Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1) (14 page)

“Here’s the last secret, Elisa. The way you are right now, mine completely, this is what I’ll remember when I look at that painting.”

He grips my hips and raises them in the air. In the same move, he slaps his cock hard against me. I cry out at the zinging feeling. My blood is pounding in my ears. I hear him tear a foil, from where I have no idea, and then he thrusts about halfway in. I moan in relief. He pulls back. When I whimper, he repeats his game over and over, until the current on my skin turns into something else, an inkling of a different storm in the horizon. This one will finish me. Not because I won’t survive. But because with this claiming, he went beyond my body. There is something so capturing about it that despite my recent liberation, I’ve never felt less free. He rubs himself against me again and stops. I give up and beg.

“Please, Aiden.”

“I think it’s your turn for a secret.”

“I want you!” I shout. Wait—what? What did I just say? I search for him with my hips but he stills them.

“That’s a dangerous secret,” he says in my ear and slams inside me.
Oh. My. God
. Of all the thrusts I have absorbed, nothing—absolutely nothing—compares to these. I can’t feel any other part of my body except the relentless clenching inside. I’m calling, I’m crying, too loud, too soft, begging, ordering, praying. I can’t understand the words that are coming out of my mouth but I don’t care. The only thing that matters is not just him, but this sense of being his.

“Look at me,” he says through his teeth. My eyes fling open, lost in turquoise. The lightning strikes. For the first time, my release starts in my eyes. Tears gather there, and then everything, especially consciousness drains out of me. We collapse on the bed together. I feel him withdraw and wrap his arms around me, kissing my temple.

“Enough secrets tonight,” he murmurs. My last thought is of the heat of his skin against my back and the fact that it looks like I still have tomorrow with him. Then I disappear.

* * * * *

I open my eyes with a gasp. Aiden’s bedroom is dark except for the moonlight streaming through the glass wall. There is a race running in my brain. My skin is still tingling with static like remnants of a distant storm. I panic that I had another nightmare but no. The only thoughts in my head are Aiden’s whispered secrets. If he never kisses on the mouth, he must like me. But before I levitate off the bed, another secret quashes it: it’s dangerous to want him. Why?

I look at Aiden to calm the racing thoughts. His face is relaxed, his hair a mess of my doing. Despite the power he wields when he is awake, he looks vulnerable. But the tension of his shoulders never releases him even in sleep. I have an urge to hold him. I reach out to caress his cheek. His body heat warms my fingers and I press them gently on his stubble.

It’s instant. He bolts upright, his hand gripping my wrist. His frame begins to shudder. His head hangs on his chest as though someone is holding it down, and his spine is petrified. His shoulders and biceps strain like he is trying to break through chains. His neck jerks side to side as though on a noose or tight collar. His rib cage expands. A menacing sound starts building in his chest and the bed begins to shake from his tremors. His fingers dig into my flesh.

“Aiden!” I gasp in terror.

His head whips up and whirls to me. In the darkness, I cannot see his eyes but I feel his hot breath on my face. His breathing is harsh, wounded. His grip on my wrist relaxes a fraction, and his head jerks to the side as though repelling an invisible touch. Or as though a force is trying to rip him apart or choke him. My heart is pounding but in this moment, I understand my own fear. It’s not for me. It’s for him.

“Aiden,” I whisper, wanting to touch him but afraid of making it worse. Then I remember the way he soothed me yesterday. “You’re okay. It’s not real. Wake up. You’re safe.”

The tremors start slowing down but his head jerks away again. I have a mad image of the sinister force trying to tear him away from me.

I can’t let it have any part of him. “Aiden, please, it’s me, Isa—umm—Elisa. Elisa Snow.”

He gasps like he is emerging from water. Blindingly fast, he pulls away and turns on the bedside lamp. His eyes are wild, almost midnight blue. His hands hover over my face.

“Elisa? Jesus! Did I hurt you? Did I hurt you?” he demands frantically.

“No, not at all. See? I’m okay.” I raise my hands so he can see. His eyes scan my arms, my torso, my face, my eyes.

“It was just a bad dream,” I assure him though I know bad dreams and I have never seen something like this. “Do you want some water? Some fresh air?”

I scoot close to him. I want to hold him but instinctively I know that he will not want arms around him right now. So I just put both my hands on his face and kiss his scar.

“Shh,” I whisper. “It’s over. It’s over.” But as I say the words, it occurs to me: is it really over for him? Whatever this evil is, with his memory, can he ever escape it? “Aiden, will you tell me what’s wrong? Please? I want to help.”

Instantly, his eyes harden. A jolt of fury strikes there. He drops my hands from his face.

“Excuse me a moment,” he says formally, and before I can blink, he bolts up and blows out of the room.

I stare after him, trying to calm my breathing. My lungs were doing fine until now—for him. But at the sight of the shut bedroom door, they start shuddering. I breathe in and out, but oxygen is not working. I amble to the restroom and drink some water, trying to think. What happened to him to cause this? Because if there is one thing I know like I know the periodic table it is that he has had this dream before. That this is a part of him.

I hear the bedroom door open so I sprint out of the restroom. He is dressed in the same clothes as today, probably finding them on the kitchen floor from our time of happy secrets. I walk to him and take his hand.

“Are you feeling better?”

“Yes, thank you.” Same polite voice.

“I am so, so sorry.”

His jaw locks and he closes his eyes. “Why are you apologizing, Elisa?”

“Because I awoke you. I only wanted to touch your face,” I mumble, caressing his stubble.

He guides me to the bed. His eyes are still closed. I don’t know if he is imagining something or repelling it.

“Look at me,” I plead.

He opens his eyes. They are controlled now, lighter but frozen solid. “Elisa, you didn’t do anything wrong. Trust me. This has nothing to do with you. The only thing I regret is that I frightened you. I’m very sorry. Now go to bed. I’ll be back in a while.”

Back in a while?
No! I don’t want him to be alone and revisit whatever terrors he already must see with perfect clarity. I clutch his shirt collar and bring him closer.

“Stay with me. We can go to the Rose Garden if you want? Or talk? Or just go for a stroll? Or make love? Just…just stay.”

He pries my fingers from his shirt, pinching my chin. “Go to sleep, Elisa.”

When I don’t let go of his collar, he lowers his head until our foreheads almost touch and closes his eyes.

“Please!” he says in a low voice.

I realize now that I have never heard him truly ask for something he needs. Well, he just did. I nod and pull away with more strength than it took to board that plane four years ago. He inclines his head once and sweeps out of the room.

I lie on his side of the bed, feeling his warmth that is still trapped inside the comforter. I keep my eyes on the door, willing it to open. I focus only on the scent of his pillow, listening for any signs of the man on the other side of the wall. But there is only silence.

Hydrogen, 1.008…Oxygen, 15.999. Fluorine, 18.998. Neon, 20.180…Astatine, 210. Radon, 222. Francium, 223. Radium, 226.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Breach

Light seeps through my eyelids, tinting the world outside golden. My first thought is that I should feel warm. But instead, I’m shivering. My eyes fling open.

I’m in Aiden’s bed, on his side. But he is not here.

Instantly, I remember and jolt up. I feel the other side of the bed. It’s cold. On my pillow is my dad’s watch. Something crawls in my stomach at the sight. I pick it up—9:30. As I fasten it on my wrist, the soft, worn leather gives me some structure. First things first: move.

I clamber out of bed, feeling the ache of his thrusts between my thighs. Over the chair in the corner are my dress, bra, knickers and sandals. My stomach twists again so I escape to the restroom.

I’m so cold that I crave hot water. But as I tiptoe in the grotto shower, my skin contracts sharply. Suddenly, I don’t want to wash him off. Right now, my skin smells like him. I twist back the shower lever tightly.

When I come out, the bedroom is still empty. The hair stands on the back of my neck. Should I go find him or should I wait here? What will make it worse or better? The shivers become violent so I get dressed. As I bend to slide on my sandals, I see one of his shirt buttons under the bed. Madly, I pick it up and tuck it in my bra. Then, with a deep breath, I head for the living room.

He is on the sofa, facing my way, back to the glass wall, reading a
National Geographic
. Freshly showered, hair still wet.

“Good morning,” I say, noticing with relief that my voice does not betray my unease.

He looks up from his magazine. The first thing I see is the difference in his face between now and yesterday when he woke me up with the centifolia. It’s perfectly composed. But something is off in his eyes—they’re too still. A neutral sapphire.

“Good morning, Elisa. Did you sleep well?”

It’s there in his voice too. Polite but a bit detached. The shivers return.

“I slept fine,” I answer a little late. “It looks like you’ve been up for a while?”

“Yes.”

It’s not exactly his words that are chilling me. It’s that detachment in his eyes and tone.

“So what have you been doing?”

“Worked some. Pondered the universe.”

“Pondered the universe? That sounds ominous.”

“Aren’t all such ponderings ominous?”

“It depends on the conclusions one reaches.”

He almost smiles. “Yes, I suppose it does.”

That’s it? That’s all he is going to say? “So what conclusions did you reach?”

He stands up and walks to me. His tread is slower too. “Many. But what else is there to do at night. Are you hungry? Do you want some breakfast?”

Breakfast?
“No! I’d rather talk.”

He gives me a million-miles-away smile. “Not now—I have a conference call. Make yourself at home. I’ll see you shortly.” He strides past me, taking his distant smile with him.

“Aiden?” I call after him. He has moved so fast, he is almost at the threshold of the room. He turns, his eyes expectant.

“Yes?”

“Is this about your nightmare? Is that why you’re acting so…so different?”

Nothing changes on his face. “No, Elisa. The nightmare does not concern you.” His voice is formal, as though he is saying “it’s none of your business”.

“Yes, it does. You didn’t act like this before last night.” With another stab in my stomach, I miss the man he was. The beautiful, warm man giving me Baci and whispering secrets.

No emotion touches his eyes. He takes a few steps back into the room and stops—still far from me. “Before last night, you asked for two days with me and I gave them to you. Whether I had a nightmare or not is irrelevant. Time is up, Elisa.” He whirls and leaves the room, the lights flickering at his passage.

My knees buckle the moment he turns the corner and I sink on the sofa.
My time is up
. How well I know it. I stare at the stack of Powell’s books by the wall, the terrarium of flowers, my new Nikon camera. They look suddenly inert. Perfunctory. Like the gravity that kept them from drifting is extinguished and now they rotate in the universe homeless. Just like me.

I thought this was all about the nightmare. But now, listening to him, I look at last night with new, finally clear, wide-open eyes. He was saying goodbye even before his nightmare, when he was making love to me.
This is what I’ll remember when I look at that painting
. Why? What was it? I play with the hem of my dress as hypotheses tabulate in my brain.

Option One: He does not like the real girl behind the painting. Maybe I was too much of a mess, too open, too closed, too everything Reagan says men don’t want.

Option Two: This is about his demons. Whatever evil terrorizes him at night, strains his muscles and shuts him down, is keeping him from me, too.

The instant the options form in my head, I want to run and not see what happens next. But oddly, I can’t bring myself to leave. Regardless of which hypothesis is true, I’m worried about him. But how do you help a man who will not accept it?

I twist the hem some more, wondering what Mum would do. What
did
she do with Dad? They were always truthful. They never had secrets. And just like that I know what I have to do. Not only because it’s the right thing. But because it may allow Aiden to open up too. That has to help.

I stand, my knees shaking. With every step down the hall, I test the words in my head. When I reach the closed library door, his hard voice stops me.

“Just use my fucking card, Hendrix. Do we have to go over this every fucking year?… No, I’m actually thinking of leaving tonight… Yes, that’s fine… See you in two weeks.”

He slams down his phone, then there is silence. He’s leaving? Why? Where is he going? Another shiver whips over my skin. I take a deep breath, square my shoulders and knock.

“Yes?” he calls with the same hard voice.

I open the door, feeling less welcome than in the immigration office. He is standing at his enormous desk in front of three continuous computer screens. When he sees me, his eyes betray some surprise. Then his impassive face returns. I wait for him to say something, maybe just my name in acknowledgement, but he doesn’t. He simply waits with questioning eyes.

“Umm, may I come in?” I ask, fighting the impulse to run, which is becoming stronger. As is this visceral concern I feel for him.

“Yes,” he says, indicating with his hand for me to take one of the cognac leather armchairs in front of his desk.

The moment I enter the library, the sight and smell of thousands of books fortify me. I take the armchair, wishing he would come and sit in the other one next to me. He looks at me expectantly.

I call on years of British “be calm” philosophy and smile. “I couldn’t help overhear. Are you going somewhere?”

“Yes. A short trip with friends.”

Odd that this relieves me. If his demons are at work, then friends must help. “Is Marshall going?” I keep smiling.

“No. Did you need something, Elisa?”

I feel the smile freeze on my lips as a wave of nausea rises in my throat. “I—I wanted to tell you the truth. About me. If you still want to hear it.” My voice is losing the even volume, trailing almost to a whisper in the end.

At last, his face loses the controlled façade. His eyebrows arch in surprise. Then the deep V forms there.

“Why now?” His voice is very cautious.

“Because it feels right. And because you wanted to know?” I didn’t mean to say the last sentence. Or say it as a question. But a small, terrified part of me wonders if he really cares.

“I still want to know.”

I should try to fight the relief I feel at this but I can’t. I’ll deal with myself later.

Okay, here goes nothing. I take a deep breath. “I’m moving back to England.”

As I thought, the moment I say this to him, it becomes real. My stomach twists and heaves so violently that I clench my teeth right as bile crashes against them. My throat and lungs battle to keep the acid inside my body.

He blinks rapidly a few times. The rest of him remains frozen.

“What?” he asks eventually.

“I’m moving back to England. My student visa expired when I graduated. I have to leave in twenty-eight days.”

Impossibly, the V gets deeper. His hands curl like claws on the armrests of his chair. “I don’t understand. Why would you return to England after everything that’s happened there instead of renewing your visa?” He sounds annoyed. As if he disapproves of my choices.

“I don’t
want
to go back. But I tried to get a new visa and they denied it. I had just left my immigration interview when I first saw you.”

He tents his large hands and rests his chin on them. Confusion transforms to suspicion.

“Isn’t there some other visa? It seems a little…unbelievable.”

I bristle at the judgment in his voice but I force myself to remember that Aiden is like Reagan. Unquestionably American. Unshakably welcome. He cannot fathom what most of us outsiders have to go through only to breathe American air. It’s not his fault. He just doesn’t know.

“I’ve tried all I can. I tried three visas, in fact. They were all denied.”

“But what about your credentials? Your supplement? Surely that counts for something?” he demands, straightening into his high-alert posture.

I open my mouth to explain but suddenly cannot. All those details, so vital to me, feel like banalities between us now. I swallow and shake my head. “Not good enough.”

And it’s starting to feel like the truth—about everything.

He stands up forcefully, the chair squeaking from his strength. There is no confusion or suspicion on his face. In fact, there is no emotion. Just purpose. I can’t deny my disappointment. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I was hoping for something. The shifting tectonic plates as he shares something, too, and lets me help. Or a hug, a kiss, a kind word, some reassurance maybe.
It will be okay. I’ll miss you. Glad we met
. Or even anger.
Fuck this. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I’d even take some relief from him at having a way out. Anything but this calculated, rational problem-solving. Because with this, I have no idea if he cares or if he just feels like he needs to do something for the poor orphan who has nowhere to go.

He paces twice behind his desk, then sits back down. He picks up his phone and presses a number.

“Cancel my two o’clock and hold all calls,” he spits out and hangs up.

“Aiden—” I say, but he puts up an index finger while he scrolls on his phone. I look at the clock on the wall, unable to stand the concentration in his eyes. This is not what I wanted. I don’t want to be a nuisance to him, something he needs to fix. Saying goodbye will be hard enough without feeling like in the end, I was a burden, not a woman. Like I added to his troubles, not eased them as I meant to do.

“Aiden Hale for Scott Reeves.”

I barely blink by the time he speaks again. Scott Reeves must be really fast or the mere name
Aiden Hale
makes him drop everything he is doing.

“Scott, I need to see you
now
… Cancel it. I’ll pay double. Bring your best immigration lawyer, actually the whole team… Thank you.” He hangs up and starts scrolling again.

Bloody hell!
There is no reason to pay double for a team of lawyers only to hear what I can tell him for free. And I don’t want him to know about the marriage and investment options. This new Aiden may think I was setting him up all along for a green card or for his money. The thought is revolting.

“Aiden, can you please put your phone down?” I ask with as much volume as I can manage. He looks up.

“I know my options. You don’t need to pay an army of lawyers for me.”

He shakes his head. “No offense to you, Elisa, but I’d rather hear a professional on this. And frankly, I pay an army of lawyers on a daily basis so it doesn’t matter.”

He scrolls through his phone again and dials, effectively ending the conversation. I tune out his business discussion as much as I can, trying to make sense of the madness. He eventually hangs up, takes a deep breath and stands. “Let’s go meet the lawyers.”

I suppose he means to be kind, but I can’t accept. Not when he is cold like this. Plus, it will be embarrassing to sit there in front of all those suits and look at his face when he hears that marriage or money can save me. I’m sure he gets hit like a piñata for either or both of those by countless women. And I don’t care about either. I only want his time. I stand.

“Aiden, I don’t want to go to this meeting. It’s not what I was expecting from you and I would have never told you if—” I stop because my reasoning now seems faulty—the kind of reasoning Dad or Denton would have never let me build an experiment on.

“If what, Elisa?”

Well, I might as well own to it. “If I didn’t want to be honest with you and help you. I thought if I shared my secret with you, then maybe you would open up with me too. Share some of whatever makes you tense this way.”

His jaw locks and the sniper focus of his eyes slips a little. He looks almost angry. Good. It’s better than this cold composure I’ve had to endure all morning. “I thought I made it obvious, Elisa. I do not share, no matter how many secrets you tell me or how many days you spend with me.”

I nod as he quashes my sandcastle logic.

“My mistake,” I say in my most even tone. “But perhaps you would do me the courtesy of sharing your last night’s conclusions about me so that we can be on the same page. I think I deserve an explanation.”

He stares at me. His gaze is so intense, so blinding that I almost shut my eyes.

“I think saving your future is a little more important at the moment.” For the first time this morning, his voice softens—as though he is both answering and evading.

He is right, of course. I am desperate for a solution. But why doesn’t any part of me agree?

As though he can sense my hesitation, he inches closer. “We can talk about the rest after the meeting,” he says and steps aside, indicating for me to walk ahead of him.

I realize now that I have never seen him lead the way or walk through a door first. He is always the last through. Is this just his manners or something else? I tuck this question away for now and focus only on my own steps, the battalion of lawyers waiting for me and, above all, some answers. The lights flicker one last time as we cross the library threshold.