Fix It Up (Torus Intercession 3)

“I guess if I were you, I could’ve come to that same conclusion, so I apologize. I did not mean to leave you with the impression that I was going to go to bed with James Reider,” he assured me. “That was not my intention in the least.”

“I don’t give a shit if you––”

“Yes, you do,” he said implacably. “We both know you do.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

“No, Loc, but clearly you were distraught that Jamie and I were off to his stables to fuck.”

I hung up on him. I didn’t need to deal with his crap.

When he called back, I thought about letting it go to voicemail, but answered.

“Okay, okay,” he said, chuckling. “I’m sorry already. Just…I’m stunned that you thought that Jamie and I were running off together.”

I hung up again, because fuck him!

It was strange to have to balance between what I knew about his past and how he was here, in the present. I hoped that when he knew what I’d just done and why, and that I was aware of what he’d endured, that we could still be friends. I hoped it wouldn’t change things between us, but that was probably wishful thinking. Between the trust violation, which was a heinous betrayal, and me taking the law into my own hands…we were finished. I had no doubt that he would demand another company be put in charge of his recovery.

I let my phone go to voicemail twice when he called back, and then a call came in from my mother’s landline. I wasn’t stupid, but I picked up anyway.

“Stop hanging up on me,” he ordered.

“Stop saying stupid crap,” I warned him.

“Fine.”

We were both quiet.

“But really, I have a home; so does he,” Nick apprised me.

“What?” I was lost, because my mind had wandered to him throwing me out of his life. I’d just found a place in it, and now our time together would be over.

“Are you listening to me?”

“No,” I answered truthfully, because what did it matter? The chances of him forgiving me for first, listening to a private voicemail, and then going behind his back, were slim to none. And yes, both had been for a good reason, but still. The road to hell and all that. He’d been on his own for so many years. The fact that I’d felt the need to step in and fix his life—whether that was my job or not—would not sway him in the least. The thaw was new, after all. We’d been enemies longer.

“Well, listen to me!” he yelled into the phone. “There could never be anything serious between me and James Reider!”

“Why not?” I asked, because if this was the last conversation we were truly ever going to have, I wanted it to last as long as possible. It turned out the gravelly, sexy, whiskey-soaked sound of his voice was very appealing.

“Why not?” he repeated like I was insane. “Do you get that we’re both creative people, and creative people need someone there to be a rock in their life. We need support and nurturing like orchids from Borneo.”

“Like what from where?” I asked him. “The fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“We need constant care, you asshole!”

“Why’re you yelling?”

“Because you’re being ridiculous.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about right now.”

He growled at me. “I can’t take care of someone else; I can barely take care of myself.”

Finally, he was making sense. “Yes, that’s very true.”

“I mean,” he growled, “I can take care of someone I love, be there, make a home with them. I’m not useless, but I need, I want, shelter.”

“Sure,” I said, because of course he did. Everyone did to a degree, but Nick, who had been hurt more than he ever should have been by people he trusted, needed a person to stand between him and the world.

“I have things to do, and I need someone who is all about being there. Not doing, being. Someone who grounds me and makes my home, home.”

It hit me then, because that whole being instead of doing, the feminine part of grounding yourself in the moment and paying attention to the space around you, and the masculine doing, the running around to make sure the world remained turning, was a little bit out there for him. “Oh God,” I groaned loudly, utterly horrified. “You’ve been talking to my mother.”

“How dare you imply that––”

“Listen to me, my mother has an agenda and––”

“Jamie doesn’t fit into my life. He can’t. It’s the same way I can’t fit into his. You can’t both be eagles; someone has to be the nest.”

Oh please, God in heaven, save me from her new-age mumbo-jumbo bullshit. I made a sound I wasn’t proud of, somewhere between a whimper and a snarl.

“The hell kind of noise was that?”

“That’s a book, you know,” I apprised him, trying not to moan in agony. “The whole premise is about what the nest means to each person and how far the eagle flies from it and…Christ. I need to get you out of there.”