I don’t want to say anything.
“Tully?” he says again, sounding concerned. “Are you okay?”
Tears gather in my eyes, sting. “I’m in the King County jail,” I say softly. “DUI. But I didn’t drink anything. It’s a misunderstanding. They won’t let me leave unless someone will be responsible for me. I know it’s Christmas Eve and—”
“I’ll be right there,” he says, and I feel hot tears slide down my cheeks.
“Thanks. ”
I clear my throat and hang up.
“This way,” the woman says. She prods me a little, just to remind me that I need to move. I follow her to another room; this one is big and busy, even on this holiday night.
I sit in a chair by the wall, ignoring the stream of drunks and hookers and street kids who are brought in every few minutes.
Finally the door opens and I see Desmond walk in; snow swirls in behind him. His long hair is grayed by melting snowflakes, his shoulders are blotched with moisture, and his sharp nose is red.
I stand, unsteady on my feet, feeling vulnerable and stupid and ashamed.
He crosses the room toward me, his long black coat flapping open like wings at the movement of his strides. “Are you okay?”
I look up. “I’ve been better. I’m sorry to call you so late. And on Christmas Eve. And for this. ” Shame tightens my throat until I can barely swallow.
“My shift ended in ten minutes anyway. ”
“You were working?”
“I cover for people who have families,” he says. “Where can I take you?”
“Home,” I say. All I want is to be in my own bed. I want to fall into a sleep so deep I forget about this entire night.
He takes me by the arm and leads me to his car, which is illegally parked out front. I tell him the address and we drive the few blocks to my building in silence.
He pulls up in front of the building. A liveried valet appears almost instantly at his door.
Desmond turns to me.
I see the question in his gaze when he looks at me. The truth is that I don’t want to invite him up. I don’t want to have to smile and make small talk and pretend to be fine, but how can I turn him away now, after he came for me?
“Would you like to come up for a drink?”
His gaze is questioning; unnerving. “Okay,” he says at last.
I open my car door and get out so fast I almost fall. The doorman is there in an instant to steady me. “Thanks,” I mutter, pulling away. Without waiting for Desmond, I walk across the lobby, my heels clicking on the stone floor, and press the up button at the elevator. In more silence, we ride up together, our images thrown back at us by the mirrored walls.
At my condo, I open the door and let him inside. He follows me down the hallway to the living room, with its outstanding view of the city at night, snow falling from the black sky, flakes turned colors by the muted city lights. “Wine?”
“How about some coffee for both of us?”
Do I hate him for the reminder of my night? Yes, a little, I do.
I go into the kitchen and make coffee. While it’s brewing, I excuse myself. In the bathroom, I am appalled by my appearance—hair flattened and frizzed by the snow, face pale and tired, no makeup.
Good God.
I open the medicine cabinet, find my Xanax, and take one. Then I return to the living room. He has found my CD player and put on Christmas music.
“I’m surprised you called me,” he says.