My sobs racked my body, and Andrew held on to me the entire time.
At some point, I got a hold of myself. The well ran dry.
Andrew let me go, kissed my forehead, and stepped back.
He looked behind me.
I knew who was behind me, who hadn’t touched me or said a word during all of this.
“You good, son?”
“Good.” Duke uttered the single word with a deadness to his tone. “We’ve got somewhere for the both of you to stay, but I need to get Anastasia sorted.”
Andrew nodded. “You go, take care of our girl. I think we can handle ourselves here.” He looked around. “I need to buy some of these guys a beer.”
I wanted to smile at that, wanted to stay and watch Andrew and Tanner drink beers and shoot the shit with the bikers.
But Duke wasn’t having that. He snatched my hand again and all but dragged me outside. There were no words, no caresses, just his grip on my wrist.
I’d done it.
I’d gotten what I wanted. I’d pushed Duke away. I was going to get my life back.
And it killed me.
He hadn’t looked at me since he’d got here. Not since the first moment he’d run his eyes over my body, assessing the injuries. He’d done that for practical reasons, obviously. But since then, nothing. He’d asked me if I needed painkillers, if I wanted anything to eat. I’d said no to both of those things.
He’d done all the things to ensure my comfort and health, like any good security expert or body guard would do. There was a chill to his voice that cut through layers of skin, muscle and bone, right to the core of me. It struck me harder than any blow had today.
I’d expected this, hadn’t I? I’d wanted this?
Had a little part of me hoped he’d rush in, kiss me, hug me, declare his undying love for me like countless men had done on countless sets throughout my career?
Yeah.
A tiny, naive part of me that he’d brought to life had hoped for that. My inner cynic chastised her for that toxic hope.
It didn’t work that way.
I’d gotten the best possible result from this. The bad guy was dead. Justice was served. I could safely go back to my life in LA like none of this had ever happened.
The mere thought filled me with dread.
I’d been so deep in my self-pity, I hadn’t realized we’d stopped. We weren’t at a gas station on our way back to LA, not on the interstate. Somehow, we were still in Amber and I hadn’t noticed.
We were parked in front of a beautiful B&B that I recognized from an article somewhere. It was right in front of the ocean, the sunset reflecting off it with a beauty that happened regardless of the ugliness in the world, inside of this car.
“What are we doing?” I asked.
Still, Duke didn’t look at me. “I had a long drive getting here, haven’t slept. Don’t suppose you have either. It’s late. We’re not drivin’ through the night, nor are we stayin’ at some shitty motel on the side of the road. I know this place, know that the food is out of this world, rooms are nice, and the staff discreet.”
He delivered that while looking straight ahead. In that same tone that bruised every part of me left unscathed throughout all of this.
Duke didn’t wait for me to respond to anything he had said. He just got out of the car, leaving me in there with the toxic air of his indifference.
I got out, despite the fact I didn’t want to.
We’d come full circle. The hotel room was nicer. The view was better. My face had more bruises. My heart had more scars. But we were here.
We walked into the room in silence, like we were strangers. Strangers would have been better. I would’ve welcomed it. There was nothing worse in this world than someone you loved, someone who knew the deepest parts of you treating you like a stranger.
The room was indeed “nice.” That was somewhat of an understatement. And that was coming from me, who’d traveled all over the world, stayed at the most lavish and expensive hotel rooms.
This wouldn’t be considered the most lavish, nor expensive. Yet it was the most beautiful room I’d ever walked into.
There was a sitting area as you walked in, slip-covered sofa, white with a plethora of ocean-themed cushions, a coffee table with a pile of what looked like local art books, same with the art on the walls. None of that generic hotel room bullshit. No, everything was unique. One landscape in particular was breathtaking, so much so that I forgot about my heartbreak for a second and leaned in to read the artist.
Lauren Mathers.
I made a mental note to find her as soon as I got home and purchase every piece of art she had available. I’d cover the walls of my lavish home with it, to torture me, to remind me.