Page 53 of Whiskey Splash

“I know, I know.” Desmond puts a hand on my shoulder, testing, and when I don’t pull away he steps forward and wraps his arms around me. “I’m so sorry that happened.”

His strong arms envelop me, cocooning me in a way that this bathrobe can’t. It makes some terrified part inside of me loosen. He’s an armor, a sturdy wall of protection, more certain and confidant than my feeble legs. I bury my face into his chest and one of his hands cups the back of my head. His warmth, his strong arms, the firmness of him—something about it rumbles all the fear to the surface and I just lose it.

“I can’t have pictures of me on the internet, Desmond!” I say, my shoulders heaving. Words start spilling out of me. “I can’t have naked pictures of me in some tabloid! I’m not you. I’m not famous. I don’t get naked in front of cameras, or for my job. Maybe you’re used to this paparazzi shit and having people sneak into your private life—”

I tilt my head up to look at him, completely exposed. His dark eyes look down at me, shimmering kindly.

“Des, this tonight, this wasn’t me,” I explain. “I don’t do things like this. I don’t randomly hook up with guys and—” I gesture weakly to the pool, shame flooding me with something hot and scared. I start trembling and he holds me tighter. “I’m some nobody girl who’s going to get torn to shreds by the internet. Have you seen what kind of troll-assholes are on there? I’ll be labeled your Hawaii little slut, or whatever bullshit they’re going to write about me, and … and … and I can’t have that happen, Desmond. I really can’t! My private life is supposed to be private! Not out there all over the internet like I’m some cheap wh—”

“Don’t say it!” he says harshly, cutting me off. “That’s not what you are!” The anger in his voice is laced, aimed at the intruder, not at me, but it still echoes through my feeble bones. “I want to kill that guy for making you feel this way.” He hugs me harder and the crush of him makes it easier to breathe, like he’s leeching the panic from strangling me. “None of that’s going to happen. Okay? You’re going to be alright.”

He strokes my hair, trying to soothe me, but I don’t want to be calm.

“It’s not okay!” I hiss at him, gripping his shirt. “You and I, we were, we were—” I can’t even say it, I’m so ashamed. “He was taking pictures of us! You were, and I was—” His hand cups my face, his thumb brushing the side of my mouth, acknowledging the intimacy of it. “It’s notokay!”

“You’re right!” his voice darkens. He angles my face up to look at him, and my eyes have adjusted enough to make out his chiseled features. “Of course, what he did is not okay. I wanted to kill that paparazzi piece of—”

The hand at my back curls into a fist, his muscles tensing.

“Esme, this is not normal, okay? Yes, there’s paparazzi around, but that shithead broke into my room. He broke the law. He invaded our privacy.” His fist unravels and he cups both of my cheeks, the warmth of his hands haloing my face. My hands press into his chest. “I broke his camera. I smashed it into a thousand pieces. I broke his flash card, and evidence. There are no pictures, Esme. Not one.”

I nod, wanting to believe him, but somehow it doesn’t feel that simple.

“Nothing is going to be on the internet,” he confirms. “No one is allowed to see you the way I saw you, okay? Ever!”

I drop my head, his hands still warming my cheeks, humiliation spreading through me like a vicious rash. For some reason, it terrifies me that I was so bold and open and brash with Desmond, so needy and untamed. I didn’t even recognize myself and part of me is ashamed that evenhesaw me that way. Of course, I didn’t feel like this when we were in the pool. In fact, I felt more alive than I have in years.

But – this! These photos, this incident! The fact that it wasn’t private, that there are security men who are going to ask me questions, that a stranger watched us, took photos of us—whatever moment we had together, it’s ruined now.

“You promise the pictures are destroyed?” I say into his chest, not sure I could bear it if they were out in the world.

“Yes.” He kisses my forehead. It’s sweet. I want to lean into it and be comforted by him. I want his warm arms to squeeze me so tight this all disappears. “I promise.”

I nod, pulling back from his embrace and look up at him. I search his face in the darkness. I know it isn’t fair, but I need to know if he’s thinking it, if deep down he thinks I’m some slutty girl he knew would come back to his Penthouse and fuck him.

“Desmond, I’m not some slutty—”

“I know! I know,” he says, brushing the wetness from my cheeks. “I know.” He pulls me forward and kisses my forehead, his lips are too soft, too kind and comforting for the demon swirling inside me. I want to believe him. I want to think he means that.

I pull away from him again, even though he’s the one thing that makes me feel steady and grounded. Maybe that’s what scares me.

“Can you get my clothes?” I ask softly. “My tote is out on the coffee table, and my dress is—” I sigh heavily, thinking of it strewn next to the pool along with my undergarments. “The tote is fine,” I say quickly, not needing the rest. “It has my clothes from this afternoon. That’ll be—” I trail off, letting him hold my face for a long moment, closing my eyes and trying to hold onto his warmth, his confidence. But there’s darkness swirling between us, so much of my past has been trudged up in a single evening, too many fears and vulnerabilities.

When I look at his eyes, they’re dark marbles searching me, and maybe he sees all that sadness and hurt in me, things someone like him wouldn’t want to be a part of. A fun night in Hawaii, that’s what this was supposed to be, and suddenly it’s heavy, too heavy for him to carry. I don’t blame him.

“My clothes,” I repeat. “And can you find a way that I don’t have to talk to security? I’ll lose my job.” He drops his hands from my cheeks and the loss of his hands feels like stepping out into a harsh winter night when you knew the cold was coming, but somehow you miscalculated how coarse it would feel, how it would leave you so raw.

“Of course,” he says softly. “Let me go get your clothes and talk to the officers.”

He slips out the door and I don’t expect the lump that jams in my throat, my body speaking for what I can’t. I blink back the tremble in my windpipe, not wanting to admit that this—him and me, this night—felt like the beginning of something, as childish and naive as that sounds. Or maybe, for the first time in years, I was willing to jump into my life and take a risk.

But the second Desmond walked out the door, it felt like goodbye.

Chapter Fourteen

Itake an Uber home and sit on my front deck looking out at the city.

I don’t go inside.

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