Rainfall (13 page)

Chapter 17

The hypnotherapy sessions with Doctor Sheldon are still underway and, despite the events of last night, I am excited to see what progress we will make today.

“Paige, I found him! I found Fergus!” I have never heard Jacob’s voice so animated, and judging by the look on Carl Sheldon’s face, neither has he.

“Oh, Jacob, that’s awesome!” I encourage, amazed that my impromptu 'suggestion' has made such an impression. 

“He looked a bit dehydrated. I’ve made sure he has plenty of food and water,” Jacob adds proudly and I nod my head.

“That’s great, Jacob.
Really. I feel a lot better now that you've found him, I was getting quite worried.”

“I’ll take good care of him,” he promises.

I stifle a yawn and Carl glances across at me quizzically. I shake my head and he turns back to Adam who is once again under hypnosis.

“Jacob, you sound as though you're feeling better,” the doctor’s voice is soothing and I feel very heavy-lidded. When I woke up this morning with Adam, after spending the evening with Kyle, I told him about the kiss. Suffice it to say he wasn’t pleased. I feel like the past 24 hours has been an emotional rollercoaster, even worse than anything
we've been through previously. Carl had warned us that the
alters
might become more prevalent when we started the hypnotherapy and he was right. I'm feeling more and more like a contestant in a bad reality show. I zone out as Carl continues his conversation with Jacob, feeling frustrated. We seem to be making no headway, although the doc insists we are making startling progress. I can sense that even Adam’s eternal optimism is failing him. It only takes another five minutes for Carl to bring Adam out of the hypnosis, as usual he does not want to push, he wants to take things at Jacob’s own pace. In my mind Jacob is so slow we may as well be going backward, and at this rate Adam and I might be dead before we uncover any secrets, but I keep this to myself, knowing full well that Carl will not appreciate my views.

“I want to take you somewhere,” Adam murmurs in my ear as we leave the Institute, arm in arm.

“Where?” I ask, my curiosity piqued.

“
Grimaldi’s,” he proclaims, as though the word itself should mean something to me.

“
Grimaldi’s?” I raise my brow in question and smile at the look of mock horror that crosses his face.

“You’ve never been to
Grimaldi’s?” He places his hand over his heart dramatically, adopting the worst fake Italian accent I have ever heard.

“No!” I laugh, shaking my head, “I've never been to
Grimaldi’s.” 

“We’ll have to do something about that immediately, Ms
Petrova.” He opens my door for me and leans in as I buckle my safety-belt.

“I love you, Paige.” He kisses my nose and I settle back in my seat praying that soon enough it will be just the two of us, that this whole messed-up rollercoaster ride will be worth it. 

Twenty minutes later I find myself standing in a line underneath the Brooklyn bridge. 

“Pizza?”
I ask, and I burst out laughing. I have never seen people queuing for pizza before.

“Not just pizza!” he exclaims, shaking his head at my naiveté.
“Grimaldi’s pizza.” He speaks the words with such reverence that I can’t help but giggle again and he rolls his eyes at my utter inability to take him seriously.

“You're in serious need of a New York education,” he chides, taking my hand and drawing me into the small and intimate pizzeria, situated under the Brooklyn
bridge, where I have, not that I wanted to admit it, the single best pepperoni pizza I have ever tasted. I tap my foot in time with the Frank Sinatra song coming from the Jukebox in the corner.

“You know legend has it that Sinatra had
Grimaldi’s pies flown to him in Vegas,” Adam remarks smugly.

“Oh, really?
So how come we had to wait in line?” I ask, taking an enormous bite. Adam throws back his head and laughs, and then he turns serious once more.

“So,” he begins hesitantly, “how’re you holding up?”

“Okay,” I mumble through a mouth crammed full of pizza. He doesn’t say anything else, but he holds my gaze and waits for me to finish. It’s so typical of my Adam; he knows me far too well. I sigh, wiping my mouth with my napkin and take a swig of water. “It’s hard, babe,” I confess. “I just wish it could be you and me, you know? With no distractions?” I glance out of the window, taking in the memorable view of Manhattan and I see that the line is finally dwindling. “Most women have to contend with an annoying mother-in-law at worst. This has got to be some kind of record!” I laugh but it sounds forced and Adam looks physically pained.

“Paige,” he begins and I stop him immediately.
“No, Adam.” I put up a hand to stop him right there. “I want this. I want you. I'm not going anywhere. We'll get through this no matter how hard it is.” He looks about to argue and I shake my head, taking his hand across the table and squeezing it reassuringly. “We'll get through this,” I insist and he smiles sadly, squeezing back.

Later we walk across the street to the Brooklyn ice cream parlour. 

“Now, to completely change the subject,” I tease and he eyes me warily, “I have an idea for this weekend.” I laugh at his look of trepidation – Adam is far less adventurous than I am.  “It’ll be fun, I promise!”

We do not make it to the weekend without the reappearance of Kyle. Oddly enough I am relieved that it is him, despite my earlier reservations, he is surprisingly easier to deal with than the others. I am getting dressed for dinner on Wednesday evening when Kyle walks into the bedroom, a Machiavellian grin on his handsome face. I whip my gold strapless dress over my head and it slithers down my body.

“What are you doing here?” I snap, slipping my feet into a pair of gold sandals and sitting down on the edge of the bed to buckle them up. Kyle’s lascivious gaze roams my body freely but I simply ignore him, pulling my hair over my left shoulder so that it cascades down, reaching almost to my navel.

“Going out, I assume?” He raises his eyebrows, gesturing at the smart black pants and dark blue button-up shirt that Adam had donned for our evening out.

“Adam and I are going to dinner,” I answer primly, standing and placing my hands on my hips.

“Correction.
You and Adam were going out for dinner.” He looks so cocksure of himself that I want to slap him. Again. “Now, it seems that you'll have to settle for me.”

“No way.”

“Well, okay, in that case I’ll just have to go alone,” he sighs dramatically, running his hands through his hair, and I curse inwardly. He has me beat and we both know it. I would never let Kyle out of my sight if I could help it.

“You better behave yourself,” I warn, stalking past him to the front door and he laughs as he follows me, handing me my purse just as we leave the apartment.

Our reservation at Matteo’s was for 7 p.m. and we arrive only a few minutes late. I cast suspicious glances at Kyle as we are shown to our table, but other than a few curious glances at the prettier clientele, Kyle’s behaviour is impeccable. He even pulls out my chair for me which I find disconcerting. He takes his seat opposite me and picks up the wine list, examining it. As the moment stretches on, I can’t help myself, and I ask him sarcastically; “Do you even know anything about wine?”

He lowers the leather-bound menu slowly, his piercing blue eyes thoughtful and then he laughs out loud.

“Absolutely nothing at all,” he admits, passing it over to me and ordering a beer from a passing waiter. I roll my eyes and select a red blend, the cheapest on the menu. Kyle doesn’t bat an eyelid and, to my immense relief, he thanks the waiter for the proffered beer, displaying far more refined courtesy than I would have given him credit for. 

“So,” I
begin, once the waiter has poured my wine and moved on to take another table’s order, “what exactly are we doing here?” Kyle looks genuinely confused.

“We're having dinner, I would think?”

“Ha!” I snort, taking a huge slug of the wine. “Nice try, but this doesn’t exactly strike me as your usual scene?” I let the question hang in the air, but to my immense irritation, he ignores me, surveying the food menu.

“May I take your order?” The young waiter asks a short while later and Kyle grins up at him.

“I’ll have the steak, medium-rare, with baby potatoes and French beans, please,” he looks across at me questioningly. Caught on the hop, I haven’t so much as glanced at the menu, I glance up at the hovering waiter and I smile.

“I’ll have the same thank you,” I smile, handing him back the menu and taking another slug of wine. He refills my glass before he departs.

“This is ridiculous,” I say out loud, although I am speaking more to myself than anything.  Kyle appears to be quite amused by my obvious distress and he sits forward, speaking in hushed tones.

“What exactly is it that’s bothering you so much, Paige?”

“You!” I hiss, “You’re bothering me. You shouldn’t be here, I want Adam back.” I am all too aware how petulant I sound and Kyle chuckles under his breath, reminding me so much of Adam that my tirade dies on my lips.

“Well,” he begins calmly, leaning back in his chair, “seeing as Adam isn't here, why don’t we just try and enjoy a pleasant evening together?”

I frown in consternation but I have little choice in the matter. What else can I do?

“Fine,” I answer finally, feeling traitorous, “but promise me that you won’t go skirt-chasing tonight? Please,” I add, begrudgingly.

He glances around the crowded restaurant seeming to be seriously considering this, and then suddenly he nods briskly.

“Deal,” he agrees, and I am so taken aback that I do not speak again until our food arrives.

The steak is delicious, juicy and tender, with perfect, fluffy baby potatoes and crisp, fresh beans, dripping in butter. During dinner Kyle and I chat amiably about random, neutral topics and I am surprised to find that he is quite intelligent and a good conversationalist when he is not being a pig. I know I shouldn’t, but I finish the bottle of wine during dinner.  I am so on edge being in a public place with this volatile man that I drink more than I should, purely out of nervousness. Kyle hails the waiter to order another bottle and this time he joins me, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips at the first sip.

“That’s nasty,” he manages, shaking his head, but he continues manfully, taking tiny sips. Halfway through the second bottle I am feeling decidedly tipsy but my mood has lightened considerably and I am soon screeching with laughter at Kyle’s lewd jokes.

“I feel like dancing,” I comment idly, examining my wine glass.

“Well, let’s go dancing,” he raises his glass and drains the dregs of wine in one swallow.

Summoning the waiter he calls for the tab.

“We can’t,” I hiccup, trying to pull my bag out from underneath the table and knocking my head painfully on its edge. “Ouch!” I rub my head. Kyle ignores my pain, eyes narrowing in irritation.

“Stop being so boring, Paige,” he shakes his head, “I want to go dancing.” There is a finality to his tone that makes me wary but my brain is foggy with all the wine that I’ve shipped and I can’t come up with any argument other than, “No, I don’t need you going off with some blonde and leaving me stranded.”

Kyle throws back his head and laughs. He deliberates for a minute and then seems to come to a decision.

“Okay,” he begins, “if I promise not to go off with any women will you come dancing with me?” 

“But...” I begin, and he interrupts me immediately.

“Come on Paige, live a little!”

As we teeter down Main
street toward La Vida, a local club, I try and convince myself that this is not a mistake but I know that my pride has got the better of me. This is a bad idea; a very bad idea. As we enter the dark, neon-lit club Kyle gives a slim, gorgeous Asian girl a quick once-over, followed by the ghost of a wink. Seeing her smiling back I narrow my eyes at him and he immediately holds his hands up in mock-surrender before heading toward the bar.  I follow him through the crowd trying to keep up. He doesn’t wait for me or check to see whether I am still behind him, but he does order us a both a drink when we reach the counter. The chivalrous moment only lasts a minute as I hand over my credit card to pay for the round. I also paid for our dinner. Kyle cannot use Adam’s cards; his signature would not match. 

Drinks in hand we stand at the bar for a while, my head spinning slightly. 

“Let’s dance.” I grab Kyle’s hand and pull him onto the dance floor ignoring his look of shock.

If there is one thing I am good at, it’s dancing. I love it; moving my body to the beat and losing myself in the music. I am soon swaying and turning, my body writhing like an eel, sashaying between othe
r dancers my eyes half-closed. Kyle, surprisingly, has very good rhythm and we move in unison, feet flying, twirling around until I am dizzy. He is on his best behaviour and other than a few admiring glances at the gorgeous women in the room he behaves himself. We drink a lot more and I laugh at his crude, derogatory jokes which, astonishingly, I am drunk enough not to be offended by.