Damaged, The Romance of Nick and Layla (Part 4) (3 page)

I look at her incredulously. Whose side is she on?

“But at the airport,” I say, suddenly remembering their strange attitude just outside the terminal. “You didn’t want me to see him and now you’re
allowing
him to be here?”

“That was different. At the airport who knows what could have happened. Imagine if
this
had happened there!” she says, pointing to my cragged hands. “Here we have privacy. We can control things.”

“Mom, I don’t want to see him.” My head is much clearer now, though my body aches from the emotional and physical outbursts earlier.

“I think you should, Lala.”

“Mom,” I say with what I hope sounds like a warning in my voice.

She looks at me with a stern face again, but I think it must pain her to do so because her eyes betray her resolve. “Layla Garrett you aren’t the only one who lost a son.”

It’s as though she’s punched me. I think it might have hurt less if she did. I shake my head and quickly consider my options.

“Where is he? Nick?”

She nods as though I’ve agreed with her. “With your father in his study. He wanted to be here when you woke up but I thought I should be the one to see you.”

“Right,” I nod. “Okay then.” I look to the floor for my purse - I remember dumping its contents to the ground - and find it sitting by the bed, my belongings packed neatly inside it once again. “Can you just give me a minute? I’d like to freshen up.” I force a smile and she seems to accept it at face value.

“Of course. I’ll let them know you’re coming down and make us some dinner. Would you like that?”

“Sounds great,” I fake smile again. It’s too easy. She’s making it too easy.

She stands and I watch her move through the room and out the door, retreating downstairs to where my father waits with my ex-husband. Just the thought of him in this house makes my blood boil, but at least this time I am prepared.

As quietly as I can I pick up the purse and quickly scan the contents. Phone, keys, wallet, portable charger and a dozen miscellaneous items. I set it down and move hastily to the dresser, grabbing what toiletries I can from the top and a few fresh pairs of underwear and socks from the top two drawers. Someone’s removed my shoes, I notice, and I find them by the now broken door to my bedroom. I slip them on as quickly as I can, grab for my purse and take a deep breath before leaning out the door to look down the hallway. It’s clear.

Heart racing in my chest, I quietly prod down the carpeted stairs and slip though the hallway adjacent to the kitchen that leads to the garage. I open it just enough to slip through and then close it behind me, barely daring to breathe as I shut it soundlessly. I fish the keys for my Range Rover from my purse and open the driver’s side door.

Once safely inside I give myself a moment to breathe. If I’m going to accomplish this I need it to work only once. There’s only one shot. My heart is beating so fast I can hear it in my ears.

Quickly I form a plan. Buckle seatbelt and slide key into ignition. Depress the garage door button while simultaneously starting the engine and coast forward as it opens until I can make it through. It should only take seconds.

I take a deep breath.

As soon as I’ve cleared the garage door I slam my foot on the gas and make a speedy exit. Just as I hit the end of our driveway and make the turn out onto the road I see the interior door open and three figures appear.

Oh no
. I floor it.

I never see anyone follow me but I can’t be sure. I drive randomly across the streets of Santa Barbara to be sure, knowing that anyone unfamiliar with the city will get lost and confused with the one-way streets and secluded neighborhoods. It takes a full ten minutes for my heart to stop frantically beating, and I drive around with aimless purpose for another twenty minutes before finally deciding on a destination.

The Canary Hotel sits a bit off of lower State Street a stone’s throw from the beach and Stearns Wharf. A valet accepts my car just outside the entrance and I grab my purse and hand him the keys. Even as I walk through the beautifully appointed lobby I feel myself listening for the sound of Nick’s voice, looking for him amongst the faces of strangers. I realize I’m paranoid but with good reason.

There is a chilling thread of excitement that prickles at my spine as I ask for a room. The front desk clerk is exceedingly polite and professional, but I still feel her eyeing me in my simple jeans and blouse, carrying nothing but a purse. She clicks and types through her computer, considering it thoughtfully.

“Our guest rooms are all booked. We do however have a suite available. One bedroom with a king bed.”

“That’s fine. How long is it available for?”

“I beg your pardon, ma’am?” she looks at me quizzically.

“I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying,” I clarify. “Is the suite available for the next few days?”

She checks her screen again and nods politely. “Yes, it is. The rate is $545 per night,” she adds, as though it would be a detriment. I recall with some degree of humor my conversation yesterday with the teller at the bank and shake my head.

“I’ll take it.” I retrieve a credit card from my wallet and slide it across the sleek counter. Her eyes widen in stunned appreciation at the black AmEx.

“Right away, Miss Garrett.”

I haven’t used the account in a long time but I know it’s still open, and a small tingle of smug pride in my spine makes me stand up taller. If being rich has taught me anything it’s that it opens doors, and right now I need her to open one to a suite so I can escape from public view.

When it’s all said and done she hands me back the card and a key to the room. I decline her offer for a personal escort and make my way to the elevators alone, scanning the lobby for any familiar face as I do until the elevator doors slide shut, concealing me inside.

This time when I feel and hear the lock coming into place in the door behind me, I know nothing short of an axe will break it down without a key.
I’m safe
.

I open the windows and terrace doors and delight in the fresh Santa Barbara air - citrus and Pacific ocean - that billows in to the room. I place an order for a fruit and cheese plate and some baked macaroni for dinner via the phone and finally sit down on the bed to relax. I think my heart has nearly receded back to its normal pace.

I dump my purse out next to me on the bed and examine what I’ve brought with me. Two pairs of clean cotton underwear, a bottle of perfume, some deodorant, a couple tubes of lipstick and a small bottle of hand lotion. I see the phone laying face-down and swiftly pick it up, righting it so I can unlock it. Several missed calls from the house, mom’s phone, dad’s phone, and Nick. Suddenly it vibrates in my hand and I nearly drop it. A text message notification dominates the screen. It’s from Nick.

Where are you?!

I seethe just seeing his name. Part of me wants to reply, to tell him to leave me the hell alone and go back to wherever he came from. It vibrates again.

Damnit Layla! You can’t do this. You’re scaring me. You’ve scared the shit out of your parents.

I
can’t do this? One day shy of being 30 years old and I’m being told what I can and cannot do like some petulant child? Forced to come face-to-face with
him
in my own home? My own safe, private place? It’s not just a violation, but outright treason. And from my parents no less!

I trusted them and I thought they understood. They should have understood better than anybody. If I don’t want to see my ex-husband that is my damn prerogative. Especially after what he took away from me.

A knock comes from the door and I have to steel myself to keep from falling apart again. The hotel employee sets my dinner down on a table and I give him a $20 tip, closing and dead-bolting the door behind him.

One whiff of the food and I’m starving. I eat in silence, listening only to the sounds of the streets of Santa Barbara outside as I fork delicious bites of baked macaroni into my mouth. It’s still relatively early by the time I finish and I look down at the spilled contents of my purse appraisingly. Were there more time to grab my belongings I might have had the mindset to pack proper toiletries. Like makeup and toothpaste.

Everything I own is in my childhood bedroom at my parent’s house, and Nick’s presence in that safe-house has made it the last place on Earth I want to visit. I need a plan. I can’t live at the Canary Hotel forever, especially not at $500+ a night. My admittedly inflated bank account would not support such a lifestyle indefinitely.

For now I decide I need just enough to get me through the night, and maybe a couple days more. Clothes I can buy tomorrow. Toiletries I can buy tonight. I pick up my phone to find the closest 24-hour drugstore and see an unread text waiting on the screen.

I hope you’re safe. Text or call me if you need help. Please. I’ll be here.

I unlock the screen and bypass the text message, searching for a store instead. I find one and commit the address to memory. Purse, phone and keys in hand I leave, feeling moderately safer than when I left my own home.

Out in the hallway I push the button for the elevator and wait patiently. As I do another text vibrates my phone, and I don’t need to guess who it’s from.

Checked in downtown. The Canary Hotel. Please tell me you’re okay, Layla.

I barely have time to register panic before the elevator doors open and there he is, my ex-husband, phone in hand and looking up at me as if for the first time.

Shit
.

I can’t run; he’d certainly catch me. Scream? Knock him unconscious?

“Layla!” he gasps, clearly as surprised to see me as I am to see him. He’s still got a little deer-in-the-headlights to him and I can tell he’s mentally calculating my next move as fast as I’m trying to decide what that move will be. I see no clear option.

I step to the side to give him room to exit, and as he steps forward I step in, passing by him with ease, and jam the ‘door close’ button with my thumb, not once looking up at him. Just as the doors slip shut he slips back in, his duffel bag nearly hitting a door as he does.

“Shit,” I hear him swear under his breath.

I hit the button for the lobby and keep my eyes ahead of me. My heart is racing again and I can feel a spike of adrenaline in my blood, waiting for me to act on impulse if necessary.

“You’re safe? You’re okay?” he asks as the elevator slips down a story.

I say nothing and keep my eyes forward.

“Layla. Please say something.”

The hairs on my arms stand up on end and I can feel every muscle in my body poised and ready for action.

“Where are you going?”

The elevator emits a
ding
when it arrives on the main floor and as soon as the doors start to open I’m through them, walking briskly through the lobby towards the front door.

Shit
. I parked valet. Did the attendant hand me a ticket? I can’t remember. I fish through my jeans pocket and find nothing there but some spare coins. Upon reaching the door the valet sees me and nods knowingly. He disappears into the night, presumably to get my car, and once again I’m left alone with Nick.

“How long do you think you can go without talking to me, Layla?”

It’s been four years, I think I can manage the rest of my life, too.

“Or without looking at me?” he says, deliberately stepping into my line of vision, standing so close I have nowhere else to look. So close I can pick up the lingering scent of his cologne. Rather than move to avoid him, I stay still, eyes straight ahead looking at his Adam’s apple. It moves up and then back down as he swallows, and for a fraction of a moment I’m reliving some long forgotten memory of him. Of kissing him.

I deliberately look elsewhere, moving my head down at an angle so that I’m looking into a brightly colored flower planted deep in a large terra-cotta planter.

“This isn’t like before, Layla. You can’t avoid me when I’m right here with you.” He sounds tired, exasperated. And like he’s trying so hard to keep something in control. His emotions? Anger? Frustration?

I move my head back into a straight, comfortable position, and allow my eyes to travel up the length of his face, starting from his Adam’s apple, over the thick line of his jaw, past his lips which have parted and are taking shallow breaths, up the bridge of his nose and finally to his eyes. Those blue eyes. My son’s blue eyes.

Behind him I see the valet pulling up in my Range Rover. My eyes still on Nick, I ignore every thought about how he looks, every part of my body that to this day still reacts to him whether he’s there or not. I think I’m looking at him impassively, and wonder how long I can maintain it before the anger returns.

“Your car, ma’am?” the valet attendant calls to me. I move to take a step past Nick and he matches the movement, stepping so that he’s in my way again.

“Either I’m going with you or I’m following you. How easy do you want to make it, Layla?”

It’s hard to look at his face and think of nothing. Harder still to see my dead son’s eyes in him.

Without a word I move to pass him again and he lets me, turning around and stepping to the passenger side door as I get in behind the wheel. The thought occurs to me to ignore him, to not wait for him to securely buckle his seat belt let alone close the door. But no, I wait patiently for him to settle in, and while he does I wonder how the hell this man has the audacity to get into a vehicle at all, let alone with me.

We ride in silence as I navigate to the drugstore, and I decide that apart from his vehicular safety I will ignore him as though he were a ghost. Just like his phone calls, like his text messages, and until early today, like I have for the past four years.

He follows me around the drugstore aisles like a bodyguard, never more than five feet away, his eyes constantly on me. It’s unnerving, and I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose to try to wear me down, to get me to talk to him or even look at him again. My resolve is set, and even if his is too, I would bet mine lasts longer.

I take my time picking out what I need, but with no clear plan in mind it’s difficult to gauge exactly what I will need, or how much of it I will require. It takes more than 45 minutes to pick everything out, and when I stand in line for the checkout he’s by my side, still silent, still watching me.

Two teenage girls walk in through the entrance and their eyes go to Nick almost immediately. I can see their faces change as recognition dawns on them, and then their puzzled faces look to me and it’s as if they understand some big secret no one else does. One of them takes out her phone and tries to not-so-discreetly take a picture of us. I turn around so my back is to her, and let out an expletive under my breath.

“Great.”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Nick finally break his eye contact away from me and look towards the girls. I can practically hear them squealing with delight as he acknowledges their existence.

“Hey, would you mind, please? Not now,” he speaks directly to them. He’s calm but clear in his intent.
Don’t fuck with us right now
. I hear them scurrying off just as the cashier starts scanning and bagging my items. He is either oblivious or ignorant of the fact that the famous Nick Hudson is standing before him, and within minutes I have paid and am carrying my bags out to the Rover.

Bags secure in the backseat, Nick in the front, I make the drive back to the hotel, the ride devoid again of any sound or communication. Back at the Canary the valet takes possession of the keys once more and, drugstore bags in hand, I make my way silently through the lobby and back to the elevator, Nick a constant at my side.

The elevator ride is short and uneventful, and as the doors open I think he might finally head to his own room. Instead he follows me. I can feel his breath down the back of my neck as I retrieve the room key from my purse and slide it into the lock. For a brief moment I wonder if it would be possible to actually keep him from entering my room, but somehow I doubt that will be possible. I try anyway, opening the door so there’s just room enough for me and before I can turn around and close the door his foot is in the way, blocking me from shutting it.

“Please invite me in, Layla,” he grunts from beyond the threshold. Relenting, I open the door and make room for him, shutting it once he’s through. Before I can deadbolt it his hands are on my shoulders and he’s turning me around. He pushes me against the door and his mouth is on mine, his lips taking hold of my bottom lip and tugging on it with enough pressure to draw me forward into him. Apart from attacking him earlier in my bedroom it is the first physical contact we’ve had since before our second divorce. The familiarity of him, the way his lips seem to fit perfectly around my own, remind me of my hatred, and my blood begins to boil once more.

Regaining my footing I push him off of me, and before I recognize my own actions my hand is making contact with his face. Hard, skin-splitting contact that forces his head violently to the side.

“What the
fuck
do you think you’re doing?” I demand, my voice barely a contained scream.

“Oh, hi. You’re talking to me,” he smiles rudely. His hand goes to his cheek and I can already see the crimson imprint of my hand on it. “About fucking time, Layla.”