This stranger has made me feel for him. And I hate that most of all.
I break the spell by pretending to be engrossed in unread text messages and emails on my cellphone, avoiding eye contact with him for the rest of the trip. When we arrive at Oasis over an hour later, my whole body aches with tension and stiffness. Of course, I don’t even have a chance to get out and stretch before I spy Justice on the front steps, his maddeningly handsome face screwed in discontent.
Most women would be overjoyed to be in the presence of such male beauty. Tucker, Ransom, and Justice are all ridiculously gorgeous in very distinct, yet very obvious ways. Tucker is what one would consider classically handsome, with his strong jaw, bee stung lips, and ocean blue eyes. Ransom is the complete opposite, his olive complexion and dark, angular features more intriguing and exotic than my All-American husband’s. But Justice . . . Justice is what a woman would deem panty-dropping fine. The man is sex on a stick, covered in rich chocolate and rainbow sprinkles. His eyes are the color of a blue sky that’s been threatened by a storm and his lips are bowed, pouty even. They’d make him appear almost feminine if it weren’t for the fact that the man’s body is an in-depth course in sexual education, and every muscle and plane is a quiz you want to ace with flying colors.
At first glance, you’d think you were staring at a mirage. Then he opens his mouth, and the illusion shatters. It’s like he knows he is that gorgeous, that sexy, and he wants to repel you. Like his intent is to turn off as many people as he can in an attempt to keep them at arm’s length.
I scoped out his tactics within the first few moments of meeting him years ago. Cut from the same cloth, that guy and me. And after the top blew off his personal life last year, exposing his piece of shit “family” and the way they threw him out like garbage, I can understand why he chooses to live his life in exile.
“Took you long enough,” he grumbles, coming down the terra cotta stairs of his massive estate. Exile or not, Justice is loaded. After his spineless father’s bitch of a wife sent Justice and his mom packing, he was left with a little chunk of change. He took the cash, put it toward an idea that would either get him stoned or celebrated and, alas, Justice Drake, sexpert extraordinaire, was born.
“Save the niceties and concern for someone who actually gives a damn,” I fire back, walking past him into the air-conditioned foyer. It’s not that the heat is unbearable, because it is. But mostly the fact that if I stand there between my husband and my—shit, I don’t even know what he is—Justice will see right through me. He’ll see the truth displayed on my body like a scarlet letter, inked with bloodred lies and lust. And I’m just not ready to face him yet. I could give two shits what people think about me as a person, especially my clients. But Justice is different. I actually like him, but even more than that, I respect the hell out of him. It’s kind of hard not to.
I hear the men behind me, exchanging introductions as they make their way into the house. And while my exterior is stoically cool and blasé, my gut rages like the mosh pit at a heavy metal concert. What was I thinking? Bringing Tucker and Ransom to Justice’s den of sin? Exposing them to what really goes on behind the closed door of most marriages? Am I just encouraging this thing between us? Did I subconsciously choose this place because I knew we’d be safe from ridicule, and encouraged to explore our fantasies further?
“Your rooms are this way. The staff will grab your bags,” Justice says, leading us to the grand staircase that leads to the second floor rooms. They were initially used as living quarters for the women enrolled in his program, but they now house couples that have joined Justice’s new relationship-enrichment course. I was instrumental in the changeover after he abandoned his business last fall. Being that exposed and vulnerable nearly crushed him. But losing Ally—watching her walk away from him and back into her husband’s arms—it almost killed him.
After months of trying to pick up the pieces of his war-torn life, and worrying about him until I was physically sick, I enlisted a little help. Like I told him, every businessperson worth their salt has a hacker on their payroll. So I emailed and emailed, to no avail, hoping to get just a breadcrumb of an IP address, anything that would lead us to him. He never answered, of course. It was like he knew what my intent was, and he didn’t want to be found. He was going to disappear, reinvent himself, and eventually die alone. I couldn’t let that happen.
Then, we got a bite.
He wrote Ally.
It wasn’t much of a letter, most of it scratched out and unreadable. But there was a postage stamp. The smug bastard had given us a clue. He was ready to be found. He wanted to come home.
So I contacted a couple friends—one in customs, the other in private investigating—and we tracked him down. And I told Ally, who had damn near stalked me for months, showing up at my office daily and annoying the ever-living shit outta me, to go get her boy. And never, ever let him go. A love like that—one birthed out of pain and courage and friendship—was so rare to find. And those two had it. They just needed a little help in keeping it.
I look back at Tucker as we round the top of the banister and give him a smile. What we have is real. Tucker’s love for me is solid and true, and always has been. No one can take that away from us. Not Ransom, not Justice, not even me. And as much as I don’t deserve him, I can’t bear the thought of losing him. I can’t fathom my life without him in it, keeping me rooted in love whenever I try to float away.
My gaze darts to Ransom, who trails a few steps behind us, his eyes unfocused, his mouth pressed into a straight line. It was easy to be attracted to him, easier than it should have been. He’s the promise of excitement and youth. He’s that rush of exhilaration from standing right on the edge of a cliff, arms outstretched and eyes closed. He’s that punch of adrenaline that rushes my heart so rapidly that I feel high. Weightless, yet covered in sensation that prickles every inch of my skin.
Ransom makes me believe I can fly, but it’s Tucker who keeps me tethered to the earth. Sometimes I can’t tell which is worse.
We stop at a rich mahogany door with the word Reflection engraved in beautiful script on a stainless-steel placard. “What’s this?” I ask.
“Ally wanted to do something with the rooms . . . create specific themes for them. This is the Reflection room. We’re pretty booked right now, so you lucked out.”
He fishes a key tied with a ribbon bow out of his pocket and unlocks the door. And as we step inside, I know exactly how this particular room earned its name.
The space is bathed in muted colors—gray, taupe, nude. Colors that would calm the minds and invoke peace, and allow the couple a chance to contemplate on their relationship. However, it’s completely decked out in mirrors from top to bottom, the main ones seemingly focused around the bed. So while a couple may reflect on their love for each other by day, their naked, twisted bodies will be reflected by night.
It’s as if Justice is trying to tell me something. And for someone who has never relied on subtlety to get his point across, I’m kinda pissed that he took this opportunity to try it out.
I turn around to tell him so, when I realize that I’m not the only one musing over the bedroom’s double entendre. Actually, the message seems to be very clear, and the way Ransom is eyeing the mirror situation directly over the bed, he’s just as uncomfortable with what this represents. And what this means for him.
“Your room is down the hall,” Justice says to the younger man. He waves Ransom toward the hall and I’m tempted to follow when Justice stops at the doorframe, training that cold, icy stare at me. I can almost feel the temperature in the room plummet. “My place in ten.”