Chapter Nineteen

GRAYSON

The reminder of my first argument with Julian has been stinging my conscience for the last few hours. My blurred vision of the road ahead is compromised by everyone's oncoming high beams on Highway 431, just outside of Nashville proper. Combining both factors is the recipe to one clusterfuck of a migraine. Pain throngs deep in my skull from brow to brow as I approach the neighborhood of Belle Meade. And if there's something I can be sure of, more ibuprofen is in my future. Oh, and a very hot shower.

At the instruction of Apple Maps, I turn left onto Page Road. It takes me down a long path where the houses seem to get larger and further apart from each other the more I drive South. According to the robotic voice coming out of my speakers, I'm supposed to be on the lookout for 1-3-5-8 off to the left-hand side. Through squinted eyes, I spot a double wrought iron gate but no numbers. According to my phone, I've arrived. I suppose once I punch in the security code, I'll know if I'm at the right place or not.

"Three-Eight-Two-Five," I say aloud, punching the buttons on a square keypad.

Within a moment, it's open sesame. I accelerate slowly down the winding driveway which takes me straight to Jeff's sizeable mansion. A whistle escapes my lips as I step out to the dirt and gravel. I suppose a big record label executive must truly need to have their clout on constant display. But I put nothing past Jeffrey.

Once I retrieve my suitcase from the trunk, I ascend the steps leading up to his front porch. After a minute or two from ringing the doorbell, I spot a person's silhouette through beveled glass around his large alder door. It swings open to reveal Jeff's pretentious aspect.

"I didn't figure you'd answer your own door," I admit, trying to be friendly. Yet it probably sounded like a Freudian slip.

"Don't be silly, it's nearly ten o' clock," he responds. "Wallace is long asleep by now, what kind of an ass do you take me for?"

A fuckin' colossal one, Jeffrey!

He waves his arm, motioning me inside while I oblige. My suitcase bangs into my tired knee as I make lug inside the elongated foyer surrounded by walls and arches of dark stone. Jeff gives me a small tour while leading me up a spiral staircase on the far wall. We have a modest Manhattan apartment. Fuck. It's still not clicking in my head. I mean, I have a nice but humble Manhattan flat. But nothing this swish. Once we reach the top step, he points off to the right.

"This would be your guest room for the night," he offers, flipping the light on.

I peek my head inside like a curious dog sniffing around new digs for the first time. The cedar flooring faintly smells of citrus Pine Sol. The bed linens appear crisp, turned down for my desired slumber. It should be a very comfortable rest after my shower. After hoisting my suitcase on top of the bed, I point to the adjoining door across the room.

"This is the guest bathroom?" I ask.

Jeff nods. "It is, and it's stocked with all you'll need tonight."

"Great, I'm gonna take a long hot shower before going to sleep."

"Wouldn't you rather take a nice dip in my pool and in-ground hot tub instead?"

I shake my head. "Nah, it's been a lot of driving today," I reply. "But thanks."

He holds out a turned-up palm. "Come on," he replies. "Apart from my wine cellar, it's the best feature on my whole property."

I'm really not in the mood to socialize with him. And I'm going against my better judgment just by staying here for the night. If he thinks I want to spend even an hour out in his backyard, catching up on lost time, he's sorely mistaken. I offload the messenger bag from my shoulder, placing it next to my suitcase before skirting across the room towards the bathroom. All the while shaking my head for a second time.

"I'm not really up to socializing," I affirm. "I don't even have my trunks with me."

Jeffrey persists. "Just a few minutes?" He drones. "I have an extra pair," he continues, "we're practically the same size, Gray."

Ugh. Leave it to him to lack the capacity of taking a hint. No means fucking no, dipshit. I fight the thoughts inside my head while trying to articulate a sentence which won't sound rude.

I stammer. "Oookay."

Are you kidding me? Okay? That's the complete opposite of ‘No!' Since I've just committed to social interaction with someone who drives nails under my skin, now I must follow through.

His ears perk instantly at my acceptance. "That's the spirit," he replies cheerfully.

Jeff leaves the doorway as I find myself in the guest bathroom to pee—and probably punch myself a few times for being a complete fucking pushover. Sometimes the words that escape my mouth in no way resemble my thoughts. It's something I've battled for as long as I've had the ability to talk. But God damn it, I will stand my ground and only stay out there long enough to put my achy muscles at ease.

The lights in this bathroom are brighter than the surgical floor at Mt. Sinai, only exacerbating the throbs behind my eyes. As soon as I flush the toilet, I wash my hands at the sink before heading out to my bag. Motrin has practically been my best friend on this trip. I shake the bottle next to my ear, wagering that there are maybe six remaining at the most. Between my headache and the throbbing wound above my eyebrow, I pour the last of them into my palm. I was right, exactly six. If my career ever took a turn for the worse, I might have a future as a pharmacy technician.

With my palm hovering the bathroom trash can, the empty medication bottle falls inside. I toss the tablets into my mouth, hunching over the sink to slurp some water from the faucet. Pulling away from the mirror, I take a gander at the doleful reflection gracing my exhausted sight. Who knew even a week ago that I'd be in the fifth circle of Hell, preparing to make a return visit to its very epicenter?

Jeff's sockless footsteps slap against the hard floor, just before hearing his voice from out in the room. "Here's some trunks," he says.

I switch off the bathroom lights to shuffle back to the bed. "Alright," I reply.

He points out from the doorframe. "Just head on down the hallway and use the other stairwell when you're changed, and the back door is right at the bottom of the steps."

I shrug. "K."

Jeff leaves so I can change out of my khaki shorts and underwear. The swim trunks fit just fine, but I've always despised the mesh fabric brushing against my junk. I toss my phone down on the bed. Before the screen locked, I saw there was an unread text. I'll just read it later before I go to sleep. Since I want to get this damn swim—or whatever the hell it is—over with.

There's a series of splashes heard coming in from outside as I descend the stairs. And as I swing the back door, I can see Jeff is already submerged in the pool. Stepping closer, I can also make out that he's taken the liberty of selecting a bottle of wine to compliment this foray.

"So it's gonna be a whole thing I see," I say, gesturing my hands.

Jeff snickers. "After seeing the awful tear on your forehead," he points up in my direction. "I'd say a glass of this 1965 Gruaud Larose is well earned."

"That sounds expensive," I reply.

"Straight from St. Julien Bordeaux in France," he says. "Worth every penny."

Of fucking course! He just had to mention my dead lover's name. The way it slithers through those soulless lips forces a shiver down my spine. I let out a scowl yet try to conceal my rolling eyes while slipping a Five for Fighting band shirt up over my shoulders. Shortly after, I step in the water with my right foot, followed by the other. I toss the shirt aside, allowing it to fall where it may as I immerse the rest of my torso. The pool's coolness shocks my insides, sending each nerve on a race to acclimate to the drastic temperature change.

Jeff passes off a glass of ruby red wine. Then we tip-toe our way through the water towards the in-ground hot tub, which is sectioned off at the side of the pool. Lights shine up through the water giving the wine in my glass more opacity. And just as soon as my body had adjusted to the temperature of the pool water, my muscles feel a warm jolt from the jets shooting from the sides of the hot tub. He positions his backside into a corner while I do the same in the other.

This heat certainly checks the boxes where finding relief is concerned. I raise the glass to my lips to take a large sip of wine, it tickles my throat on the way down. It tastes slightly of a green vegetable drowned in heavy notes of black licorice. A sigh of relief escapes my nostrils as I place the wine glass on the ledge above my right shoulder.

"It's nice, right?" Jeff mentions.

I nod my head, letting these tired eyes of mine shut briefly to cherish the peace of this moment. "Not gonna lie, it is better than a hotel room shower."

He continues to blather on about how he comes out here almost every night to let off steam. And apparently even sealed a one-billion-dollar acquisition deal with Whiskey Back Records in this very spot. Not that I give a good goddamn about his business. But in this minute, I find myself surprised and grateful that Miles recommended this. It's my first taste of serenity in what seems like forever.

A couple minutes later, I reach up to feel for the stem of my wine glass for another sip. The second swig seems to go down smoother than the first, the flavor emboldening my taste buds. I hear my glass clink against the limestone surface just before feeling a hand creep its way onto my shoulder. Not even a second later, Jeff is muttering into my ear.

"Now you can really relax," he says.

What had been a good few minutes of solitude is now thwarted by Jeffrey trying to seduce me. My eyes open to see him leaning into my face with pursed lips. Instinctively, my arms swing out in front of me before latching onto his shoulders. I push him away from my chest as a loud disgusted choking sound emits from my vocal cords.

"What—the—ever loving—fuck—are you doing Jeffrey?"

Jeff stutters insatiably. "I just—" he stammers. "I just thought you deserved to let loose," he adds. "I was trying to console you."

"Jesus Christ!" I scream so loud, I'm pretty sure the house a quarter mile down the road hears me. "My husband isn't even in the ground yet," I add, hastily raising a leg over the partition which separates the pool from the hot tub.

I twist my head to condemn the bastard on my trek to the steps, attempting to pick up the pace. Which in water, isn't very damn quick at all.

"And you think now is the appropriate fuckin' time to make a move on me?" I rebuke the perv, shooting a prickly look in his direction.

"But—"

I shove my palm out behind me. "Just save it!"

I've reached the halfway point of the pool when I hear the splashing from his movement behind me. Try as I might, walking any faster isn't getting me any closer to the fucking steps. Though I make good progress with one foot in front of the other. Jeff tries to spill more word vomit, making some other phony excuse for his behavior. But I'm definitely not buying the load of horseshit he's selling.

Finally, the steps. Once my foot lands on the bottom step, I ascend quickly out of the water. My feet patter against the stone deck on the trail to pick up my shirt. There's a small pile of towels on the table under a covered awning near the back door. I wrap one around my waist before stepping inside to head upstairs. There's not a chance I'm staying here after Jeff just pulled whatever the fuck that was back there. This spiral staircase is no match for slippery feet, as I've damn near fallen backwards a split-second ago.

At the guest bed, I loosen the towel while poking my head back through the shirt hole. After pulling my shorts back to my waist, I slip my bare feet into the shoes. Because I've always detested laces, they're slip-ons. This is one instance where I can be grateful for such an idiosyncrasy. Fuck putting on a fresh pair of socks. I need to haul my ass out of Jeff's mansion of debauchery pronto. I scoop my phone in one hand, raising the messenger bag over my shoulder. With the suitcase in grasp, I begin my journey down the first set of stairs we used when I first arrived. No sooner do I totter across his rustic area rug when I hear Jeff's voice under one of the arches from the kitchen.

"You don't have to leave," he claims.

I swing the heavy door open with a short glance over my shoulder. "Fuck right off, you piece of shit."

No time is wasted loading the car when I decide on shoving my suitcase through the driver's side door, over the center console. It can stay in the shotgun seat while I drive as far away from here as possible. As I press the button to start the ignition, my hands recoil momentarily from the steering wheel. I must remember how many sips of wine I'd taken. Two gulps hardly cause inebriation, so I should be fine to drive. As I approach his gate at the end of the driveway, I realize he probably has some clicker to open it whenever he leaves. Preventing me from a quick exit, of course. But my quick thinking prevails.

Luckily there's a knee-high wall, stretching several feet away from the gate which I can hop over to punch in the code. Almost as if I were coming in a second time. Fuck me for never wanting a repeat journey down this driveway ever again. Now all I need is to remember the fucking code. I punch in 3-2-8-5 to no avail. Scratching at my head, I frantically comb through each brain cell in an attempt to recall what I'd literally just punched in not but an hour ago. Thanks to my semi-photographic memory, as if my mind has its own version of YouTube, it finally clicks. My fingers hammer out 3-8-2-5. And in a nanosecond, the gate unfurls in front of me.