Unlikely Allies (25 page)

“Oh, in a few weeks. I love traveling. Which city are you going to meet me in this time?”

“Since you haven’t given me your itinerary, I have no idea. Tell me where and when, and I’ll be there.” As soon as he got that remark out, his mom’s publicist crept up to him, snagging and squeezing his arm. “I’ll make sure you get that on Monday.”

He pulled out of her grip, filling both of his hands with an appetizer. Reading him like a book, his mother smirked at his evasive maneuver. “How about run in the kitchen for me, sweetie, and ask the chef when dinner will be served?”

Grateful for the escape, he took it.

The closer he got, blaring music registered first, then a somewhat out of tune, high-pitched chanting hit him next. He came to a halt in the archway the instant he caught sight of Maggie. Every ounce of oxygen vanished from the atmosphere and his breathing ceased, immobilizing him.

Beyoncé’s “Naughty Girl” played to perfection from her cell phone, but the version Maggie sang resembled a pirated, flawed copy at best. Hips swinging left to right along with the intense beat, she waved a whisk in the air and then shoved it up to her mouth, using it as a microphone. The hacked up lyrics and lip-syncing came across like an amplified megaphone that kept screeching and cutting out. He would have laughed his ass off any other day, but he couldn’t move.

This would be how he remembered her—forever. Right here, right now. At her best: happy, carefree. Her throw me down, tie me up, please me—love me state.

Tossed in a bun with curlycue twists at the edge of her hairline, loose strands stuck out of the messy clump on top and wisps caressed her ears. He loved when she wore her mass of auburn pulled back from her beautiful freckled face. Every inch of her neck exposed, he memorized the slope and the two dimples at the bottom. She had earrings in today, gold hoops. No chef’s coat and her bare arms were exposed by a white tank top with a scripted warning: Back up! Hot stuff coming through.

Mesmerized, he made it through that song and the next, “When a Man Loves a Woman,” the sentiments taunting him. It wasn’t until “Sexual Healing” came on that he caved—surrendered to her—and their isolated circumstance.

He eased up behind her and gripped her curvy hips. She jumped and tried to turn around but relaxed when he spoke. “Shh, don’t say anything. Feel me . . . you . . . us.” As his pelvis rocked to the sensual beat, hers glided along. He removed her hands from the counter and linked their fingers together. Their arms crossed over her stomach, he tucked his chin and lips into the crook of her neck and sang the passionate lyrics. His tenor dipped an octave or two as the sensations of having her alone and in his arms took control. Ripped from his heart and soul, he deepened his tone and relayed all the longing and desire he felt for her and always would—craving, wanting no other.

The final stanza came with an overpowering tagline.

“What the hell is going on in here?” his grandfather yelled.

Maggie tried to turn around, but he squeezed her middle, steadying her.

“Horatio, stop it. Leave him be.”

“I will do no such thing.”

That cue prompted Rick to react, pressing his lips to the hollow of Maggie’s throat, chin, cheek, and temple in everlasting kisses. A final one meant to last a lifetime, positioned on top of her left hand, third finger.

Then he walked out through the French doors—silence following him.

“What the hell? It’s two in the morning.”

Rick stared, stumbled over the threshold, and fell against Matt.

“Oh, shit. Fuck.” Matt grabbed him under the armpits, but he slid to his knees anyway and his spinning, heavy head collapsed onto Matt’s thigh.

“Is everything okay?”

“Go back to sleep, Soph.”

“Oh my god. Let me help you.”

“Wait a sec. Let me get a better hold on him.” Matt’s vise grip wrapped around his back and pulled. “Up you go, buddy.” On his wobbly legs, his stomach rolled, causing him to belch in Matt’s face.

“Oh god, what happened?”

“You can’t smell the brewery?”

“Matt, please, let me help.”

“I got him. Move back, babe. I’m dumping him in the guest room.” His dead weight pressed to Matt’s chest, Rick had no idea how Matt performed the twist and turn he did, propping him along his hip. Hobbled stutter steps commenced until Rick’s view changed from wood floors to a mattress.

“I’ll get some water, wet cloths, and aspirin,” Sophia called out.

“Thanks, babe. Okay, down you go, buddy.”

He face-planted onto the cushy pillow and rolled onto his side. “Ahhh.”

“Please tell me you didn’t drive here.”

“Tax. . . . tax. . . . i,” he stammered into the feathered softness.

“Okay, okay. Don’t worry about it. Just lay there and sleep it off.”

“Ca . . . can’t.”

“Uh, yeah, I think you can. You’re half zonked already.”

“Can’t . . . do . . . it.”

“Come on, buddy. Let’s get your shoes and clothes off.”

Rick kept his eyes shut, rolled onto his back, and willed the gurgles in his stomach to stop. Matt tugged his loafers off and grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt. “Oh, Christ. Did you throw up?”

“Do you need a bucket?”

“Yeah, babe, get the one from the bathroom, would ya?”

“Okay. Oh, Matt, I hate seeing him like that.”

“I know, babe. I know.”

Rick mumbled, “Can’t . . . do it . . . anymore.”

“Matt, what’s he talking about?”

“I don’t know, babe. It could be anything. Lord knows, he’s got tons of shit piled on him.”

He opened his mouth to say something, tell Matt to shut the fuck up, but the words wouldn’t come out.

“What can I do?”

Bile crept up his throat, and he swallowed and swallowed, but it didn’t help.

“Hurry up, get the bucket, he’s hackin.’”

“Okay, okay, here.”

“Upsy daisy, bud.” Matt yanked on him again and the motion, along with his gagging, left him with no choice. He slumped over Matt’s knee, expelling the contents of his stomach in the plastic pail, acid burning his throat and tongue, making his eyes water.

“Shit, that’s foul. You haven’t been like this in a long time. This is fuckin’ nuts.”

“Can’t . . . do . . . it.”

“Don’t talk when you’re hurlin,’ man. Soph, where’d you put the water and towels?”

“On the nightstand next to you.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Done. Lay down.” Rick spit out the order instead of vomit and wiped his mouth with the towel Matt shoved in his face.

“Shirt off first.” Unable to get his limbs to work, Matt saved him again, pulling the damp, sweaty fabric over his head. “Lay back.”

Rick dropped his head on a cushioned, soft surface and his eyes closed again. A cover got laid over his shoulders and on an exhausted breath he muttered, “Tired.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“Lost,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, that too.”

“He shouldn’t sleep in those pants. They might be a mess. Take 'em off him, Matt.”

“Sleep,” Rick answered.

“He’ll be out in a second. Leave him alone.”

“Lone . . . nobody,” he grumbled.

“Oh god, Matt. He’s breaking my heart.”

“Welcome to the club, babe. Fucked up for a long time.”

“He doesn’t deserve this.”

“No, he doesn’t. Best damn man I ever met. Come on, let him sleep it off. I’ll talk to him in the morning.”

“You have to help him.”

“I’m trying, Soph. I really am.”

“Have you asked Emma? She might have some ideas.”

“She’s on board already.”

“Good. Between the two of you and me, we should be able to figure something out.”

“Yeah, I’m hopin.’ Goodnight, buddy.”

“Night,” he murmured, his eyes popping open when he felt a kiss on his temple. When it wasn’t the person he hoped, he slammed them shut. The squeeze pinched and amplified the stabbing and ramming in his head.

“Sweet dreams,” Sophia said on his forehead.

“Dreams,” he whispered, and on his next breath, “Maggie.”

A freezing rush of air washed over Rick’s bare chest. He threw an arm over his pounding head and the other across his aching stomach.

“Let’s go. Get up. We got stuff to do.”

His right eye opened, but the other wouldn’t cooperate. Rick glanced at Matt, hands on his hips, dressed and raring to go. Rolling onto his side, he stuffed a hand under the feather-soft pillow and attempted to tune him out.

“There’s sweats on the dresser. Get a shower. Don’t bother going back to sleep. I swear if you do, you’ll be covered in an ice bath like we used to give pledges at the frat house.”

Rick mumbled, telling Matt exactly what he could do with that BS technique.

“Okay, fine. I’ll call Maggie and tell Cece you’re not coming. Go ahead and break her heart. But see if I ever talk to you again. Don’t call, don’t write, don’t fucking come near me.”

Regardless of how bad things got, Rick never reneged on a promise. He propped his arms on the mattress, muscles straining under his unsteady weight and a truckload of other burdens crushing him, yet he somehow staggered to his feet.

Ignoring Matt’s you’re-dead sideways glares, Rick shouldered past him, snatched the clothes from the dresser, and slammed the bathroom door, grateful for the peace and quiet. Too bad his spinning and pounding head didn’t agree.

“When you’re done having a pity party, you’ll find me in the kitchen making your hangover breakfast. Then I’ll take you home to change.”

With the hot water turned on full blast, he tried to drown Matt out.

It didn’t work.

“All right, I’ll wait in the car with my girls, you go get yours.”

Rick fixed Matt with a narrowed scowl. The underlying prod hadn’t been appreciated, but he wouldn’t bother to argue with him. They already had it out when he exited the bathroom, dressed in Matt’s sweats, and found him sitting on a bare mattress, sheets and covers piled on the carpet. If he hadn’t known Matt for over ten years and better than the back of his own hand, he would’ve taken offense with the fucked-up insults to his manhood and spit-flying brutal attacks to his wounded and already battered frame of mind. When all was said and done though, Matt pulled him into a man hug, pounding him on the back. “Time for a strategic move, buddy. Face the writing on the wall. Read what it says, process it, and don’t ignore the save-your-sorry-ass message.”

“Max,” Cece chanted his name over and over like a cheerleader yelling for the star quarterback. Rick leapt out of the car and swept her into his arms. Maggie came up not far behind, the momma bear focused on her straying-again cub. “Ya came.”

Setting Cece on her feet, he got down on a knee and clasped her hands in his. “Of course I did, sweet pea. I said I’d pick you up at noon.” He showed her his watch, positioned above her leather bracelet, and pointed to the big hand. “See that. It’s on the nine, not twelve. It’s eleven forty-five. I’m early. And since I am, you need to plant one right here.” He pointed to his cheek, waiting for his reward.

Cece giggled, threw her arms around his neck, and smothered him with a slobbery kiss.

“You look beautiful, princess. Is that a new dress?” Different from the fancy attire worn on her birthday, but no less frilly, the purple layered tutu and shimmery camisole would be something found on a ballerina.