Page 28 of Love Set Free

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, Dad,” Phoenix replies. Unlike me, he’s not gawking in awe at this place we’re apparently going to be staying at. He just casts a casual, assessing look over the facade and comments, “We’ll probably just spend the next day or two sleeping as much as possible. After that I’ll concern myself with what sort of amenities the room has. But really, as long as it’s got a bed, I’m sure I’ll be fine. Oh, and a shower. A shower stocked with tons and tons of soap and shampoo.”

Phoenix looks giddy over the idea of getting to take a shower, not that I can blame him. Getting to scrub off weeks of accumulated dirt, sweat, and grime and steaming away all traces of what I’ve had to put up with since landing in Brazil is pretty much the first thing on my list of things to do, too. Although, I hope no one minds me parading around in just a towel afterward, because I’m sure as heck not putting my filthy clothes back on after I take them off and it’s not as though I have any other clothing to change into.

At first, it seems as if Phoenix has forgotten all about me in his excitement over a shower and anticipation of getting to sleep n in a nice, comfy bed. I’m feeling a bit like a duck out of water–or more like a duck lobbed into a stable of thoroughbred ponies–and wondering if maybe I should take the opportunity to up and skedaddle while nobody is paying me any mind. I sure as heck don’t belong in some fancy-ass, rich-person hotel. And I certainly don’t belong with the fancy-pants, richer-than-rich Phoenix Wilding, or his even fancier and richer parents.

But then, as he’s climbing out of the limo after his folks, Phoenix reaches his hand back to me and says, “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go find our rooms and get all settled in.”

I don’t know if they catch the endearment he used, or what sort of reaction they had if they did, but by the time I clamber out of the limo as well, Mr. and Mrs. Wilding have blandly friendly expressions on their faces.

The hotel is...the hotel is... Fuck, calling itself a palace is not very far-fetched. It’s a far cry from any hotel I’ve ever stayed in, not that I’ve had the opportunity to stay in a whole lot of hotels over the course of the twenty-four years I’ve been alive. And the few times that I have, they were much more in the roadside motel vein–the kind where you weren’t all that sure about the wisdom of taking off your shoes in or getting in the bed without first looking over the sheets for hints of unwanted stains or bedbugs.

The whole lobby is shades of white, from the walls to the decorative columns to the floor that, of course, is actual fucking marble. So much white, gleaming brightly under the light from crystal chandelier to crystal chandelier. The only hints of color come in the form of pops of green from fancy little trees in pots and a bit of black in a decorative border along the edges of the floor and from the grand piano. An actual goddamn grand piano, being played by some fancy-looking dude in a tux.

I couldn’t feel more out-of-place if all the people gliding through this lobby stopped what they were doing, stood around me, pointed, and pelted me with accusations about what I’m doing there in their clean, expensive, exclusive establishment. It doesn’t even have anything to do with how raggedy, dirty, and smelly I am. Not that any of that helps. I can’t help but be terrified that each step I’m taking, huddled behind Phoenix and his folks, trying to hide in the shadow of their wealth andprivilege, is going to leave visible dirty footprints to mark my passage in this all-white, wealthy-people paradise.

The Wildings–with me tagging along–whisk on by everyone, from the employees of the hotel to the few other guests who are curious enough about our group to outright gawk at us. They glide on in–I tumble after–into an elevator that seems to open for us by magic, and within seconds, we’re being lofted up.

The elevator doors open with a whoosh and gentle ding, letting us out into more white perfection. Mr. Wilding seems to know where he’s going and we all trail after him down the hallway. Until he pauses outside a door and points at it, commenting, “This is where you’ll be, Phoenix. For the time being, at least, until we can get you relocated up a floor, closer to your mother and I. And this...” He pivots on his heel so that he can point at another door, one across the hallway. “This room is where, um...”

“Jackson. Jackson Delacroix,” Phoenix supplies when his father stumbles over still not knowing my name.

I’m not sure how Phoenix learned my whole name, much as I wrack my brain, I can’t think of when I told it to him. Not that it matters in the scheme of shit. My name is what it is. It’s nothing too important. Although...

“Uh, not to be that person,” I hesitantly say, my voice feeling loud in the narrow confines of the hallway. “But that’s not quite my name. It’s pronounced ‘Del-croy’. I know it looks all fancy French or whatever. And maybe you know someone else with a last name spelled like mine and that’s how they pronounce theirs? But we just always tended to ignore all those extra letters and whatnot and say it more simple-like.”

Phoenix’s folks clearly have no idea what to take of me. But they seem nice enough. They both smile and don’t avoid looking at me, even though I’ve got to be even odder looking than usual. Plain is usually the nicest thing people have said aboutmy looks, I don’t even want to dwell on the less than friendly things I’ve been told about how I look. And I’ve yet to see myself in a mirror–I’ve been avoiding peeking at my reflection in the windows we’ve gone by–but I can’t imagine numerous weeks locked in a wooden box were at all beneficial to me.

“Of course, Mr. Delacroix,” Mrs. Wilding says, only stumbling a little as she says my name close to the way I did. “It’s your surname, you’ve the right to have it pronounced however you declare it. Although, if it would be alright with you...” Her hand hovers in the air, coming close to me but not actually making direct contact with any part of myself or my clothing. Understandably. She doesn’t know me and I am, quite frankly, revolting in my current state. “We could always just call you Jackson. Of course, you would then call me Sophie. And my husband, Charlie,” she adds quickly.

“Uh, yeah. Of course.” Despite my agreement, and the polite smile I plaster on my face, there’s absolutely no way I’d ever feel comfortable calling Phoenix’s parents Sophie and Charlie. Hell would probably freeze over first.

“Fabulous. We’ve all that settled,” Phoenix cheerfully states. “And now, I really, really want that shower. And then I’m going to order about one of everything off the room service menu, glut myself like an absolute pig, and then pass the fuck out.”

His folks don’t seem put off by his language or the less than subtle shooing motion he makes. Naturally, I’ve no way of knowing if this is a normal reaction from them or if Phoenix is getting a bit of leeway from them due to the whole just having been kidnapped thing. What I do know is that, after some lingering hugs and quiet murmurs to their son, Phoenix’s parents make their way back to the elevator and soon whisk themselves away to their own room, leaving Phoenix and me alone in the hallway together.

“Jesus, what a day.” He lets out a short, bitter-sounding laugh. “Fuck that. What a week.” Phoenix runs his hands through his hair, and it’s only now that I notice he has some sort of bandage wrapped on his left hand.

It’s not as though I’d forgotten hearing him scream from somewhere I couldn’t see him or get to him. I’d be hearing that fucking horrible sound in my nightmares for years. But my brain has been too caught up in other things to sit on what had caused him to scream like that. The willful denial is coming to bite me in the ass now, as my gut clenches at the sight of that ragged, dirt-stained, formerly white material winding around the middle finger of his left hand.

Phoenix is busy glancing around the hallway, not that there’s a whole lot to see. The whole vibe of the hotel might be over-the-top luxury, but the decor is kind of plain and minimal. So, he doesn’t notice me tentatively reaching for him. It’s only at the last second that I pause, re-thinking my impulse to touch his hand. Odds are, he probably doesn’t want anyone poking and prodding his wound.

It’s that hesitation, my hand hanging mid-air for no seeming reason, that he notices. My hand is less than a foot away from his, so it doesn’t take much for him to figure out where my mind is at. Plus, there’s the way my eyes are locked onto his bandaged finger.

“It’s nothing,” Phoenix states. A scoff immediately bursts out of me, and he amends his statement. “Okay, it’s not nothing. But it’s okay. Really, it is, sweetheart.”

He lets his left arm drop down while his right hand grabs onto mine and brings it to rest against his chest. The feel of his flesh, warm against my palm through the thin fabric of his button-up shirt, is almost enough to distract me from the seemingly casual way Phoenix tucks his injured hand behind him. Almost.

“What is it, if it’s not nothing? What happened, Phee? I heard…I heard…” I don’t want to actually say what it is I’d heard and I stumble over my words. I don’t know everything, but I know enough, making me both dread and need Phoenix to tell me what happened to him when the kidnappers took him away from me.

“Hey. Hey, hey.” Phoenix leaves my hand resting against the firmness of his lean chest as he brings his hand to my jaw, tilting my head up until I’m looking into the deep lushness of his chocolatey-brown eyes. “It really isn’t a big deal.” He doesn’t wait for me to object further. “Blond Guy just had a bit of an…oops. With a knife. And the knife just so happened to end up in my hand. But it’s fine. It hurt, and it’s not ideal, but… Once I get in to see a doctor—which I’m sure my parents will arrange for as soon as possible—they’ll patch me up good as new. Or…almost good as new. And it’ll all be fine. I promise.”

Phoenix’s eyes are steady on mine, almost daring me to believe him. And since all I have is his word on what all went down, what else could I do but nod my head, showing that I’m willing to accept what he’s telling me.

“Good. I’m glad we’ve got that settled.”

Phoenix’s hand is still on my jaw, and the brush of his fingers as he casually caresses my face feels surprisingly good. Almost…pleasurable. Which is… Is there a thing beyond unexpected? I like being touched by somebody as much as the next guy, not that I tend to get people lining up to touch me. Not like this. Not this…casually affectionate. Intimate. And those that have, well, they’ve been girls. Er, women. All whopping three of them.

So, the butterflies swarming in my belly over having another man’s hand on me… I don’t know what in the hell that’s all about.

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