Busting Loose (22 page)

“B
ea,” he muttered. His voice was distant in his own ears. He let his forehead rest against the cabinet just over her shoulder. “God, Bea. Are we still alive?”

“Mmm,” she purred and scratched her nails over his back. She rested her head on his shoulder, snuggling into his neck and breathing deeply. “We really rock the counter sex. Bathroom counters, kitchen counters. Doesn't matter. It's good.”

Felt so good. So . . .

He blinked. Blinked again. Right. This was why people mostly made love in a bed. Because it was way too easy to be lulled straight to sleep after a sexual awakening like that. It was more convenient. Everything was right there in his bedroom. Pillows, a blanket, a mattress, everything within arm's reach in the nightstand they needed to . . .

And, shit.

“Bea.”

“Yes, Morgan, we're still alive.” She said it on a laugh, her voice turning husky with exhaustion.

“We forgot the condoms.”

“Mmm. Right.” She kissed his neck and scratched some more. “I'm on birth control, and clean, if you trust me.”

“Of course I trust you.” Why would she ever think he wouldn't? “I am, too.”

“No surprise there. Which I mean in a good way,” she added when he tensed. “You may act like a Boy Scout, but you're an animal when it counts, Dr. Browning.”

His cock, before as sleepy and sated as he was, zinged awake at that one. “Keep talking like that and we'll never make it to the bedroom. I might just slide you over to the table this time.”

“Like I said, an animal when it counts.” After a quick nip of teeth, she leaned back and smoothed a hand over his hair. “Glasses.”

He handed them over, blinking rapidly while she used her shirt to wipe the smudges away. “Why is it whenever I try that with my shirt, they come out worse than before? And when you do it, they're perfect?”

“Hidden talents. I can also sing the alphabet backward. Learned it for a bit part on a cop drama. My little act got left on the cutting room floor.”

“Cute parlor trick.” He slipped them back on and kissed her nose. “Should we take this party into the bedroom?”

She bit her lip, then shook her head. “I need to go back.”

He grinned a little. “So this was, what, a sex-by?” When she didn't laugh, he added, “You know, instead of a drive-by?”

One corner of her lips turned up in the weak imitation of a smile.

“What's going on?” he whispered and kissed her temple. “Tell me. Let me help.”

She tilted her head so he could keep kissing. “Just a lot on my mind.”

He pulled back and hitched up his pants. If it was Serious Conversation time, he wasn't going to have it with his dick on display. “So lay it out. Let's run through it together.”

She chewed on her bottom lip, then hopped down and pulled on her pants.

“Bea.” His voice was growing hoarse from holding back everything he wanted—needed—to say. “Talk to me.”

She stared at him while finishing the last button. Opened her mouth, then closed it again and shook her head.

“Fine. I'll go first.” He gripped her shoulders. “I love you.”

“Keeley found me a part,” she said at the same time.

Her eyes widened. “You what?”

“Keeley who?” he asked simultaneously.

“Stop that,” they said together.

Bea shook her head and stepped away, facing the refrigerator. “Okay, that's enough of that.”

“I agree. Who the hell is Keeley?” He wanted to reach out again, touch her again. Feel her warm skin under his hands and hold her to his body. Feel her mold around him, hug him like a vine on a tree, like she did when they slept in his bed.

“Keeley. My friend from back . . . back in LA. We were on the show together. She . . . well, she mentioned it before and I thought it was nothing. But she has a friend who's starting a new series. And not a soap this time. A legit TV series.”

He let that sink in for a moment. “Right. And it's . . . good?”

“Good?” She ran a hand through her hair, skewing one of the bobby pins holding it back from her face. “It's fantastic. It's . . . what small-time people like me hope for. Of course, a series always runs the risk of being not picked up after the pilot, and then there's the theory that you could be replaced if the network decides it. And then . . .”

Morgan watched her pace, ticking off reason after reason why this could, in fact, be the worst thing ever for her career. But he'd heard it in her voice the first time. The ache there, for something more. And he knew in that moment what he'd feared all along.

He waited until she paced by him and gripped her shoulders. She jarred to a halt and glanced up, surprised.

“It sounds good. Great, even.”

She stared. “Seriously?”

“Yes.”
No. I'm a liar. Stay with me.
“I'm happy for you.”

“I don't have the part,” she rushed to say. “It's not like this is a done deal. But it's . . . an opening, I guess.” Her eyes drifted to the right.

“Openings are good.”

She didn't look at him. “You said you loved me.”

He closed his own eyes and squeezed her arms gently. Couldn't take that one back now. “I did.”

“Did? What does that mean?”

He pulled her to him, rested his chin on the top of her head. Sighed a little when her arms wrapped around him. “It means, I think you're going to slam-dunk whatever hoops you have to jump through to get this part. It means I think you've got a real shot at happiness in LA. And it means I want you to grab the chance.”

“You want me to go.” The words were muffled into his shirt.

“I want you to go.”

His hands wanted to fist in the back of her shirt, to keep her with him, keep her from walking out his door, walking away forever. He would get down on his knees and beg if it would work to keep her in Marshall, with him.

And he would feel like the world's worst douche for it. If she wouldn't stay by her own choice, then staying because he begged would be worse than her leaving. Because she'd still leave, eventually. But she would leave feeling resentment for him and his manipulations to keep her.

If she was leaving, he wanted it to be with peace.

She pulled away slowly, as if she was moving underwater. Her eyes were a little red, but he wasn't sure if that was from pressing against his shirt or not. “Thanks, Morgan. You . . . you've done so much for me.”

“I gave you a job.”
And my heart. Still yours, if you want it.

She laughed a little, but it was a dark sound. “Not a job. That was . . . an opportunity. I'm not Bea the Hollywood Fuck Up anymore. I'm not the washed-up actress they had to kill off her soap because she couldn't bring life into the character anymore. Stupid character,” she mumbled as she sat on the floor to pull one shoe on. “Stupid rehabilitated prostitute.”

“I didn't just hand you the job. You deserved it. You're good at it. And I'd fire Nancy in a second if you still wanted it.” It was as close as he allowed himself to coming right out and asking.

Bea shook her head and pulled on the second shoe. “She's good. She'll be a good addition. And I can e-mail whoever you set up as manager of the clinic those plans and research I did.”

It hurt. He never thought a broken heart would physically hurt. But somehow it did. His chest felt carved open.

She stood and clapped one thigh for Milton. He raced into the kitchen so fast, his paws skidded on the tile and he bumped the fridge. She picked the dog up like a baby over her shoulder. Then, in a final slash to his heart, she grabbed the collar of his shirt to tug him down and kiss his cheek.

“Thanks,” she whispered, and headed out to her car.

The taillights of her car disappeared, and he sank down to the same tile Milton had just skidded over. He'd probably screwed that up somewhere. Somehow in the grand scheme of relationships, he'd gone wrong. Or maybe he was just wrong, period. Wrong to think they belonged together. If they did, she'd have wanted to stay.

He scrubbed a hand over his hair, then fixed his glasses as they were knocked askew. Now was when he really should have his own Milton to crawl in his lap. Morgan let his head fall back to hit the counter with a dull thud.

The last few weeks, he'd spent imagining what it would be like to have Bea permanently at his side. Now he had to go through the ugly process of erasing the dreams and replacing them with reality.

Reality sucked.

 

Bea started a trash bag first. Knowing what she wanted to throw away would be the easiest. From there, well. She'd have to figure out how to pare down her wardrobe.

The thought made her want to throw up.

Okay, the entire idea of leaving made her a little ill. But like hell was she admitting that one to anybody else. So, she'd toss all blame onto her shoes.

The numbers of which were apparently reproducing more effectively than Peyton's brood mares. She sat down on the carpet, surrounded by pairs of shoes, and wondered . . . had she really worn most of them more than a few times since she'd been back in Marshall? She had several favorites that went with the majority of her outfits, but the total number of pairs she'd owned . . . This was completely impractical.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I just used the word ‘impractical' when discussing my clothes.” To apologize, she immediately picked up the nearest pair of Louboutins and stroked them gently against her cheek. “I'm sorry. That was stupid of me.”

Milton walked over to her, stepping gingerly between the heels and sandals. When his front paw landed in a fire-engine-red pair of stilettos, she laughed at the sight. Milton was disgusted and shook his paw to rid himself of the offending shoe.

Trace's voice called out from the porch. “Bea, you in there?”

Ah. A distraction. She hopped up, shoes scattering as she ran for the door and threw it open. “My favorite brother.”

“Only brother. For a little bit longer, anyway, until Red makes Peyton an honest woman.” He stepped in and glanced around the room. “Did you get robbed in reverse?”

She took stock of the progress she'd made on deleting things. Which was none. “That's as good an explanation as any.”

He glanced at the trash bag in her hand, then at the boxes she'd stolen from the back storage corner of the exercise arena. “Donating things?”

Might as well get this over with. “Packing. Or trying to. Not doing a very good job of it. My stuff seems to be growing every time I close the closet door.”

Trace took the bag from her hands and set it aside. Then he just pulled her in for a hug. Bea's arms snaked around him, and she buried her face in his chest.

“Bea-Bea,” he murmured by her ear. “You don't have to go.”

“Yes, I do. I need to get on with it. I've been hiding here, and we all know it. It's just nobody had the balls to say anything. Or they just didn't care.”

His cheek rested on her head and he rocked her like a baby elephant rocking with its mama. “Not true. Nobody wants you to go.”

She huffed out a breath, but it sounded a little watery and got caught in her throat. “Peyton does.”

“Peyton might have, once,” he corrected. “But she doesn't now.”

“Bullshit.”

He rubbed her back in circles. “Regardless, nobody is kicking you out. So why are you going? What's the rush?”

She pulled away and wiped at her eyes. Allergies, of course. Lots of dust flying around with all the organizing of clothing. “Keeley—my friend from the show—said there's a good chance at a part on a series for me. I talked to my agent late last night.” She'd taken advantage of the fact she knew she'd get zero sleep after leaving Morgan's house and had woken him up. Displeased, but at least glad to hear she was alive, he'd done some searching and had called her first thing in the morning. Keeley came through, and her agent locked it down. She had a reading scheduled for next week. They were holding mass auditions for the role but would wait to make a decision until they met with her.

“That's not why. Try again. And be honest with yourself this time,” he said. The tone was a gentle reproof, the same as when he was correcting Seth's behavior. That should have annoyed her. Instead, she felt guilt rise up and choke her.

“No,” she whimpered, and scooted to the kitchen for a bottle of water. Trace gave her space.

A minute or so later, she came back through. “I can't. I don't have a job here anymore. I gave it up, Morgan's all set at the clinic, so he doesn't need me.”

“If you think that man needs you only as a receptionist, you've got a hole in your head the size of Texas.” Trace took the bottle from her and had a sip himself. “Bea-Bea, you're smarter than that. The man's half in love with you, and you're half in love with him.”

“Not half,” she whispered, eyes closed.

Trace put his arm around her again, and she let her head fall to his strong shoulder. “Trace, I'm a mess.”

“Yeah.”

She nudged him in the ribs with a knuckle. “I don't belong here.”

“You've always said that, even when you were a little kid. I used to believe you. I think you used to believe you, too. Now neither of us does.”

Home run, Trace Muldoon. But still . . .

She concentrated on breathing for a minute, battling back the panic and fear that threatened to rise in her chest. She tamped it down until it was nothing more than a dark spot under one of the pretty Jimmy Choos she had no real need for.