a passing waitress. “Should we get a bottle? On me?”

Greer gives me a desperate look. I can’t blame her. If I weren’t already half in the bag, these guys would drive me to drink too.

“Sure, why not?” I say.

Karl flicks a shiny new gold card onto the waitress’s tray.

“I thought Arty was paying?”

“Nah, Arty’s The King. The King don’t pay for shit.”

“What makes Arty The King?”

“He’s just The King, sweetheart. It’s not explainable.”

Arty takes out a pack of cigarettes and shakes one out. “You ladies like a smoke?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Greer says, letting Arty light it for her.

I follow suit, inhaling deeply. I must be drunk, because this cigarette tastes fucking fantastic. The waitress delivers the bottle, and we mix ourselves drinks.

“So what do you boys do for a living?” Greer asks.

“We’re corporate raiders,” Karl replies.

“What does that mean?”

He tries to blow a smoke ring, but all that comes out is a blob. “Basically, we buy companies that are in trouble, and we rape them.”

I nearly choke on my orange juice. “I’m sorry, did you just use the word ‘rape’?”

“Yeah, sweetheart. You got a problem with that?”

“A word to the wise, Karl. ‘Rape’ isn’t a word you should use in casual conversation.”

Karl puts his hand on my thigh. “A word to
your
wise, baby. I paid for this bottle, so that means I can say what I want.”

I stare hard into his unfocused eyes. “Karl, you’re really going to want to remove that hand.”

“Or what?”

“Or I’m going to fuck you up, asshole.”

I look up. Henry is standing behind Karl looking extremely angry. He’s wearing a light gray expensive-looking suit and a white dress shirt without a tie. And ohmygod does he look hot.

“Henry, darling.” I climb onto the couch and hold out my arms to him. “You come to rescue me?”

After a second’s hesitation, he steps toward me and puts his warm hands on my hips. “You want me to stomp these motherfuckers?”

I cock my head like I’m seriously considering it. “Nah. I wouldn’t want you to mess up your hands. Again.”

“You’re the boss.”

“And you’re the best.”

I pull his face toward mine and kiss him. I feel a jolt of surprise as our lips meet. I’m pretty sure he feels it too, because he starts to lean away, then tightens his hands on my hips. We stay like that for more seconds than it takes to be convincing, and my hands start to tingle.

When we break apart, my heart is racing. Henry’s got a look in his eyes that makes me blush.

“You sure I can’t hurt these assholes?” he murmurs against my lips.

“It wouldn’t be a fair fight.”

“At least let me ask them to leave.”

“Allow me.” I turn to Arty and Karl, whose bravado has slipped significantly. “You’ve got someplace else to be, right, boys?”

They stand hurriedly.

“’Course we do,” Karl says, trying to retain some dignity. “The King has other business to attend to.”

Arty picks up the bottle and tucks it under his arm.

Greer waves at them as they leave. “See you later.”

I plop down on the seat next to Greer, and Henry sits across from me on the couch abandoned by Arty and Karl.

We stare at one another, having one of our awkward silences.

Greer breaks it for us. “Hi, I’m Greer.”

He smiles at her, grateful for the distraction. “I remember.”

“Are you here with Connor?” I ask.

“Yeah, he’s around someplace.”

“So is Amber.”

His smile drops. “So I gather.”

“When did you get out?”

“Today.” He gives me an appreciative glance. “You know, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“Were you expecting a T-shirt and sweatpants?”

“What I meant is, you look great.”

“Thanks. You too.”

We lapse back into silence. I can feel Greer watching us, waiting.

Henry leans across the table. “Can we talk for a minute?”

“Um, OK. Here?”

“How about inside?”

“Sure. You don’t mind, do you, Greer?”

“Not at all, lass.”

I stand as The Party Girls return, full of tales from inside the bar. I’m knocked back into my seat as they jostle around me. Henry watches The Party Girls with a distracted look on his face. Their chatter fills up the air around us, and Greer whispers to me that she’s going to call it a night.

“Do you want to come with?”

I look at Henry. “I think I’ll stay for a bit.”

“All right, lass. Be safe.”

“Thanks for coming.”

“Happy to do it.” She gives me a quick hug. “He’s totally into you,” she says into my ear.

Before I can ask her what makes her think so, she snakes out of our outdoor living room and disappears into the crowd.

“I can’t believe
she
has the nerve to show up here!” Olivia says, grabbing the Grey Goose bottle and shaking it. “Shit, we need another bottle.”

“Hello, Livia,” Henry says.

Olivia’s head snaps around, and her face falls into an ironic expression. “Well, well, well. Henry Slattery, as I live and breathe.” She looks around her. “What, no Connor?”

Henry looks nonplussed. “He’s around here somewhere.”

“Of course he is. Can’t have one without the other.”

“That’s always been your position.”

Oh, I get it. Henry and Olivia used to date. Great, just great.

I stand up, and step over Olivia.

“Where are you going?” Henry asks.

“I think I’m going to go home.”

He holds on to my wrist. “Wait.”

I meet his eyes. I wish I knew what that look means.

“Please, Kate?”

“I’ll be inside. Come find me if you want.”

I pull away and push through the crowd, my hands suddenly shaking. From the shock of seeing Henry again. From the kiss. From the look on his face when he spoke to Olivia. From the look he gave me when he said, “Please, Kate.” From the drink, the drink, the drinks.

Speaking of which . . .

I flag down a bartender and order a double, Scotch this time. I lay down some money and ask him to bring me another before the first one hits my stomach. When that one’s gone too, my hands and heart have settled, and I’m on my way to being comfortably numb.

I lean against the bar and survey the crowd. What’s that line from
Star Wars
about the den of iniquity? Whatever. It’s 2 a.m. and the crowd is getting desperate.

I catch sight of Connor sitting at a table in the corner with a tall woman with strawberry-blond hair. She’s wearing a pale sundress that’s mostly see-through, and when she laughs and turns her head, I realize it’s “she”—Kimberley Austen. I search the room for Amber, but I can’t see her anywhere.

Connor is such an asshole!

I’m in the middle of forming a plan to crash Connor and Kimberley’s little tête-à-tête when Henry finds me.

“There you are,” he says, looking happy and relieved.

I put my arms around his neck without thinking. Ah, alcohol. Always so good about eliminating thinking.

“I wasn’t hiding.”

He smiles. “I’m glad.”

“Me too.”

We move toward each other like magnets are pulling us. Our lips meet. Then our teeth, our tongues. His mouth tastes like cinnamon gum, and his hands are hot on the small of my back. Mine are playing with his hair where it meets his neck. The noise of the bar falls away, and the
thump, thump, thump
of the music keeps time with my heart.

It’s a wonderful kiss. A marvelous kiss. And we’re just in the middle of it when Henry pulls away.

His hands cradle my face. “Kate . . . have you been drinking?”

I can’t lie to him in this moment. I nod my head gently, and his hands fall away.

“Jesus, Kate. You’ve only been out of rehab for a week.”

“Connor’s over there with Kimberley,” I non sequitur, trying to distract him.

“Kate.”

“It’s true, see for yourself.”

Henry reluctantly follows my pointing finger to where Kimberley is sitting in Connor’s lap.

“Goddamnit! That fucking idiot.” Henry’s eyes dart around the room.

“What are you looking for?”

“Spies. Kate, stay here. And don’t drink anything else.”

He pushes his way through the crowd to where Connor and Kimberley are now making out none too discreetly. Henry says something to Connor while gesticulating angrily. Connor looks pissed but dumps Kimberley unceremoniously from his lap. He stands and starts to shout at Henry. Henry takes it for a minute, and then they’re both pointing and shouting. I can’t hear a word of it until Henry shouts, extra loudly as the music dips, “Aw, fuck off already!” and storms back across the room to me.

“What happened?”

“Nothing. Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home.”

I like the sound of that.

“OK.”

I jump off the stool and my legs give out. Henry catches me right before I reach the floor.

“My legs aren’t working.”

He looks grim. “I see that.”

“Why aren’t my legs working?”

“I’m guessing it has something to do with alcohol.”

“I like alcohol.”

Oops.

“I know.”

Henry leads me toward the elevator, one hand on my waist and the other around my shoulder so I don’t fall over.

“How do you know so much about me?”

“You confessed to me, remember?”

I cock my head back and look up at him. He’s watching the numbers on the panel above the elevator.

“Why did I do something silly like that?”

“Beats me.”

Chapter 23

Fade to Black

I
wake up from a total blackout. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how I got here. I’m not even entirely sure of my own name.

OK. Let’s establish some basics.

My head fucking hurts. My stomach feels like I drank battery acid. My tongue has that scalded feeling it gets when I’ve been smoking. The room seems to be spinning.

Perfect. I’m both drunk and hungover. Well, I’ve been here before. I’ll survive.

What else?

I seem to be lying in a very big, soft bed. I stretch out my hand, feeling the sheets. They have a really nice hotel feeling. I take a deep breath. The air smells clean, almost antiseptic. Oh shit . . . am I?

My eyes fly open. Relief. There’s no way this is a hospital room, not even in the nicest, Angelina-Jolie-gave-birth-here kind of hospital. So, it must be a hotel room, right?

I look around. My eyes grate against their sockets like someone threw sand in them. The room is dark, but there’s a crack of light seeping under a door, maybe to the bathroom, that makes it bright enough to see. There’s heavy wallpaper on the wall above wood wainscoting, a dark wood desk in the corner, and a nice chest of drawers. Hotel room for sure.

OK, but whose hotel room?

Hearing seems to be the last sense that returns, but after a few moments, I can hear the sound of water running. A lot of water. Someone’s taking a shower.

So, I’m not alone. I didn’t book myself into an expensive hotel room in a drink-fueled display of wealth I don’t have. Good. Only, that means . . .

Did I . . . ?

I do a quick body check. I’m wearing a T-shirt, bra, and underwear. I still feel relatively clean, you know,
down there,
so we clearly didn’t have sex last night, or this morning, or whenever the hell we rolled in here.

And who the hell is “we”?

Um, me and . . . me and . . . Nope, no idea.

OK, start at the beginning. What was I doing last night?

I search back. OK. Amber and The Party Girls. We had dinner. Not much dinner, but some. Then we went to that bar. And I had those drinks. And those other ones. Right. This is starting to make sense. The bathroom gin and tonic, and all those doubles makes . . . two, four,
nine
drinks. So, nine belts of liquor + almost no dinner + no drinks for thirty-six days = blackout. Good to know.

But that still doesn’t answer how I got here, or who’s in the shower. Surely it can’t be Amber, or one of The Party Girls. Even nine drinks + nearly empty stomach + no drinks for thirty-six days ≠ suddenly gay. There weren’t any men at dinner. Or at the bar that I remember. I roll through the images like I’m fast-forwarding a movie. Hey, Greer was there! Shit. I hope Greer got home OK. No, wait. I remember her telling me she was leaving. Right around when . . .

Uh-oh.

The water in the bathroom turns off, and I hold my breath. I’m pretty sure I know who’s splashing around in there, but what if I’m wrong? More importantly, what if I’m right?

What the hell is he doing in there, anyway? Drying himself off? Getting dressed? Applying self-tanner?

Come out, come out whoever you are.

The door handle turns, and in a panic, I close my eyes. I breathe in and out evenly, feigning sleep. I can hear the soft pad of feet on the carpet, and I wait for the feeling I get when someone’s standing over me, watching me, but it doesn’t come.

Maybe I should open my eyes? Maybe I should say something? But what is there to say?

More feet-padding across carpet, only they sound heavier this time. He’s put on shoes. The noise is getting fainter. A latch turns. Shit. Don’t.

“Wait . . .”

But I’m too late. My voice is barely audible, and by the time I’ve propped myself up and my eyes have focused on the door, it’s been closed gently and I’m all alone.

I sit up. Oh boy. Maybe that wasn’t such a good idea. The room tilts and whirls and does a loop-the-loop. I hope my legs are working because I need to get to the bathroom right quick.

I fling off the covers and sprint toward the bathroom. I assume the position over the toilet bowl, waiting for the inevitable. It comes before too long, and when I’m done I feel slightly better, though still extremely dizzy. I sit on the cold tile floor, waiting, wondering how I’ve come full circle back to here.

I’m not sure how long it is before the I-may-ralph-again feeling passes, but it does, and I get unsteadily back to my feet. I strip off my clothes and climb into the enormous tiled shower, swinging the heavy glass door shut behind me. I turn on the spray and let the cold water rain down on me. All I want to do is escape, but I force myself to stand steady and take it. I’m not sure why exactly, but I feel like I need to be punished, and this is the closest thing to hand.

When my skin is gooseflesh and I start shivering uncontrollably, I switch the water so it’s as hot as I can stand it. My shoulders turn red, and the glass door is opaque with steam. I open the expensive shampoo in its little two-time-use bottle and slather it onto my hair. It smells like eucalyptus, and leaves my hair squeaky clean. I rinse, turn off the water, and envelope myself in a large white robe I find hanging on the back of the door.

God, I could use some aspirin and a good teeth brushing. There’s a toothbrush sitting on the counter near the sink. It looks new, like it’s only been used a couple of times, maybe only this morning. What the hell? I slept in the same bed as its owner, didn’t I?

When I’m done brushing my teeth, I root through my purse until I find what I was hoping for: a little foil package containing two extra-strength Tylenols. I run the water in the sink until it’s cold and swallow down the pills and two glasses of extra-cold water. Not wanting to get back into the clothes I slept in, I search through the dresser until I find a clean T-shirt and some crisp white boxers. They smell like Henry, or at least I hope they do.

Feeling more like a human, I crawl back into the bed and flick on the TV. I do my usual slow march through the channels until I come across a rerun of
Men in Trees.
Perfect. I snuggle down into the bed to watch Jack flirt with Marin in a fisherman’s sweater.

This really is the most comfortable bed I’ve ever been in. I wonder if its owner, or renter, or whatever a hotel guest is in relation to their room, will be coming back soon. Or at all. What if it’s not him? What if it is? Ack. These questions are making me dizzy again. Maybe I should close my eyes. That’s better. All better. No need to stress. I’ll find out soon enough. What will be, will be.

What will be, will be.

“K
ate,” Henry says sternly, a hand on my shoulder. “Wake up.”

I open my eyes. Henry’s standing above me. He’s wearing a navy sweatshirt and a faded pair of jeans. There’s a trace of stubble on his chin. He looks more like rehab Henry than he did last night.

“What time is it?”

“It’s coming up on noon. Time to get up.”

“I was up earlier,” I reply lamely. “I took a shower . . .”

He looks away. “I left a toothbrush for you by the sink.”

Of course you did. Because you’re perfect, and I’m a nightmare who doesn’t deserve you.

“Thanks.”

“Forget it.”

Henry opens the blinds, letting in the daylight, and I push back the covers and put my feet on the thick carpet. I still feel a little dizzy, but I think that has more to do with the cold look on Henry’s face than the lingering alcohol.

I stand up, and Henry looks me up and down with a bemused expression I don’t understand until I remember. I’m wearing his clothes.

“Sorry, I borrowed these.”

“It’s fine.”

“Give me a few minutes and I’ll be out of here.”

“Yeah, that’s probably best,” he mutters.

The rational part of my brain kind of knows why he’s acting this way, but the feeling part of my brain is pissed off. Does he have to be this cold and distant?

“What’s the matter, Henry?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s bullshit.”

His eyes flash. “Yeah, well maybe it is, but that’s my business.”

“Look, I get that you’re disappointed in me, or whatever, but I’m not perfect, all right? You don’t know the week I’ve had . . .”

He holds up his hand. “I don’t want to hear it. Whatever excuse you have. I’ve heard them all, and I’ve got bigger problems right now.”

“God, Henry, I’m not
Connor,
all right. . . . What did you mean by you have bigger problems right now?”

He hesitates. “Amber’s missing.”

“What?”

“No one’s seen her since last night. She stormed off when Kimberley arrived, and she’s not answering her cell phone.”

“Is Connor looking for her?”

He looks angry. “No.”

“How did you find out?”

“Olivia called.”

Something pops out of the blackout. I think Henry and Olivia used to date. Why, oh why, is that the first thing I remember?

I wait for something more, but nothing comes.

“Has Amber done this before?”

“A few times. The last time she ended up on YouTube . . .”

“Crap.”

“Yeah.
Crap.
”

“We should go look for her.”

“I know.”

“Well, come on then, let’s go.”

He bites his lip in concentration, looking like he’s struggling with something. After a few moments, he sighs. “OK, you can come.” He walks toward the door and picks up a shopping bag. “I got you these.”

I take it from him and look inside. There’s a T-shirt, jeans, a bra, underwear, and a pair of sneakers. A quick check reveals they’re all in my size.

“How did you do this?”

He shrugs. “I’ve had some experience.”

All righty then.

I keep my tone light. “From bringing home so many drunken girls?”

I get no answering smile. “Nope. It’s part of the job. It’s kind of Connor’s MO.”

“Having an outfit ready for a one-night stand?”

Shit. Why did I just call myself a one-night stand?

“Yup.”

“But I thought he and Amber have been together forever.”

“Come on, Kate . . .”

“Right. Sorry. I shouldn’t be so naive.”

His face softens. “No, you really shouldn’t.”

I carry the bag into the bathroom and take off Henry’s clothes. As the shirt passes my face, I can smell him—part fabric softener, part spice. I hold the shirt to my nose and breathe in deeply. If only being with Henry could be as simple as this. Soft, and warm, and smelling good.

“Everything fit OK?” Henry asks through the door.

I hurriedly put the shirt down and pull the clothes out of the bag.

“Yeah. How did you figure out my size?”

Because this bra and underwear (simple white cotton, exactly like the ones I was wearing last night) fit perfectly, and that’s kind of freaking me out.

“Practice.”

I slip into the clothes and open the door. “How many girls are we talking about, exactly?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“You’re probably right. So, what’s the plan?”

“I have a few ideas of places she might’ve gone.”

“Bad places?”

“Yup.”

“Lead the way.”

We go downstairs, and Henry directs a cab to an area of the city I’ve never been to but have heard about frequently on the nightly news. The Middle Eastern cabdriver shoots us a look that says, “Why the hell would you want to go there?” and Henry repeats the directions firmly. The driver shrugs and puts the car in gear.

Henry watches his cell phone the whole way, waiting for it to ring. I watch the gray sky, wondering if Henry’s ever going to forgive me for being another person in his life that he enables.

The cab pulls up in front of a rundown red-brick building. Henry asks the driver to wait, hands him some bills, and tells me to stay in the cab. On the sidewalk, he hunches his shoulders and pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head. He walks up to the heavy wooden door and knocks, says something, and is admitted.

I wait nervously for him to come out. As I watch the door, a guy in his forties wearing grimy clothes casts a nervous glance down the street before knocking on the door. Like Henry, he says something and is admitted into the building. After he enters, an extremely large man with a tattooed face sticks his head out and gives our cab a hard stare. As he pulls the door shut, I catch a glimpse of something black and hard sitting on his hip.

Jesus Christ. How the hell did I end up in “Gangsta’s Paradise”?

The cabdriver turns around. He looks afraid. “If your boyfriend doesn’t come out in five minutes, lady, I’m leaving.”

“No, you can’t leave him here.”

“Watch me.”

“We’re not buying drugs, you know. We’re looking for a friend who’s in trouble.”

“Lady, I don’t care what you’re doing. He’s got five minutes.”

I peer back out the window. Hurry up, Henry. Why didn’t I take his cell phone number down before he left the cab? Stupid, stupid, stupid.

With a minute left, the front door opens and Henry comes out. I move over to let him sit next to me.

“Was she there?”

“No.”

“Had they seen her?”

“No.” Henry leans forward. “Take a left at the corner.”

The driver shakes his head.

“He doesn’t want to take us to any more places in this neighborhood.”

“Why not?”

I lower my voice. “I think he’s scared.”

Like me. I’m scared.

Henry makes a face. “It’s broad daylight.”

“That tattooed guy was wearing a gun.”

“There’s always a guy with a gun in places like that.” He pulls his wallet from his hip. “Look, buddy, we’re looking for a friend, a famous friend, who’s in trouble. I need you to drive us to a few more places. I’ll make it worth your while.” He throws several hundred-dollar bills onto the passenger seat.

The driver glances at them, wavering. “Who is it?”

“Amber Sheppard.”

His eyes widen. “The Girl Next Door
?
”

“Yes.”

“That girl is messed up.”

“Will you help us?”

“Yeah, all right.”

“Thanks. Now take a left at the corner.”

Henry leans back into the seat. He punches a number into his phone and puts it to his ear. “Hey, it’s me. No, she wasn’t there. I’m trying that place on Parker next. No, I haven’t spoken to him. Can you call him? I’ll text you the number. Yeah. OK. I’ll call you later.”