Page 17 of On the Rocks
My grin grows despite myself. Dumb and giddy. Still in awe he's mine. Amazed that a man this perfect loves me so much.
One last glance back before I join the party, and, of course, he's still there. Watching me. Licking his lips. Twerking his left eyebrow. Absolutely sexy and smug and seductive. Another heart-pounding image to lust over in my thoughts until I see him again tonight.
My contentment only dampening a bit from Drake's bodyguards standing in the narrow lobby, along with the men for Patrice and Trish. All of them nodding in deference to me as I pass. The reverence always making me feel like an imposter. Respect I haven't earned. Only given because of my marriage. Out of obligation to my husband.
I quicken my pace, almost scampering toward Trish who seems oblivious to the security Noah provides for her. I wish I could be so composed.
She leads me into the dressing rooms, plush with dark cherry wood doors and swirly ivory and sage carpet. Reminiscent of the era in which the hotel was built. We strip and don gorgeous pink silk kimonos.
"Patrice has really gone all out. She has massages - prenatal for me of course - and pedicures, manicures, and facials. We're going to be gorgeous at dinner!"
So much. Too much. More than I expected. But I don't know how to protest or ask what to do. I grab some of the money Drake gave me and slide the folded bills into my pocket. Hopeful I have enough.
Once we're back in the salon, Trish pats the cushion next to her. Grateful my best friend always looks out for me. Most of the ladies have mimosas or bloody marys. The waitress offers me my favorite drink, and the butterflies swirling in my stomach finally land. Drake. Taking care of me even when he's not here. Patrice leans forward and clinks her champagne flute against my glass.
"Are you having fun, honey?"
I smile at this kind woman, with so much concern filling her eyes. Wanting me to be happy as much as Drake does. I’m quick to agree and alleviate her worry. "Yes, thank you."
And surprising even to myself, I'm actually telling the truth.
* * *
“Just relax ma’am. You’re here to enjoy.”
"Okay." Not so easy when I’m completely naked, lying face down on a cocoon of towels and sheets, with my head resting in a plastic circle providing a limited view of only the buttery yellow tile below. “Thank you.”
Oiled hands caress deeper into my taut muscles.She really is talented. Her fingers feel like magic on my back. Gliding and rubbing me in a lavender haze.
This must be the ultimate relaxation everyone talks about. I can’t keep my eyes open. My body finally droops, utterly limp from this version of heaven I've never experienced before. So overwhelming I couldn't lift my limbs even if I wanted to. So I give in, letting her hypnotize me with her powerful strokes, and sink into the blackness engulfing me.
Throbbing.
Throbbing so bad in my arm I can’t breathe.
I can’t suck in any air. My chest won’t expand, smashed against the table. I try to move. Twist around. Lift up. Anything. But tight hands keep me down. Clutching my back. Legs. Arms. Head. Keeping me immobile. Forcing me to lie still despite the agony burning in my bicep.
I’m dazed but the stinging pain forces my eyes open. Blinking through the blurriness. Shoes. So many pairs underneath me. Why are people holding me? Hurting me? Killing me?
“Drake?” No sound. I can’t manage more than whisper. “Please?”
“Oh! I’m so sorry, ma’am. I’m so sorry. It was an accident.”
A woman’s voice I don’t recognize shrieks above me. Suddenly, I’m free. Hands gone. Shoes gone. I breathe deep. Too long without oxygen. I’m rolling. Someone’s flipping me over. Supporting my flopping body.
“What the fuck happened?”
Not Drake. Butcher. He’s sitting me up. The crying lady dims from my view as my head lolls forward.
“She f-fell asleep and must have been dreaming. She was thrashing all around on the table. I t-tried waking her up and scratched her arm.”
“Scratch? You fucking ripped her open.”
His powerful fingers wrap around my pulsing muscle. Squeezing too hard. I wince, and his grasp loosens.
“I’m just trying to stop the blood, Mrs. Deveraux.”
The trembling woman offers him a towel. Stepping back as soon as the fabric is yanked from her hands. As if she’s scared of being jerked around next.
