Pleasure Principle: Off The Clock Part 30

She was just another trophy now. Nestled in between McCray and the spot for the next woman who'd warm his bed but not get through the fortress around his heart.

She'd told herself early on she was prepared for this to end. That she'd put protections in place. She'd set a date, for G.o.d's sake.

But turns out, she wasn't prepared at all.

Heartbreak was like a tornado. Even when you saw it coming, you never knew how much it could tear everything apart until it was upon you.

And falling for Donovan West was an EF5.

32.

The bottles behind the bar weren't blurring yet. This was an unacceptable set of circ.u.mstances. Donovan motioned the bartender for another Jack and c.o.ke. The guy poured him another drink and set a bowl of peanuts next to it.

"That's bartender code for pace yourself, doc," Lane said as he slid into the seat next to Donovan. He looked to the bartender. "Can I get a Miller Lite?"

Donovan kicked back his drink. "What's the good of calling a ride if you pace yourself?"

Lane smirked. "Because if you vomit in my new Corvette, I'm going to forget I like you and kick your a.s.s."

"Noted."

"So why are we getting drunk on a random Thursday night?" Lane lifted the beer the bartender had plunked in front him and drank, eyeing Donovan. "And why'd you call me? I thought you were p.i.s.sed at me for taking your girl out."

"Maybe she should've stayed on that date with you. G.o.d knows she would've been better off," Donovan muttered.

Lane frowned and set his bottle down. "Not that I'm going to disagree that I'm a catch. Because let's face it, I totally am."

Donovan snorted.

"But you know I never had a shot with Marin. She was great to hang out with, but she was with you that whole night. Even when she was in my arms dancing, she was with you."

Donovan stared into his drink, the words like acid on open wounds. "It was just a fantasy role-play. She was caught up in it."

"Mmm. That's how you see it, huh?" Lane put his elbows to the bar top, not looking Donovan's way as if sensing Donovan couldn't deal with a face-to-face chat right now.

It was the truth. He couldn't. It'd been hard enough to even call someone. He didn't call people. Not for favors. Not to talk. He wasn't sure what had possessed him to do it this time.

"You know," Lane said, his tone suspiciously conversational. "At the club I belong to, we have ways of identifying which submissives and dominants are spoken for and which are available. Sometimes it's obvious things, like collars or colored wristbands. I'm sure you've seen it. You volunteer at my club, right? That's how you knew about me?"

Donovan shrugged. "I was there one night when you were doing a demo."

"Right. So you know what I'm talking about. The markers."

Donovan stared at the bottles again. Now the edges were getting fuzzy, the colors of the bottles blending. Good. "Yeah, sure."

"Right. So those are the obvious ones. But then there's another type that doesn't have any physical markers, but they're taken nonetheless. In my head, I call them imprinted. They're not collared or in a committed relations.h.i.+p, but they've been marked somehow. Some dominant or some submissive has figured out their unique code and has punched those numbers. No one else is going to get in that door." Lane peered over. "When I saw you and Marin together that night, that was my first thought. They've imprinted. It's why I didn't put up a fight for Marin's attention. There's no competing with that. I wouldn't want to."

Donovan closed his eyes, the wash of grief moving through him complete and crus.h.i.+ng.

"That's something special, doc. Worth protecting. Worth fighting for."

Donovan's fingers dug hard into his gla.s.s. "She imprinted on the wrong guy. I f.u.c.ked it all up."

"Then un-f.u.c.k it," Lane said.

Heh. Like it was that simple. Like he could just say I'm sorry and make it better.

He'd lain in bed last night staring at her photo like he could rewind time. It'd been the only picture he hadn't deleted from that night with the camera. Honest hazel eyes staring up at him with l.u.s.t on her face . . . no, more than that. The first bloom of something real. Marin had looked at him that night like he mattered, like he was more than a lover in her bed, like she'd been searching for something and maybe had found it.

But he'd been the one who'd found it that night. He'd fallen hard and fast. Already gone before he even knew what was happening. He'd known then that he was getting in too deep, that he should back off, that he should be totally honest with her. But he hadn't been able to bring himself to do it. Marin Rush had given him the most insidious disease of all-hope. It'd been planted and had grown and festered until he was so encased in it that he'd almost told her he was falling in love with her there in that office before Dr. Suri and Elle walked in.

He'd almost blurted out something about wanting a relations.h.i.+p. He'd been ready to take the leap. To risk it all. To see where this thing led.

But then everything had gone to h.e.l.l. He'd walked into his house after talking to Suri and had found Marin in front of his medicine cabinet. He'd seen the look on her face when she hadn't known he was watching. The utter fear. The shock. She'd held that bottle of antidepressants and had looked terrified. All the color had drained from her face, and her hands had been shaking. She could deny it until she was out of ways to say it, but he'd seen the truth. And he didn't blame her. No one wanted to fall in love with a broken man. With a time bomb. Especially not someone who had spent her life picking up the pieces after mental illness decimated her family. So instead of admitting how he felt about her, he'd done what he knew how to do. He'd been cruel, tried to make her hate him.

And she'd called him on his bulls.h.i.+t. Hadn't let him use anything as an excuse. You're not a martyr. You're a coward.

She'd been dead-on right.

She'd seen past the hateful words, past the c.o.c.ky smart-a.s.s, past the smarmy doctor, past it all. She'd seen him and had nailed his a.s.s to the spot.

He was a coward. A bully. Pus.h.i.+ng everyone away so that they'd leave before they mattered to him.

But she'd mattered to him from the start.

And pus.h.i.+ng her away had done something to him that he hadn't felt since that morning he'd found his parents.

Sadness. Devastation. Loss.

He'd gone through many rounds of depression in his adult life. He knew what to expect. They'd all felt the same. This numbness edged with anxiety. This free-floating sense of nothing mattering, of his place in this world being insignificant. Of being without purpose. He didn't cry. He didn't feel down. He'd feel nothing.

Walking away from Marin hadn't made him feel nothing. It'd made him feel everything.

And the pain f.u.c.king sucked.

But he could almost hear Marin whispering in his ear, At least it's real.

Maybe the first real thing he'd had in years.

"I can't just undo it." He pressed the heels of his hands to his brow, his head starting to pound. "I keep thinking, what would I tell her if she was a client in my office and she was telling me about this guy-about me?"

"And?" Lane said quietly.

He closed his eyes. "I'd tell her to run. That the guy would end up hurting her, letting her down. That he didn't know how to not destroy good things or be happy. That she deserved better than that."

Lane didn't say anything for a while and then he blew out a long breath. "Come on, doc. That's a lie. You would never make that decision for a client. I've seen you work. You would tell her to get that guy in therapy and make him work through whatever makes him fight so hard to be alone." His voice got quiet. "What makes you fight so hard, Donovan?"

The statement was like a sharp blade in his side.

"You don't have to tell me." The sound of a beer label slowly ripping filled in the background. "But I've known you for two years, and this is the first time we've had a conversation that wasn't about work. You needed a ride tonight, and I'm the closest friend you had to call. It's something to think about."

Donovan couldn't lift his head or look at Lane. Everything felt too heavy, too . . . much. But the words sunk in just the same. Since that day he'd found his parents, watched his safe world burn to the ground, he'd locked himself inside the panic room. The person he'd been had curled into a ball and gone to sleep, hidden away from anything that could hurt too bad. And what was left had been this hollow version of himself, the man who'd gotten on the hamster wheel and gone full tilt, afraid to stop, afraid to feel anything at all.

This is what waking up felt like. Marin had ignored the man on the wheel and had broken the code on the door to get to the real guy. Now he had to figure out how to step outside the room without brandis.h.i.+ng weapons and tearing her apart.

He didn't know how to do that. He could feel machetes and machine guns within his reach. He'd used some of them on her yesterday.

Donovan shoved his drink to the side and managed to look at Lane. "Got any plans tonight?"

Lane lifted a brow. "What'd you have in mind?"

Donovan dropped bills on the bar. "Leaving."

33.

The letter came the next morning. Hand-delivered by Lane and bearing handwriting that was written on her memory like sweet, painful scars. Handwriting she used to run her fingers over when she'd read through his fantasies in college. And all of her bravado and righteous anger from the day before, the stuff that was keeping her upright, shattered at her feet, leaving nothing but the soft, vulnerable stuff behind.

She took the note from Lane, the envelope warm between her suddenly cold fingers. "Why isn't he giving me this himself?"

"Because he's gone."

She closed her eyes, the words ripping through her, making it hurt all over again.

Lane reached out and cupped her shoulder, the touch grounding and kind. "He wanted me to give this to you. And I know this is hard, and I'm here for whatever you need, Marin. But I'm going to walk away now because this note is for you alone. So you're going to read it and then you're going to go to work. And then after the day's done, you're going to meet me for dinner."

She looked up, still stricken at the finality of the word gone and thrown off by Lane's declaration. "Lane, I can't-"

He lowered his hand and leveled her with a look. "You will. Catfish and beer are good balm for s.h.i.+tty days. You said you needed a friend. Well, now you've got one. And I'm a relentless sonofab.i.t.c.h. I'll pick you up at six thirty."

She wanted to protest further, but the look on his face was enough to shut her up. A friend. Yeah, she could use that right now. "Okay."

He nodded and leaned over to kiss her cheek. "See ya, doc."

Marin watched him jog down her steps and then he was gone around the path that headed up to the main building. She almost couldn't make herself open the note. Part of her had been convinced that Donovan would come to his senses, that he'd show up and apologize and they would fix this.

But this letter wasn't going to be that. He was gone. Gone.

She stepped inside, shut the door, and then leaned against it as she pulled the note from the envelope. Her throat was already tightening as she began to read.

Marin, I'm so very sorry. I need you to know that. For what I said. For how I acted. For everything, really. I wish I could've told you these things in person. But I know if I see you again, I'll be too selfish to let you go a second time.

The words blurred in her vision, and she had to swipe at her eyes to keep going.

You were right. I lied to you, to myself. I've lied for a long time now. If anyone could make me believe in the possibility of love or The One, it's you. You are amazing and smart and beautiful and so s.e.xy it makes me hurt to think I might not ever touch you again.

The time we've spent together has made me want things I've never wanted before. Things that thrill me. Things that scare me. Things that are so real it makes me bleed. But you deserve someone who can be equally amazing with you. I'm not that guy.

Not yet.

But I want to be.

She slid to the floor, the words reverberating in her head like a never-ending echo. I want to be. I want to be. Tears dripped onto the page, raising lumps in the paper, making the blue ink smudge.

I've contacted Dr. Suri and rescinded my resignation, but I've asked for a summer sabbatical instead and told her to take me out of the running for the promotion. There are things I need to do. Things that are long overdue. I don't expect you to wait for me. I expect you to kick a.s.s on the X-wing and make friends and find your place at The Grove.

But I'll wait for you. Because I can't not. You've gotten to me, Rush. You're in here with me, maybe have been since that very first night in Harker Hall, and I don't want to shake it anymore. So if you ever want to call, talk, share completely inappropriate fantasies, I will always take your call.

Always.

D.

Marin didn't know how long she sat on the floor in her foyer. Or how many times she read the letter. But she made it to her appointments. And she made it to catfish and beer.

And when she went to bed that night, she made her first call.

34.

Six weeks later Donovan rolled down the windows, letting the summer breeze smack him in the face. He'd forgotten how beautiful this place was. Or maybe he'd never really seen how beautiful it was. Last time he'd been here, he'd only focused on the fog, the gray skies. But today, the sun sparkled over the bay and the russet-colored bridge stood out proud against the hills behind it. He could see why the Golden Gate was such a popular place to die. If you wanted your last memory to be of something majestic, this was it.

But he had a different view that kept drawing him. Taped to the dashboard of his rental car was a photo he'd received a few days ago. As soon as it'd popped up on his phone, he'd stopped at a copy shop to get a color print of it. Marin was at a table in the po-boy shop with a group of co-workers around her. Everyone was smiling, probably a few beers into the night, and Lane had his arm draped over the back of her chair, giving Marin bunny ears.

They all looked happy.

She looked happy. Without him.

Something tight clenched in Donovan's chest.

He parked the car, lucky to snag a spot in the small lot, and climbed out. He could remember doing this the last time, going through the same motions. Taking deep breaths, feeling the wind whipping off the water, seeing the tourists strolling over to walk the bridge. Having one purpose in mind.

This is where he needed to be. He'd been a lot of places these past few weeks, but it all came back to this. He grabbed the picture of Marin, put it in his pocket and then walked toward the bridge. He could smell the sea air mixing with the fumes of the cars whizzing by, hear the roar of waves cras.h.i.+ng against rocks in the distance. Everything was so much the same from last time.