Fix It Up (Torus Intercession 3)

“But is it?”

“Yes!” I yelled at her.

“Why are you shouting at Callie?” Nick spat at me as he came in from swimming. “God, you’re such a dick all the time.”

I needed a vacation from my job.

I was his near-constant companion, his shadow. Some days he talked to everyone but me, on others I got little more than grunts, and sometimes I was on the receiving end of full sentences. He ate his meals at the counter, talking to Marisol and Callie or whichever of the bodyguards was there. I took most of mine alone, or on rare occasions, I went out to dinner. I had met people on my morning runs and saw a few of them regularly. I was surprised when invitations started rolling in. It was nice to be asked, and what was even more satisfying was when men came over to the house and didn’t look past me to Nick.

“Everyone you bring over here is just as old as you,” he spat at me the first Saturday in August, pacing back and forth in my room as I got ready to go to dinner.

A week later, when a twenty-three-year-old tech mogul wanted me to fly to New York with him for a party, I caught Nick looking a bit stunned.

“I have to go to Berlin after that,” Zach Ashby told me as we stood together in the living room when he picked me up. “But when I get back, please let me take you out to dinner. I would love to wine you and dine you and take you home.”

Not a traditionally handsome man, but the more time I spent with him, the more I noted the sparkle in his eyes, the fluid way he carried himself, and how, whenever I looked up, I had every drop of his attention. Of course, he didn’t know the real me. I was in fixer mode, so I was on my best behavior, but still, his interest was flattering, as was the fact that he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off me.

“You should fuck that guy,” Nick told me the next afternoon, his tone snide, attacking as he paced the kitchen, back and forth, in Marisol’s way. “I can score you some Viagra. You probably need it.”

“You can’t score Tic Tacs anymore,” I assured him with a scoff.

“Will you sit down,” Marisol ordered him. “My God, it’s like you’re manic.”

“But really, you should screw him. He’s begging for it,” he continued to bait me, “I can tell, and I bet you don’t get many offers.”

Marisol gasped and then laughed, and Callie spit out her water.

“What?” Nick snapped at them. “Did I offend your delicate sensibilities?”

“No,” Marisol quipped, arching an eyebrow for him. “But you’re deluded if you think a man that’s put together like Locryn Barnes doesn’t get more offers than he knows what to do with. Use your head, boy.”

“That’s disgusting,” Nick told her.

“He’s gorgeous,” Callie told him, and then turned to me. “You’re gorgeous, but you know that. You must.”

“You’re both very sweet,” I said, smiling at them.

They both fanned themselves for my benefit, and my laughter drove Nick out to the pool.

Five

I surprised myself with how much patience I had. I dug deep and it was there, and I stayed on my best behavior. I took everything Nick dished out and swallowed every insult, retort, and zinger in an effort to finally just get along with him. But it was like dancing with a porcupine—I never knew if I’d get the soft underbelly or the quills. Everyone else said they saw growth and change and steely resolve in him, but for me, being around him was like navigating a runaway roller coaster where you couldn’t see the dips and turns.

In mid-August, I went with Nick to a friend’s party in Montecito, on Hot Springs Road, and I had never been in a more beautiful house—it looked like a Spanish mission—on more lush, stunning grounds. I couldn’t stop walking around. I checked on Nick, endlessly, and finally sat down at the pool as a guy I didn’t know was playing guitar for a few people. It was beautiful, and I loved the squeak of his fingers on the strings. It reminded me of all the music my mother listened to when I was little, that had tunneled into my brain and never left.

“What are you doing out here?” Nick asked, there suddenly, looking down at me.

“Oh,” I said, prepared to get up. “Are you ready to go?”

He put his hand out to stop me from moving, and after a few minutes, when I realized he was going to stay and listen, I got comfortable again.

“You like him?” he asked, making the question sound like an accusation.

I turned my attention from the singer—who, when he had ended his cover of “Take It Easy” by the Eagles, said that his name was Tanner Ward—back up to Nick. “I like this kind of music,” I clarified. “On occasion.”