Whisper (The Voice trilogy Book 1) (29 page)

Chapter 23 

Day two, post Miami. I visited first thing with my grandma, took her a Starbucks
Venti Cappuccino. Candy, her overly sweet, Nazi nurse doesn’t allow her to have caffeine, says it makes her too feisty. So I sneak her a cup every other week when I take her to get her hair and nails done. It makes her so happy, I can’t resist. We went grocery shopping and I picked up the bare essentials for myself. Now, I work, to dig myself out from under the last five days of doing nothing. Well, not
nothing
. I have to immerse myself in work, editing my latest submissions, desperately going over my notes for my next proposal.  I am fortunate enough to write whenever and wherever I like, but if I don’t keep the pieces coming, I don’t eat. 

I do the final spell check on my latest piece about the newest food trucks in the area and send it off to Mary, my editor and friend. It is five thirty. I have been sitting at my computer for four straight hours. I get up to stretch my poor legs, and search for my sadly silent phone. I haven’t heard from Rhys all day. Yesterday must have been a fluke, I suppose, the first day apart after such an intense exchange. I’m sure he is cooling off. The thought leaves me feeling bereft when my phone chimes. Think of the devil, and he shall present. 

I can still taste you.

A faint knock at the door and my heart skips a beat. Anxious and blushing so deeply I feel it in my
toes, my mouth goes as dry as the Sahara desert, suddenly parched.  I pull the door and am handed a bottle of  my favorite white wine, Sophia, Blanc de Blanc, wrapped in pink cellophane, tied with a gray silk bow with a card attached, nestled in a small gift basket. The delivery guy doesn’t ask my name or wait for a tip, he just thrusts the basket into my hands and turns on his heel. I grab my favorite glass, a small green jelly jar that my dad always drank from. I unwrap the cellophane and open the bottle. I run my finger tentatively over the edge of the card, anticipating what he has written. He is playing with me, building me up to something. I am intrigued. I run my finger under the seam and pull the card out of the envelope, plain white cardstock with shiny black scroll.

I wish I was there to lick your lip
s
.

I read the card over and over, driving the message deeper into my belly, pressing my thighs together, my entire lower half throbbing, responding wantonly to his carefully chosen words. I close my eyes and picture him, kneeling before me, his hands pushing my knees apart, his mouth teasing and nipping at my most sacred parts. He is in my head. I grab my phone.

Sophia is my favorite. Do you have a cheat               sheet?

Lucky guess. How was your day, Beautiful? 

Better now.

Glad I could be of service. Anything else I can               do? 

Not from way over there…

Perhaps I could walk you through it.

Not a chance. 

You would let me if I was there.

If you were here, you could do it for me. 

Touché. 

Thank you for the wine.

You are most welcome. I have a flight to catch.               Sleep tight. 

Good night, Sir.  ; )

Elated and energized by our exchange I sip my crisp white wine and scroll through my phone. I want to go out. I need to go out. Excess energy courses through me and my body is humming for a release. I scroll down to Mary and check the clock before calling. 

                                *** 

An hour later and I am strolling down Main Street, headed to the local bar to meet Mary for a drink and gossip session. Main Street is buzzing with families coming out for the first warm night of the season. Summer is hanging in the air, trees are starting to fill out, and the window boxes overflow with petunias in a rainbow of colors. Ice cream trucks and food trucks line the street, while people visit and children play. I duck into the dingy door of Pasquales and search for Mary. The bar is dark, even though the sun still sits high outside. The walls are covered with graffiti that could be as much as thirty years old. It has been the neighborhood bar here for decades. Worn and tattered stools line the heavily marred bar, while pleather booths run along the back wall. It is comfortable, lived in. The kind of place only a local could love. 

“Tell me all about Miami? I want to hear every dirty detail.” Eyes alight with
anticipation, it is hard to resist Mary when she is in the mood to gossip. I swirl the scotch around, watching the amber liquid lick the sides of my glass, wrapping its legs around the fine crystal in a liquid dance, the smell of peat and Rhys slowly wafting from the rim, engulfing me in memory. I take a slow sip, letting the warmth spread through me like molten honey, and he is there, behind my eyes, his lips, his hands, his voice. As raw and silky smooth as if he were right here. I have developed a taste for scotch, a taste for Rhys. 

“Since when do you drink scotch?” Turning her nose up, she takes a long swig of her Bud Light. Her dirty blonde hair sweeps across her shoulders as she throws her head back, draining the bottle. The faded jean jacket and well-worn
Keds speak to her generation. Anxiously waiting for some details, she fiddles with the charms that hang at her neck. A gift from her children, three small silver discs, with differing birth stones that hang from a delicate silver chain.

I have developed a taste for many new things. I cannot suppress the grin that rises from my lips. A fire burns in my cheeks and I know I am beet red, blushing at the thought of the things I have developed a taste for. Knowing she is fishing for a distraction, I launch into the play by play of the trip. Mary and I have always shared everything. For four years now she has been my only close friend. And for two years she has been my editor and boss. She is like a big sister, mentor and best friend all rolled
into one. She married fresh out of high school and promptly filled her home with children. Now, ten years later she is the editor in chief of the local paper, member of the PTA, wife, mother and friend. And the unfortunate receptacle into which she allows me to dump all my sadness and baggage. It will be nice to share some good news with her for a change. A nice juicy story to get her blood flowing.

She tips her empty bottle to the bartender, who just happens to be
her little brother, Paul. He pops another bud light and slides it across the bar, all the while her attention is glued on the details. The hotel, the partying, the estate on Biscayne, I spilled it all, accept any mention of Rhys. I don’t know why I held back, why I didn’t mention him first. He is the first and only thing on my mind these days. So, why keep it hidden? Why wasn’t I willing to share with Mary? Maybe I am afraid that if I say it out loud, it will sound ludacris. If I share what I have with Rhys will that make it less real? We share everything, Mary and I. I know she would want me to share this. I know things about her husband that I can never unknow, never.  I knock back the last drops of scotch, licking the rim of the glass wanting to store the scent, the flavor, the feel of it. Mary is out of patience, glaring over her bottle of Bud.

“Who’s the guy?” She demands, plunking the bottle to the bar.

“I don’t know what you mean?”

“The guy?
It’s clear there was a guy. Look at you,” she says, waving her hand about in the air between us. “You are glowing, you are drinking scotch? Hello, who drinks scotch? Rich men and drunks, that’s who, so which is he?” She crosses her fingers “God, I hope he’s rich!” The glimmer in her eyes tells me she is teasing, but a tiny pang tears at my heart from her sentiment. It didn’t even matter who he was to some people, he was rich. That’s what he is, who he is. Well, he isn’t that to me. His money is not what I think of when I think of Rhys. No, I think of all the delicious things he did to me, the ropes, his mouth, just being with him. But who am I kidding? We were in a mansion, surrounded by luxury. He treated me to everything. His money had everything to do with what happened between us. The thought leaves a sour taste in my mouth and a knot in my throat. Was I really so shallow? Did I really care about Rhys or was I just swept away by all that he has to offer? I don’t want the answer. I push all the doubt to the back of my mind. 

“He was amazing! It was amazing. One of Matthew’s friends, the best man actually.” She rolls her eyes at the cliché of it all, and I concur. “He took me out for coffee to this little Cuban place and then to his family’s house on Key Biscayne, which is where the wedding was. Oh, Mary, you should have seen it! I have never seen anything like the way these people live. The house was amazing, the wedding was flawless. He even lent his father’s yacht to Olivia and Matthew for their honeymoon. They are cruising around the Mediterranean as we speak, on a private yacht, can you believe that shit? I felt so out of place, so poor!”

“Honey, everyone is poor compared to people like that. We just have to remember to be thankful for what we have. Now, back to the boy. Did you sleep with him? Are you going to see him again? Tell me please, I am an old married woman, you owe me this.”

“He asked me to stay with him after the wedding. We holed up in his mansion and fucked like rabbits. It was amazing!” I bounce a little on my stool, the last sounds coming out in an excited squeal.

“Was he good to you?” Skepticism and concern are all over her face.

“Oh yes, Mary, so different from what I am used to, so different. He was so good.” I drag out the word, wanting to emphasize how very good it all was! I cannot hold back the smile that threatens to tear my face in two.
The thought of how good he actually was could set me on fire and reduce me to a blathering idiot.

“Well, I am glad you finally had a good experience. I was worried that Collin had ruined you forever. I mean the ideas he planted in your head. Just thinking about it makes me want to slap him. I am happy for you, honey.” She pushes a strand of hair behind my ear, a motherly smile upon her face. “You deserve it. Now tell me, what’s his name, this mystery lover, will you see him again?”

“His name is Rhys.” I bite down hard on my bottom lip to stifle the pleasure that jolts through me at his name crossing my lips. “Rhys Slate.” I watch Mary’s eyes grow into the size of melons, bulging  from her head. Shock and awe seep from every pore as she chokes on her beer, slamming it to the bar. She sputters and slaps her chest, making a scene.

“Rhys Slate?” she demands. 

“Do you know him?” I ask, shocked and worried by her reaction.

“Of course I do. He is like, an international billionaire playboy. He is covered in all the gossip columns. You really need to get out more, Sophie. I cannot believe you don’t know who he is!” 

“Well, I know now.”

“Wow!
Rhys Slate. When you move on you do it well, I will say that for you, Sophie. We will have to run a story about him now, maybe a little blurb about your time in Miami.” She muses to herself tapping notes on her phone. “Oh golly, look at the time. I am about to turn back into a pumpkin, sweetie. It’s a school night.” She sings, picking up her purse and flushing out her keys. “I am so glad you had a nice time. Glad you got a good roll.” She winks and the fine lines around her eyes crinkle, her blue eyes shining in the dull light of the bar. “I will see you tomorrow, we’ll have lunch and you can finish telling me all about your new, rich boyfriend!”              

“Mary! He is not my boyfriend. I’ll probably never see him again.” The thought hurts and I reflexively rub my chest, wishing it didn’t twist into a knot at the thought of never seeing Rhys again. 

“All the more reason to spill the beans. Love you.” She taps the bar with her keys nodding at her brother as she rushes out the door.  

“I will see you in the morning.” I sit back on my stool, swirl the melting ice and think about not seeing Rhys again. I left Miami knowing that we had no reason to see each other. But that was before, before he insisted on staying in touch. Reaching out into my daily life by way of a quick, disarming text, but is that really enough to think that our ending hasn’t come and gone? We were over the moment he put me in the car, we were over when we fucked in his chair. I could feel it then, I must remember it now. Suddenly I want nothing more than to be home, wrapped in his tee shirt. I leave a twenty on the bar, say goodbye to Paul and slink home, left raw by Mary’s truth, and my inevitable denial.  

Once I get home, I check my phone again, but nothing. No messages. He did say he had to catch a plane. I pull the shirt that I snagged from Rhys’ drawer out of my dresser and pull it on. The feeling is immediate, warm and safe. The shirt smells like his room, like him, a heady cocktail of cologne, sea air, and his sweat. I scroll through my new phone to find a music app. A playlist springs to life, Breaking All the Rules. He makes his presence known at the most perfect time. Just when I want to feel him, he is there. I smile to myself and hug the phone before starting the music.

La Vie en Rose plays softly in the background, while I slide all the windows open to coax a cross breeze and lie down. The air is stagnant and hot. So dry that it rattles in my lungs, like sand. The darkness and heat
conspire to put me right to sleep. A restless, dream filled sleep. I toss and turn, seeking relief from the heat. The heat from the early summer sun, and the heat between my legs. I ache for Rhys, wishing he were lying next to me, running his fingers over my hot, sticky skin. The thought helps me to drift, deeper.