Rage (27 page)

They were in pristine condition, like they were when she wan-

dered around Greenwich Village breaking them in back in col-

lege.

Is this heaven?

Jonquil turned to her and handed her a sugar cube, a very

Phillip-esque frown marring her youthful face.

“Dada?” Her big blue-green eyes were full of concern, and

Steph blinked at her in surprise.

Her mother stopped humming and turned to her as she

raised her pinky while miming taking a drink from the tiny cup

with yellow roses. “Yes, Stephanie. Where
is
Phillip?”

Steph bolted awake. She sat straight up in bed, and she

groaned, shielding her eyes as the morning sun blinded her.

“That’s what I get for
not
drinking? Screw sobriety!” She mumbled as she shoved her long crimson hair out of her face.

She tried to sit up and realized she had her robe all twisted

around herself and fumbled awkwardly to get out of the bed.

When her bare feet hit the cool floor, she remembered the night

before with perfect clarity. She had fallen asleep cuddled up to 173

TAMMY COONS & MICHELLE PACE

Phillip. He held her, stroked her hair, and even sang softly to her as she fell asleep. She remembered him leaving the bed once, to

bring her a box of tissues. Most likely he was tired to listening to her sniffling or was afraid he’d end up covered in snot. But she was sure he’d been there singing her to sleep when she passed

out from the exhaustive force of her weeping. The restroom door

stood wide open, and his clothes were gone. The robe he’d been

wearing lay on a nearby chair.

“Yes, Stephanie. Where is Phillip?”

Is that your version of Redrum, Ma? Quit being creepy.

Steph found herself replaying the conversation she’d had

with Phillip the night before. Finally they were communicating

like adults and instead of a sense of closure or relief she felt more like she’d lost a limb. Yet no more tears came. She was

pretty sure she’d shed every possible molecule of water her body possessed and felt dehydrated and hung over. A powerful and

unrelenting sense of want bowled her over.

She sighed deeply, feeling the loss of him rattle deep into

her bone marrow, and shook her head. “Phillip.”

Suddenly, someone tapped the familiar rhythm of “shave

and a haircut” on the door. Elated, a joyful smile overtook her

and she practically bounded to the door. Phillip was back! And

maybe—just maybe—he brought her coffee.

She flung open the door and inhaled sharply when she saw

Christopher standing right in front of her. His expensive French cologne wafted into her nostrils and assaulted her morning Zen.

So he’d hopped a plane. To Fernando de Noronha. Judging

by the length of her trip, he must have done this shortly after the

“I love you” call.

Shit.

For having been on planes for the better part of two days, he

looked immaculate, and pulled together as always. He wore a

crisp blue shirt. Christopher was always clean shaven, and even

after traveling, his short blonde hair was perfectly groomed. He 174

RAGE

handed her one of the coffees, undoubtedly prepared exactly the

way she liked it. Sunglasses were perched on his nose, and he

pulled him off, smiling casually as if he’d hopped a cab to come see her rather than traveling halfway around the world. Enrique

stood behind him, his hand resting on a luggage cart. She was

uncomfortable with the way the porter/chauffer’s eyebrow

twitched at her disapprovingly, so Steph immediately snapped

her eyes back to Christopher.

“Chris?” His name came out in a whisper as she accepted

the coffee and stepped back to allow him entrance.

“Morning, beautiful!” He leaned in and planted a kiss her

on her lips, then nearly tripped over her ruined boots and dress which still lay where she ditched them in an ugly pile. Steph

kicked the clothes awkwardly out of the way, and Christopher

and Enrique entered her room. “Miss me?”

Steph realized she was twirling a finger in her hair as her

eyes shot from his luggage to Enrique then back to him. “Yes.”

She nodded shyly, an afterthought, but she was in total

shock. Chris’s blue eyes swept the accommodations. He whistled

at the view.

“This place is posh,” he murmured, and turning back to her,

his intense eyes roamed to her exposed collar bone and cleavage

in a needy manner. Feeling surprisingly shy, she clasped her la-

pels to secure her robe more tightly around her.

With pursed lips, Enrique swiftly unloaded Christopher’s

suitcase, garment bag, and carry-on, and Chris artfully shook his hand, slipping him a wad of cash while simultaneously sipping

his coffee. Many things could be said about her agent, but one

fact was undeniable: he was one smooth cat.

Enrique slammed the door as he left, and Steph nearly had

to peel herself off the ceiling.

“Chris…I can’t believe you came all this way. I’m only

here for three more days.”

“Actually, I reserved one of the bungalows for afterward. I

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TAMMY COONS & MICHELLE PACE

was hoping you’d change the dates of your flight home since you

don’t have a job till the week after. You can show me around.”

Christopher reached out and smoothed her presumably insane

bedhead. He moved in for another kiss, and she flinched involun-

tarily. His baby blue eyes narrowed.

“You don’t want to do that. I have morning breath. Let me

freshen up.” She giggled nervously, batting her eyelashes. He

nodded and picked up his coffee cup, moving toward the balco-

ny. Steph zipped into the bathroom and locked the door, her

mind racing. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, and she leaned

over the sink wishing for the first time in her life she had a paper bag to breathe into. Her temple throbbed slightly, and she immediately yanked out her migraine medicine. What the hell? Was

this just nerves? She’d just made it clear to Phillip the night before that she was with Christopher. Now he was her in front of

her, and she felt like a nervous school girl. She
was
glad to see him—relieved actually. She’d been ready to sleep with him

when she left London less than a week ago. But somehow when

she looked at him, it was like looking at a stranger.

She thought about her mom singing “Dreams,” her vibrato

sounding like a musical theater version of Stevie Nicks. The

haunting melody echoed in her ears. She couldn’t remember the

words, but the song was full of dark weather imagery. Storms

always made her think of Phillip, and that was something she

knew would be true on her deathbed. She thought hard about the

song’s lyrics. She remembered it said something about having

and losing something.

Or someone.

Steph tossed cool water on her face. Loss was one horrific

theme in Steph’s life, but she knew this wasn’t just something

that happened to her. More times than not, she played an active

role in “losing people.” She knew she pushed them away. She

had predictably and systematically sabotaged all of her relationships. Hell, she used to even refer to herself as sociopathic, like 176

RAGE

the term was some sort of gold star to proudly display on her

chest.

One of the things she’d really grown to understand about

herself since she’d started dating Christopher was that she had a pattern of acting out with anyone who cared about her and

pushed their boundaries with her. She’d done it with her own

family, most painfully with her own mom. Guilt about that was

the reason she’d continued to work for her dad at
The Sound

Wave
far longer than she should have. Then of course there was Pace, her college frenemy with benefits. He’d made a valiant

attempt to get close to her, and he’d never stood a chance. And

Kevin Wiley, but that had been a mistake in the first place…she

should never have let her guard down with a hipster social

climber like him. Last, but most soul-wrenching, was Phillip.

Even thinking his name actually stung. She felt anxiety

creeping back in that he’d been gone this morning when she’d

awakened. He’d stayed with her until she slept and then walked

away. At
her
request. She popped open her bottle of Xanax and spilled it on the floor. She wanted to scream and break the mirror in front of her. She’d asked him to leave her alone. She’d told

him it was over forever. He’d simply bent to her will. Her fuck-

ing obnoxious, megalomaniacal will.

And now here was Christopher, and she could feel herself

starting down the familiar path away from his affections. He re-

ally was perfect on paper—a fusion of masculine virility and a

thoughtful, challenging presence Cedric usually provided for her.

He balanced her…tempered her. And what the fuck was she try-

ing to do? Shove him away because of what?

Everything felt different since she’d talked to Phillip. But

what had changed, really? Phillip now knew about the baby. So

what? He knew she hadn’t slept with Clive. And? She was glad

they’d resolved these issues, but the fundamental discord be-

tween them was still there, like the pregnant elephant in the

room.

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TAMMY COONS & MICHELLE PACE

She shook her head with fierce determination. She had
more

than an element of control over this relationship with Christo-

pher and it
was
a really decent relationship with a very good man.

She looked at her reflection, her own resemblance to her

mother squeezing her heart. Steph knew her cold feet made

sense. Logically speaking, so much had happened in the past few

days that it was hard not to feel like a war-torn refugee. Things were finally out in the open after ripping old wounds asunder

and she had some long overdue closure with Phillip. It made

sense that all the wedding drama had stirred up hurt feelings and grief. Her responses were oddly appropriate. Poor Cedric had

finally cracked after all this time, and his chastising her now had put Mom on her mind. That was cathartic and sure to be healthy.

But Christopher was a separate issue from all of that. He was the right guy. She needed to relax and let things play out the way

they were meant to.

She swore as she struggled to get the tangles out of their

hair. Sand continued to appear around her like raindrops. After a few minutes of trying to get a brush through her hair, she jumped back in the shower. She told herself she and Christopher would

go out into the sunny weather, eat a huge breakfast, and forge

boldly ahead.

Phillip paced back and forth near the tiny Chapel of St. Pe-

ter. It wasn’t the first time since he’d been on the island that he’d had the urge to smoke. His binge after Steph’s hospitalization

ended up being just that. He’d quit right away when he’d re-

turned to London. His breath control had been all over the place once he was back in the studio, and his throat had felt so raw it could bleed. He’d decided that he needed to quit for himself, but 178

RAGE

he missed the comfort of nicotine sometimes.

As he listened to the bridesmaids complain about how ugly

their dresses were and watched Yara’s clockwork meltdown, he

could understand why Stephanie didn’t believe in weddings. He

couldn’t even imagine her in the role of blushing bride. It was

hysterical to try.

It isn’t weddings she doesn’t believe in, it’s marriage.

Trying to shake her from his thoughts, he focused on his

fellow wedding party members. Nathan and Saffron were having

a merry old time fondling each other and once again drinking

mimosas, and Bret (still in his clothes from the night before) was passed out in a nearby chair. His long hair fell in a black snarled cloud around his shoulders. He had his sunglasses on, so either

Yara hadn’t noticed he was sleeping, or she had simply grown

accustomed to having no social expectations of him whatsoever.

They were all waiting for the priest, and Phillip glanced

down at his Rolex. He hadn’t seen Stephanie yet, and he was

growing concerned that she might be sick from being doused

cold water the night before. She’d felt slightly feverish in bed the night before, or maybe that had been him.

He’d had to leave her bed. Once she’d fallen into a fitful