Whisper (The Voice trilogy Book 1) (32 page)

“Seriously, Sophie, I want to see you again.”

“I don’t see how that is possible without me ‘
getting the wrong idea’
.” He reaches up and grabs my wrists. 

“You are feisty this morning. But I am in no mood to play, so let’s cut the shit.” His eyes burn through me and I feel like an errant child. “We are way past the point of no return here, Sophie. The wrong idea has come and gone. This is new territory. I flew across the country for you. I have been with girls that I wouldn’t travel uptown for.”

“You really know how to sweet talk a girl, Mr. Slate.” I finish tying his tie, straighten it and stand back for him to see his reflection. But it is me who is suddenly struck by what I see reflected back. Rhys stands elegantly wrapped in his three piece suit, looking every bit the dashing, debonair playboy that he is. And next to him stands me cloaked in an old T-shirt, looking sorely out of place. I find it all a little hard to reconcile, even as he stands before me and declares that he must see me again. I feel like I am missing the punch line. Like it is all going over my head while I stand blissfully unaware of some inevitable truth that will reveal itself only to rip my heart from my chest and stomp it into the pavement. Thankfully, Rhys pulls me from my ever sinking pit of imagined despair with his strong hands. Pulling me to his lap, he wraps his arms around me and tips my chin so that I can look nowhere but into his deep green eyes.

“You have done something to me. I was not prepared for you. I thought I could walk away, but I cannot. And last night just showed me that you need someone. You need me.” I shake my head and try to tame my tongue before I lash out, tired of being told of what I need.
“Stop.” With a finger to my lips, he halts my train of thought. “I have never wanted to be needed. I don’t like it anymore that you do, but there you go.” His fingers trace the curve of my back and come to rest on my hip. His fingers flex into my flesh, urgency flowing from his fingertips. 

“I don’t know what you expect from me, Rhys. I care about you, more than I ever expected. But we live two different lives. I live here, you live there. What are we supposed to do?”

“We are supposed to try and make this work, Sophie. Do you want to see me again?”              

“Yes,” I reply without a second thought.

“Well then, we will make this work. I just cannot imagine not seeing you. In such a short time you have become something of a necessity to me. I just want to be near you, to talk to you, to hold you. We will make this work. I promise.” And I believe him.

“I don’t want you going back to your apartment. Do you have somewhere else you can stay?”

“I will figure it out. Don’t worry about it, Rhys.”

“I will worry about it, Sophie. Your ex broke into your home last night and tried to assault you. You cannot go back there. Promise me.” He is adamant, holding my hands tightly in his as we weave through early morning traffic.

“I promise.” His eyes light up and he crushes his lips to mine, igniting another fire that I know will smolder all day. We say a painful goodbye in the back of his Town Car before he has Charlie drop me off at work, and they head to the airport.

                                              ***

“Sophie, I found a picture of your Mr. Slate.” Rounding the faux corner, Mary purrs his name as if to mock me, still unaware that I spent the night in his arms and the morning under his spell. I will fill her in at lunch. “I want you to use this picture in a little blurb about Miami. Society, charity, rich playboys…. You get my drift.” Teasing me she drops a photo onto what passes for my desk.

It’s more my corner of a long table that I share with a copy editor and the only other staff writer. The operation is small, and doesn’t try to fool anyone. The paper inhabits the third floor of the old Elks Lodge, basically a large banquet room with four long tables surrounded by a weaving temporary wall. An ancient industrial size copier sits by the window along with our other rudimentary office supplies.  Mary’s desk sits at the head of the room, surrounded by a virtual forest of indoor plants and flanked by two temporary walls that are littered with her kid’s coloring pages and random story ideas jotted hastily on colored sticky notes.  My desk is less conspicuous. No plants, I tend to kill anything green, and no personal photos, just random stacks of paper that mean nothing to anyone but me. Every once in a while, Mary will bring a framed pic and sneak it onto my desk, but I just slip them into a chest of rolling drawers I have stashed under my desk. 

“There.” I look down on a picture of a red carpet. It looks like any other paparazzi photo that I have seen. A picture of Rhys on the red carpet should not be any different from any other. It shouldn’t be a shock to see him there, he was in the public eye, a public figure. What did I care about yet another red carpet photo? Until the whole of the picture jumped off the page and punched me in the gut. 

A perfectly posed red carpet picture of Rhys and Nadja, he is dressed in a simple Armani tux, minus the bow tie. It could be a fashion spread in Vogue. He shines like perfection under the scrutinizing lights of the photographers. A double gardenia blossom, pinned to his lapel.
A double gardenia. His collar is open, casual. And next to him stands Nadja. In all her exotic, statuesque glory, she shines in a nude, strapless, body-hugging gown, with a sparkling, delicate diamond belt accentuating her tiny waist. The dress looks as if it were poured over her slight frame, fine ruffles of feather light chiffon float down from her hips. His arm is wound around her narrow waist, his hand resting possessively on her hip. A lump rises in my throat, but I push it back, wishing, hoping the photo is from before we met. Wishing away what I can clearly see and am unable to deny. The date on the picture is May 12. Thursday, the day after I left Miami, I feel sick, but ever the masochist, and morbidly curious, I look down to the write-up that accompanies the picture.

I am sick. Suddenly everything aches and I am totally alert. Every sense assaulted by the photo and its contents. My stomach lurches into my throat. What was I thinking? I have been walking around in a state of dream, locked away in my own lie. I feel so stupid! I let myself get swept away by him. By his hands, his mouth, his words. I was a pawn. And there he stands, with his arm around her. White noise fills my ears and I swear I can hear my heart, slowly fracturing into a million tiny shards. Barely holding it together, I wrap my arms around myself, knowing that the slightest breeze could blow me to pieces, a pile of glittering dust on the cheap carpeted floor. I am broken and I must hide it. How did I get back here so quickly?

The night was surely considered a rousing success in the wake of raising well over 4 million dollars for charity. Helping Children is an organization that fights childhood disease and hunger. Operating in 32 countries they work to provide clean water, food and healthcare to vulnerable populations. The guest list was a veritable Who’s Who of the entertainment and sports industries. Guests dined on Haute Mediterranean Cuisine, prepared by Celebrity Chef Tony Santorino. A silent auction followed. The lots up for auction were diverse, ranging from a set of box seats to a Miami Heat game, to a Private Island Getaway. Surely the success of the evening is due in no small part to the Charming Mr. Rhys Slate and his very lucky companion, model Nadja Vladova. These two society fixtures Co-Chair the foundation they founded together in 2001. They are both very active in several other charities and foundations, but this annual gala has garnered accolades for both that are not soon subsiding. Partners in charity, one has to wonder if they have reunited in love as well. It seems this on again, off again couple is very much on. There has been no confirmation from either’s publicist, but pictures abound of the couple sharing a private laugh, dancing and enjoying the evening’s festivities together. Could there be possible wedding bells in the future for this powerhouse couple? Surely a wedding between Mr. Slate and Ms. Vladova would be the social event of the year
. 

Worry not. Sophie will speak her mind soon enough. Their story is not yet over. Look for more with Sophie and Rhys fall 2014.

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*Check out these two authors who helped me to find my voice with their down and dirty prose. The brutal beauty of their characters and language and raw animal sexuality blew my mind and caught my panties on fire.

Jaden Wilkes   The Beast

Harlem
Dae     The Novice