Alice Clayton - The Redhead Plays Her Hand

I’d let it all out tonight, my frustrations and my fear, and now I was exhausted. Turning out the lights, I headed back to the bedroom, my gaze automatically going to his side of the bed. I washed my face, brushed my teeth, and crawled under the covers. I tossed and turned for a few moments, finally slipping across to his side, to his pillow. The sheets had been washed numerous times since he’d left, but if I closed my eyes and breathed deeply enough, I swore I could still get a hit of my Brit.

Tucked in and cried out, I sunk into sleep. I was not at all prepared for the call that would come in at 2:37 a.m.

“Grace?”

“Hmm . . .” I mumbled, running my hands through my hair, trying to wake up. Holly was on the phone. At 2:37 in the morning. Why the hell was Holly calling me at 2:37 in the morning? I sat up in bed.

“Why the hell are you calling me at 2:37 in the morning? What’s wrong?”

“Grace, take it easy.”

“Why would you tell me to take it easy? What’s going on?” Panic gripped me as I got out of bed and began to pace.

“Shit. I didn’t even know if I should call you or not. To be honest, I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Holly! Tell me what you know or—”

“Jack got himself into a fight at some club. He’s pretty messed up.”

I covered my face with my hand. Oh no.

“It’s a mess, Grace. Cops are there, photographers are there, there are already people who were in the club posting pictures of it. It looks like fucking chaos. That’s about all I know. One of the guys he was with called me when they took him in.”

“Wait, took him in? Took him in where?”

“I think your boy got himself arrested.” She sighed. “I honestly don’t even know what to do at this point.”

I closed my eyes tightly and breathed deep.

“I do.” I reached for my pants. “I’m going to Vegas.”

I stopped for gas just outside of Las Vegas. I put the nozzle into the tank and leaned back against my car, looking at the dawn beginning to creep over the desert.

I had flown out of the house approximately seven minutes after hanging up the phone with Holly. I threw some clothes in a bag, grabbed my purse, and got in the car. Got back out of the car, went back inside for my shoes, and was on the highway in moments.

I didn’t have a clue what I would find when I got there, or what kind of reception I would get, but I was barreling down on the city of sin with determination. Something Jack had said to me when he came to see me in New York kept zinging around in my head: “I’m in this thing with you, a willing participant, and you can’t decide for both of us.”

Smart guy. He was totally right, though, and I had shut him out and shut him down last year when I went through my own meltdown. Granted, I hadn’t been in a bar fight, but I had been just as out of my mind as he seemed to be. I scrolled through my phone, checking the newsfeeds on all the gossip sites. Ugh, it was everywhere.

As breakfast came to the East Coast, people tuning in to their morning talk shows were getting their first taste of the events of the night before and how their Super Sexy Scientist Guy was a barroom brawler. Holly managed it as best she could, but she said only that there would be a statement later in the day. While I drove across the desert, she blew up the phones at the LVPD, finding out anything she could.

She called to tell me Jack hadn’t been charged. Yet. He was at the local hospital, being treated for injuries she’d been able to confirm were “non–life-threatening,” but that was it. I had no idea what shape he’d be in when I got there.

My phone beeped. I had a new text from Holly.

Talked to communications director at the hospital. You’re good to go. She said drive around and go thru the ambulance bay. No press back there. Call me later, fruitcake. Xo

I finished filling up the tank and got back on the road.

* * *

My navigation system took me straight to the hospital, and as I drove to the back entrance, I could see a gaggle of photographers outside the main doors. Keeping that in mind, I parked as close as I could to where the ambulances were housed, then used them for cover as I made my way to the back door. The fact that I was using anything for cover, rather than just entering the hospital the regular way, brought home to me one more time how far outside the regular way things were.

I was recognized by a hospital security guard immediately, and he ushered me to the elevator. “Your boy’s up on the fifth floor. Just tell them at the desk who you are,” he said, nodding as the door opened.

“Okay, thanks. Thanks so much.” I stepped into the elevator and smiled at him, my tummy suddenly very nervous at the thought that Jack was only five floors away from me.

“Oh, and Ms. Sheridan?” he said just as I pressed the button.

“Yes?”

“I’m a— I’m a big fan,” he stuttered, his neck and ears going the color of a kidney bean.

The door closed, and I was left with an embarrassed smile of my own. Surreal.

Before I could blink, the door opened again and I was faced with a desk full of nurses who looked at me suspiciously. I imagine once word got out who was on the fifth floor, there were lots of people who seemed to have business up there.

I walked to the desk and gave someone my name. By now my throat was dry, but my palms were not. I just wanted to see him, to make sure he was okay.

I walked to the end of the hall, turned the knob, and went into his room.

Lying on the bed, his face turned toward the window, was Jack. His arm in a sling, looking bruised and pale, his left eye a starburst of gray and purple, it was Jack. I gasped as I saw him—I couldn’t help it. He looked so beautiful and so terrible at the same time, and my eyes filled with tears.

Hearing my noise, he turned to the door with an impatient groan, but his eyes widened as he took me in. The smile that threatened to break over his face was luminous, and my heart caught in my throat. But then shame crept in, and he looked down at the bed.

“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly, wincing.

I closed the door behind me and walked toward the bed. I stood next to him until he looked up at me. I smoothed his hair back from his face, the entire world stopping as I touched his skin.

“Where else would I be, you stupid jerk?” I grinned down at him, scratching at his scalp lightly.

Relief broke across his face, crowding out the shame. He closed his eyes, a small smile at the edge of his mouth, and leaned in to my hand.

“Grace, I’m so—”

“Shhh . . . not now. Let’s just get you fixed up and get you out of here. There’ll be time for that.” I sat down on the edge of the bed. With my fingers, I traced the face I knew so well, running a path from his forehead to his cheekbones, along his strong jaw, now colored with bruises, to his mouth, which was split in two places. When I looked back up, his eyes were on mine.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he murmured.

* * *

The doctor who had treated Jack came in a little while later to let us know he was being released. He had no injuries other than a badly sprained shoulder, a black eye, a few stitches in his forehead, and a split lip. With prescriptions for pain medication and instructions on aftercare for the stitches and shoulder in hand, we began filling out paperwork for his release. The doctor wanted Jack to remain until after lunch, which would also give us time to make some plans.

The lawyer Holly had hired arrived, and while he took Jack’s statement, I stepped out to call her. She answered on the first ring.

“How bad is he?”

“Not too bad. Sprained shoulder, black eye—he looks worse than he really is.”

“He got lucky. Doesn’t sound like the police are going to press charges. But you can bet there’ll be a lawsuit.”

“I was afraid of that. They’re letting him out after lunch. How’s the press?” I looked through the window into his room.

“Stories are all over the place. His fans love him, though. They just want to know he’s okay. He needs to release a statement.”

“No, he doesn’t. You put out a statement for him. He’s fine, he’s resting. Just a few scrapes, but he’s okay. That’s it.”

“Sure, sure. I can work with that. You’ll be so pleased to know that I’ve heard through the grapevine—the grapevine being his sleazy publicist—that Adam is in the same hospital.”

“Great! There’ll be a doctor close by when I slap that face right off his head,” I snapped. “Not kidding, Holly. I better not see that guy.”

“Easy, trigger. He’s too busy tweeting to worry about you. This kind of press is great for him. Furthers his bad-boy image, you know?”

I seethed.

“Anyway, I’ve got Bryan flying out there now. He should be there soon. He can get you guys out, but where are you going to go?”

I peeked back into his room. He looked exhausted.

“We’ll go back to his hotel. He needs to get some sleep. That’ll give the lawyer time to figure out everything and determine whether Jack can leave town. This is quite a mess.” I sighed, leaning against the wall and yawning. The night and the drive were taking their toll.

“Yep, but we’ll figure it out. I talked to the hospital administrator, and they’re gonna play ball. They’ve had VIPs there before, so they know how to handle this kind of thing. I’ll handle the press on this end.”

“You got it. And, hey, Holly?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for calling me last night.”

“Of course. Besides, you would’ve killed me if I let you wake up to this, right?”

“Dead. Would have killed you dead.” I laughed.

We said our good-byes just as I saw Bryan coming down the hall. He and I went into Jack’s room and began to plan exactly how to get him out of there with the least amount of fuss and muss.

In the end, it was Adam who created a perfect diversion. That asshole held a press conference right in front of the hospital while we slipped out the back in a laundry truck. Honestly, sometimes it was like being in a movie . . .

* * *

“Wow,” I breathed, setting down my bag. Spread out in front of me was a bird’s-eye view of Las Vegas as seen through the impossibly tall, floor-to-ceiling windows of the Brit’s suite. This place was mac daddy and tricked out: dining room, living room, two bedrooms—sweet mother-of-pearl, it was a palace! “Wow,” I said again, earning a sheepish smile from Jack as he moved past me and farther inside.

He had said not a word since we left the hospital, other than a slipped curse when he bumped his shoulder while moving from the laundry truck into Bryan’s Suburban. Now he moved around the giant suite, first sitting on the couch, then moving to the dining room table, standing by the balcony but not going out. He fretted and fidgeted, not able to stand still but clearly dead on his feet. Nervous. He was nervous. His eyes met mine, then glanced away, then came right back just as fast, full of questions.

Not ready for that, I said briskly, “Okay, let’s get you comfortable and into bed. You need to get some sleep.” I crossed to him, tugging on his good arm. “Come on, baller, which giant bedroom is yours?”

He rolled his eyes but began to move toward one of the rooms. Once inside, he let me help him out of his jacket, which was a little difficult with the sling on his arm. Pulling down the covers, I patted the pillow.

He finally broke the silence. “You think a nap is gonna make this better?”

“I think it’s a start, yes. And then we’ll see.”

“We?” he asked.

“Yeah.” I nodded. “We. Now get in bed.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, but he wisely got in. As I smoothed the covers down I caught a glimpse of tomcat on his face. “Would be nicer if you got in with me . . .”

“Sleep, Jack,” I warned as he snorted, settling back.

I went into the bathroom to splash some water on my face, and by the time I was finished, he was sound asleep. I went back out to the living room, tucked my legs underneath me on the couch, and began to decide what to do next.

In a town built on playing the odds, I hoped like hell I hadn’t bet everything on a long shot . . .

Seriously? Gambling metaphors?

Quiet.

Jack slept all day, through the night, and well into the following afternoon. Calls came in almost constantly—everyone wanted updates, everyone wanted to know what was going on. With the exception of the lawyer, who gave us the all clear to go back to L.A. when Jack was ready, I stopped answering the phone, needing the quiet.