They reached the hotel, an old stone building straddling the line that separated classy
and corny. Tartan and painted clan crests decorated the lobby, and with its large
hearth and heavy wooden furnishings, the place was
just
flirting with parody. But there was something comforting about the decor, something
styled and presented, contained by its own costume. Rob needed that sensation—containment.
A psychic length of rope binding his hands and arms, keeping him docile before he
was led to a room most likely outfitted with a minibar.
Merry marched them to the front desk, and they were informed there was indeed a single
room available, with a view of the river. She handed over a credit card and it was
returned, along with two more plastic cards—their keys.
They took the elevator to the fifth and top floor, then went down a hall that smelled
of citrus polish to their appointed room. Merry swiped them in.
It was a nice enough space, and more modern than the lobby had suggested. Carpeted
and clean, with tall windows staring out over the downtown’s urban hive to the River
Ness. It looked nothing like any place they’d yet shared, but Rob didn’t let the nerves
take hold.
She’s played tourist in my reality for long enough. Time to join the modern world
for a night and visit hers.
“I like it.” Merry let her pack tumble from her back and onto the broad bed. She stretched,
looking around, wandering to the windows to inspect the view. “Perfect, don’t you
think?”
“A proper, big bed certainly looks seductive.” Though Rob was far more interested
in the bathroom. He dropped his bag with a grateful groan, then headed for the open
door. Flipping on the light and fan, he was blinded by the perfect whiteness of the
tub and sink, the towels, the tile, the bulbs. “Goodness.”
Merry joined him at the threshold. “Oh man . . . A bathtub’s never looked so amazing,
has it? Too bad it’s not big enough for the both of us.”
“You go first.”
“If you insist.”
Back in the room, she opened her pack and pulled out clothes, including Rob’s old
Rush Carpentry tee, with his father’s logo on the chest. Easily fifteen years old,
that thing. She’d borrowed it to sleep in the night before. As she unfolded it now,
she shot him a funny look and smiled.
“Yes?”
“I don’t suppose I could keep this . . . ?”
“That manky old relic?” Rob had to think a moment. It was one of a very few physical
reminders he had of his father—just that shirt, his rifle, and the rocker, plus some
photographs and albums and letters, packed carefully in a water-tight bin in his shed.
But there were other scraps he held far more dear—ones that visited him each and every
time he lifted a bow or a rifle, skills and memories held in the heart and muscles,
not the hands.
“Sure,” he said. “You can have it.”
Her grin was broad and she folded it tenderly, as though it weren’t the homely color
of curry and peppered with holes. As though it were a coveted gown. “Thank you. I’ll
wear it to bed every night and think of you.”
He blushed at that, and didn’t even try to hide it.
Merry pulled the gauzy curtain across the windows and stripped out of her hiking gear.
She only looked a touch shy as she passed by Rob, arms crossed demurely over her chest.
He smiled until the door shut. Then his gaze went where any alcoholic’s would the
second they found themselves alone in a hotel room. That hateful little fridge, nestled
on the shelf beneath the television.
Don’t open it. You don’t even want to know.
He’d face that long-avoided demon at dinner. Merry would be puzzled when he didn’t
order a drink to toast her trip, and he’d tell her why, in the simplest terms.
It doesn’t agree with me.
Or,
The taste makes me sick.
Just about the truth, and hopefully that would be that. That was the only relationship
he needed to have with alcohol tonight. Simple, unequivocal dismissal.
Still, his eyes snapped to the fridge. Like a cobra plunked dead center on the spotless
carpet. Impossible to ignore. But possible to resist for, what? Twelve hours? He’d
be too busy making the most of Merry, surely.
He crossed to the tall window and drew back the curtain to reveal the river and the
buildings beyond.
The sun was setting. And soon the full moon would be rising.
Fucking hell, he might as well call himself a vampire or a werewolf or some nonsense,
but that was exactly how it felt—the sun would set, the moon would appear. Worst of
all, the streetlights would come on as the sky went black, and that was a sight Rob
hadn’t glimpsed in years. Those lights . . . crisp tonight, not blurry or doubled.
A long-forgotten sight, and a trigger he’d not had to confront in ages.
The moon rises and the monster comes out.
He’d heard his wife say that once, to his brother. She’d been on the phone, talking
in hushed, defeated tones. Christ, he’d forgotten about that until just now. He’d
been drunk as ever, but he remembered her final words, the ones that’d had him slamming
his office door and reaching for the bottle, eager to drown the truth before it could
set down roots . . .
Get me out of this, Tom. I need you. I can’t do it on my own.
A white knight, rescuing the damsel, if not slaying the monster. Had that been Rob,
truly? The monster? It had felt so like a possession. A nightly body-snatching. A
years-long bad dream.
Black sky. City lights.
Those things meant alcohol. Those things meant he’d survived another day going through
the motions of a business owner, an employer, a provider, a functional person. He’d
probably not seen city lights against a black sky through sober eyes in five years
or more. Not even through the window of the hospital room, the night his father had
died.
The bathroom door opened, the hum of the fan and the smells of soap and steam escaping.
“You’re up,” Merry said brightly, exiting with a perfect white towel knotted at her
chest, twisting another around her hair. Her cheeks were flushed red from the heat
or a violent scrub, making her look hearty and healthy and vital. Maybe a bath would
do the same for Rob—wash away the temptation and the worry and the memories.
He stripped and filled the tub, shocked anew by the whiteness of the tiles, the heat
of the water, the contours and cleanliness. As he sank into the hot bath, a moan escaped
him, like a freed spirit bound for heaven.
“Fuck me, that’s good.”
Merry laughed from the next room, entering a minute later to dry her hair. Rob watched,
thinking she was the most delightful creature ever put on this earth.
“I’m going to run out real quick,” she said.
“Where?”
“I don’t know when the stores close, and I’m not risking my chance to grab condoms.”
She bobbed her eyebrows at him conspiringly.
“I shan’t stop you.”
She moved to crouch by the tub, a lock of her freshly dried hair dipping into the
water as she kissed his forehead. “Back in a bit.”
“Not soon enough,” he countered. “Do me a favor, and switch off the light, please.”
She did, closing him in the dim, calming space, surrounded by liquid heat and the
soothing hush of the tap.
He heard her return perhaps twenty minutes later, just as his bath was growing tepid.
It had done its job, anyway—melted him like a spring thaw. The nerves would return
when they ventured out in search of dinner, but for now, he felt incredible. Immune
to it all, even the little bottles surely hidden away in that fridge.
“Success?” he called, standing from the bath.
“Oh yes. As long as six is enough, I’ve got us covered. As it were.”
He laughed, drying himself with the softest towel he’d felt in years. He exited into
the cool, dry room, finding Merry idly organizing her pack, eyeballing some printout—a
train or flight itinerary, he bet. Some contraption or other, hell-bent on taking
her far, far away from him.
Stay forever,
he wanted to say.
Be in love with me—by some miracle capable of making me believe in God—and stay.
But she merely sorted her things as Rob dressed in clean clothes, and said, “There’s
another Indian place, right across the street.”
“Perfect.”
“Hygiene and food,” she mused, “and then nothing but the fun human needs left to take
care of.”
He felt his face heat, from his neck to his cheeks to his damp temples. Had she packed
any rope? Of course she had. That was exactly the delicious flavor of evil she was.
“I’ll just shave and I’m ready.”
“No, don’t shave!”
He laughed. “I’ll tidy this mess up, at least.” He smoothed his palms over his beard.
“Who knows when I’ll next have access to a bathroom mirror.”
“Fine. Just don’t go crazy.”
He found his razor and returned to the bathroom to force some kind of order.
“I got us something else, when I was out,” Merry said amid the sound of crinkling
paper.
“What’s that?”
“You’ll see.” The wicked note to her voice had Rob picturing coarse twine and duct
tape and carabiners, had blood flowing south with hard, eager thumps.
He patted his cheeks and neck with lotion from the complimentary packet and shut off
the bathroom light. “Now, dinner.”
Merry came close to wrap him in a tight hug. He returned it, clutching that smooth
hair, memorizing its texture, breathing in that heady, tropical smell of her perfume.
“What’s this for?” he murmured.
“For being here. For finishing this journey with me.” The words warmed his neck and
melted his heart.
“It was an honor. Thank you for inviting me.”
She pulled back, smiling, and he kissed her. Tender to start, light and playful, until
lust crowded fondness aside, darkening the contact.
Very dark.
As his tongue slipped past her lips, arousal like an electric shock zapped him. At
first he reeled, startled a mere kiss could affect him so, or perhaps it was the time
apart,
missing
her, for even this briefest of separations.
But a second later, he registered the true heat of what he was feeling.
The sharp, hot kiss of a long-spurned lover—spirits. Whiskey. He pulled away, clasping
her arms, eyes darting all over her face. His body went stiff as a corpse.
“Have you been drinking?”
She smiled and nodded over her shoulder, to a bottle and tumbler set on the bedside
table. “I should have waited for you, but I couldn’t help it. I promised myself when
I finished this ridiculous trip, I’d blow some of the vacation money I saved on soft
beds and hot meals on the most expensive Scotch I could afford. Let me pour you a
gla—”
“No.” His heart was thudding, grip tightening, his voice high and fearful and seeming
to come from somewhere deeper than his throat. From some terrified well, a hollow
dug inside his belly. The bottle glinted amber in the low light, ten times as mesmerizing
as any length of rope.
Merry’s smile faltered. “I’m guessing you don’t drink.”
He shook his head, panic rising, blotting out sense. He let her go, stepping back
a pace, then another, fighting two urges—to rush to the bottle and tip it to his lips,
and to rush to the door and run the way a man would to escape a charging bull.
Irrational thoughts grasped at him like pawing hands.
She’s tainted,
one whispered. This woman he’d come to view so fondly as temptress—and how right
he’d been. There was vice in those hands and eyes and now burning on her lips.
Stop it. You’re being mental.
“N-no,” he managed. “I don’t drink.”
“Sorry. I can tell it’s . . . upsetting you.” There were questions in those dark eyes,
and they deserved answers. But Rob couldn’t seem to force the truth from his throat.
She nibbled her lip. “I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I? Should I brush my teeth?
Would that help?”
Without waiting for his answer, she disappeared into the bathroom. He wanted to run
away, but he was frozen, body locked in a tug-of-war between the craving and fear
of it.
He heard the water run, heard her brushing.
Under those bright lights, before that smooth, perfect porcelain.
Everything so clean, as clean and white and Rob’s insides felt dirty and black and
toxic, like steaming tar. He wanted to run.
He wanted to run away so, so badly.
Wanted to run nearly as much as he wanted to empty that bottle.
Chapter Sixteen
He didn’t run.
He didn’t take a sip or gulp or empty the bottle down his throat. His feet were rooted
to the carpet, unseeing gaze locked on the door. He was frozen like a deer on a motorway,
aching to flee but paralyzed by some perverse instinct.
Merry emerged from the bathroom with a tumbler of water and took a seat on the end
of the bed. She patted the spot beside her, and Rob obeyed. They sat cross-legged,
facing each other, but Rob only dared stare at the bedspread.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
“Are you recovering?”
The shame burned, but he was almost relieved to have been found out. Almost.
“Not really.” Abstaining, perhaps. He hadn’t done a thing to address his addiction,
aside from move too far away to have to confront it. “I’ve never really recovered.”
“I haven’t seen you drink.”
“And I haven’t, not in two years.” Fuck, he was shaking, fingers drumming at his shin.
He was shaking with anxiety, the way he used to shake in the mornings, body threatening
to shut down if he didn’t give it what it demanded.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked. “I never would have gone out and bought something
if I’d known.”
“I was going to. At the restaurant. When it came up, just naturally.”
“You could’ve told me whenever, and it would’ve been fine. After everything else we’ve
shared with each other . . .”
“This is different. To me.”
This was the ugliest thing about him. Not because it turned him into a terrible person.
It was simply a key, one that unlocked that cage inside his brain or body or soul
and let that other man out. That man
was
Rob. He was done feeling like a victim to his addiction, pretending it was the gin
that made him how he was. All the gin did was wash away the thin film of civility
he managed to paper himself in. That horrible man was him, as much as the outcast
child or the self-sufficient loner. More so. That man was Rob without inhibitions.
The real Rob, unfiltered.
He’d never wanted to run away from a place so badly. Run all the way back to his home
and barricade the doors.
He was
scared
of these feelings, at least. That was something. In his drinking days, he’d ached
for the next moment he could surrender to the urges. With sobriety, at least the cravings
were as repulsive as they were seductive.
She touched his wrist, and he let her—let her feel the way his body was rattling apart
at the joints from fear. “I should never have tried to come here.”
“You never had to,” she said gently. “And I wouldn’t have invited you, if . . . if
I’d known.”
“I should have told you.”
“Probably.” She pried his hands from his shin, holding them in her own. Christ, she
felt so soft and clean. He wanted to push her away.
She squeezed his fingers. “You can tell me now, though.” When he didn’t reply, she
prompted, “So you were an alcoholic? That’s what you meant, about being awful to people,
back in England?”
“I wasn’t just an alcoholic.” Not the way a middle-aged housewife might knock back
half a bottle of wine and fall asleep in front of the evening dramas. Not the way
some infamous uncle got sloppy at family functions and spoke too loudly, recounting
the same stories on an endless, embarrassing loop.
“I love alcohol the way a fire loves petrol,” he said, hands shaking harder. He slid
them from her hold, not wanting her to feel this any more than he could bear being
trapped inside it. He made himself rigid, a robot, so the words wouldn’t hurt so much
as they left his body. He’d never actually admitted this to anyone before. Never when
confronted. Deny, deny, deny.
“There’s no sip or sniff that doesn’t lead to me blacking out, or waking up behind
the wheel of a car, or in a puddle of my own vomit.”
He hazarded a glance, finding Merry’s eyes wide—from the confession or his hard tone,
he couldn’t tell. He forced himself to hold her stare, to be brave enough to at least
look at her as he said these things.
“Rob.” She tried to touch his hand but he jerked it away. He hadn’t meant to, but
he felt so . . .
soiled
.
“Don’t.” It was barely a whisper, and he clutched his arms as though protecting himself.
As though she’d tried to strike him. He felt cold. She scared him so much. Like she
might catch this pain if she touched him. His jaw ached from saying these things,
and he flexed it, took a deep breath, then met her dark eyes again.
“I blacked out every night for three years. I gave myself the beginnings of cirrhosis,
and ulcers. And I drove in that state, God knows how many times. I abused my wife,
verbally. Emotionally. She’d been the happiest, most loving person when we met. And
in five years . . .” If he hadn’t shut his body off to the feelings, he’d be crying.
“I’m not a good person, Merry.”
“Not when you drink, it sounds like.”
“That
is
me. That’s me, in the proper circumstances. In the real world. That’s me, as much
as any man you think you’ve met, this past week. I shouldn’t have come here . . .
I was selfish to think I could. I should’ve let you go, believing I was that other
man.”
“You
are
him.”
“I thought that, too,” he whispered, throat burning. “I let myself believe it. Until
tonight. But I’m not. I can feel it now. I’m not.” He swallowed with a hard, aching,
muscular effort, and shook his head. “I never wanted you to know any of this.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. I’m sor—”
“Don’t. Don’t apologize. How were you to know?”
“I’m still sorry that this has happened. I wouldn’t have asked you to come if I’d
realized how upsetting it would be.”
He let his arms go, clasped his wrists and watched his hands.
“I never wanted to be this man again. I don’t know what made me think I’d solved everything,
hiding myself away . . . except it’s worked. It
had.
But now I’m back in a city for an hour, and I’m back to square one.” He’d not taken
a sip, but
Christ
, he wanted to. He really was flammable. What a fool he’d been to think that he’d
doused himself, simply locking that flame away, far from fumes and oil. As though
that would lessen the result the next time he inevitably encountered his favorite
accelerant.
“You haven’t taken a drink,” Merry said. “You haven’t made that choice.”
It’s not a choice,
a cruel voice nearly snapped. He pursed his lips until they stung, bloodless, not
willing to let those words hit her.
He wasn’t better. Not even close.
He wanted to grab that Scotch from the nightstand and take the deepest, most glorious,
burning gulp. He wanted to walk to that fridge and drain those overpriced little bottles,
one after another after another, blot out this awful moment before it became just
another memory, just another regret.
The exile hadn’t fixed him—not the abstinence or the peace of it. Merry—being with
her, sharing with her—hadn’t fixed him, either. This addiction was no mere act of
self-medication, one that would ease as he came to terms with his sexuality.
He winced to admit these things to himself, this emotional pain so much worse than
any hangover he’d ever suffered. His hands were shaking so badly—fucking delirium
tremens.
“I have to leave.” He let his wrists go, swung his bare feet to the carpet. “I’m sorry.
But I can’t be here. Even if I don’t drink, I don’t want you to see me this way.”
She was up, trying to catch his arm, but he dodged her. “Rob, don’t. Not if you’re
upset, or in danger of—”
“I am in danger. That’s why I have to go.”
“Please, Rob. This isn’t how I want to say good-bye to you.”
“I need to.” Better this way. And now, before the real Rob came out, spitting spiteful
words at this too-lovely creature. Where had he kicked his goddamn boots?
“We can make it safe,” she pleaded. “For the night. No alcohol. We’ll just hole up
in here. We don’t even have to talk anymore about it—just don’t go. It’s dark, anyway.
You couldn’t hike home if you wanted to.”
“It’s a full moon.”
“Rob.” She was exasperated now, concern sharpened by desperation. “Please. Look—”
She went to the mini-fridge. Just watching those little jewel-glinting bottles as
she gathered them had the need roiling in Rob’s belly, real and hot as the most burning
lust. Clutching them to her chest with one arm, Merry grabbed the barely touched glass
and Scotch from the table. She marched to the bathroom, and he followed, tamping down
an urge to stop her. To grab one of those little bottles and feed this fire.
But he merely watched. She emptied the whiskey first, filling the tiny space with
its burning breath, an amber stream lashing the white sink, going, going, gone. She
unscrewed each mini-bottle with a crack and poured its contents down the drain.
Even without a sip, that dark, mean man inside him wanted to slap at her hands, wrestle
them from this sinful waste. But he held fast to his last scrap of rational, civilized
thought, merely watching as she poured fifty quid’s worth of overpriced temptation
down the sink, rinsed everything clean, and dumped the lot in the bin.
She even rummaged through her toiletries bag on the cistern and emptied a travel-sized
mouthwash. Once done, she cinched the bin bag in a knot, hiding the triggering sights,
then strode out of the room, dumping it all unceremoniously in the hall outside their
door.
“Now stay,” she said, meeting him in the bathroom threshold, taking his hands. “Please.
I won’t say good-bye to you like this.”
He didn’t respond, and she rubbed his knuckles with her thumbs.
“We’ll stay inside. We’ll order room service, or get takeout. We’ll just hole up here,
and we’ll go south together. We’ll find you a bus that goes along Loch Ness. I’ll
change my own reservations if I can, and go your way, whatever I need to do. But when
I watch you walk away, I need to know you’ll be okay. That you’ll just be a few hours’
hike from home. Please.”
He considered it. If it were an early coach, he might be dropped in Drumnadrochit
well before the pubs started serving . . . he
could
head straight for home and not look back. It might be okay . . .
“Please, Rob? You can’t leave in the state you are now.”
No, he couldn’t. It’d be a hell of a humbling night, though. Lying there beside this
woman, the one he’d come to care for so much, and the one he’d lied to so grievously
through the magic of denial.
How could you not have told her?
How could he have pretended they’d shared such a real connection, when he’d hidden
half of who he was to her?
“Do you need to talk to someone?” Merry asked quietly. “Like a—”
“No.” No to whomever she might have suggested—a doctor, a rehab person, a psychiatrist.
Clean white cells, but Rob preferred the prison of his own making, as wide and wild
as the Highlands. “I just need to get home.”
He could read the pain on her face, plain as any other feature. He could read her
thoughts, even.
Running away won’t fix what’s broken.
Again, he wanted to snap at her, tell her not to waste her pity or concern on him,
tell her he wasn’t fixable. But he’d let her get so close . . . he couldn’t pretend
she hadn’t earned the right to worry for him.
He huffed a sigh, throat still aching. “I’m sorry I let you think I was that person
you met, out there.”
She sighed, too, frustrated. “You
are
him.”
He let it go. She was too close to that other man now. No amount of insistence would
convince her of what he knew. Of who he was.
“Will you stay?” Merry asked, plea straining her voice.
He nodded. “I’ll stay.”
“Good.” After a long pause, she seemed to switch gears. “We need some food. It’s been
a long day. And a long journey.”
“Okay.”
“I could go across the street and order from the Indian place.”
Another nod.
“What would you like?”
“Anything . . . Lamb would be good.” He tacked on a tardy, “Please.”
“Sure. I’ll get a bunch of things. We can share.” She squeezed his shoulder. “You
just sit tight, okay? Watch some TV, if that’s not too triggering. Or take another
bath. Or a nap. I’ll be as quick as I can.”
She pulled on her jacket and pocketed a key card and her wallet, offering an encouraging
smile as she opened the door. “I’ll be back. We’ll be fine.”
He forced a smile in return, but it died the instant the lock clicked in place. Beyond
the door he heard the crinkling and clinking of Merry gathering the bin bag.
Does she not even trust me around the empties?
No, you idiot. She doesn’t even understand why you don’t trust yourself. She trusts
you far too much.
No, that sound was far worse.
That was the sound of Merry cleaning up after him. Protecting him.
I protected you, once,
he thought, picturing her walking down the carpeted corridor.
You needed me, once. And I was capable of the job.
He’d cleaned her cut, given her shelter and food, a warm place to sleep. He’d been
gentle, if not charming. Why couldn’t he just be that man, solely? Why did he have
to have this thing in him, this unfixable flaw?
You’ve never really tried to fix it.
He’d never gone to treatment, not properly. Never been locked up long enough to detox.
His wife and brother and Rob’s best mate-turned-business-partner had staged interventions—three
of them—but Helen had always caved when drunken, cruel Rob had called her bluff. She’d
never left him as she’d promised, never kicked him out, never held fast to any of
her leverage.
His brother had been as good as his word, though—cut Rob off, perfect silence save
for the day he’d arrived with a van to collect Helen’s things and tell Rob they were
together. His partner had made good as well—shut him out of the businesses, conducted
all their conversations through a lawyer. He’d even done his best to get Rob’s proceeds
tied up so he couldn’t drink it all away, but he’d had no legal way to pull it off.
Neither had Helen. Hadn’t mattered, anyway. Once she left him, he’d stuck around,
going through the wretched motions of his life for a couple of months, trying and
failing to take the coward’s way out on that first trip north, thwarted by the dog.
Came home, found the cottage through an agent, bought it, and gave his lawyer, accountant,
and broker instructions.
Rent the house. Invest the money. Handle my taxes. Have my mail forwarded to your
office, keep it for me, for whatever fee makes it worth your while.