I grin. "And naturally, you're already dug in and putting the house back to rights."
"Now don't you say that like you're surprised," she retorts, making me laugh outright.
"Fair enough. I'm not surprised at all. But I was hoping to speak to Dallas. He must be away from his cell. Can you grab him for me?"
"Of course I can. You just hold on for a second."
She means that literally, and hold music starts to play, and when it clicks off, I expect to hear Dallas come on the line, so I'm completely surprised to hear, "Miss Jane. What can I help you with?"
"Archie? I--I thought Mrs. Foster was getting Dallas."
"I'm afraid he's not available right now."
"Not available," I repeat, as cold chills race up my spine, caused as much by my own fear as by the stark, unfamiliar formality of Archie's voice. "Did he ask you to say that to me?"
"Miss Jane ..."
I close my eyes in defense against the truth that I hear now in Archie's voice. The warm, paternal voice that used to comfort me and put Bactine and bandages on my skinned knees.
"If you want to leave a message--I'm sure he just needs some time to get back to you."
"No." I'm fighting not to cry. "No, that's okay."
I hang up. I actually hang up on Archie, and then I realize that my knees are weak, and that's because I'm not breathing. I'm too busy choking on the tears caught in my throat to catch my breath.
I slide down the cabinets until my ass is on the tile and my back is against the wood, and I'm holding my phone tight and feeling lost and needing Dallas.
But Dallas isn't here for me--and god only knows when he will be again.
Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.
Maybe he really is going to walk away from me. Maybe he wants us to go back to the way we used to be, desperately wanting each other, but not having. Not touching. Hardly ever even seeing each other because it was just too damn painful to be together and not give in to passion.
I would hate him for that--and he damn well knows that. But Dallas would rather I hate him than hurt me, and the more I think about it, the more I fear that this is the end.
That he is going to leave me in order to save me.
But all that will really do is destroy me.
I have to do something--I have to get through to him somehow. I have to make him see me--really see me--and believe me when I tell him that I can handle whatever he needs.
But I don't know how to do that. I'm lost, so damn lost.
And I can think of only one person who can help me find my way.
Brody.
I pull on loose-fitting jeans and a Moschino T-shirt and tie my hair back in a messy ponytail. I jam my feet into a pair of ratty Converse skids, grab my purse, and head out into the real world. The sun is bright, the clouds are fluffy, and the temperature is pleasant in the low seventies. It's an absolutely gorgeous day--and I'm not enjoying it at all. Instead, I'm on auto-pilot. Standing in the street. Hailing a cab. Closing my eyes and letting the rhythm of the vehicle soothe me as the taxi speeds toward the Village.
Except, of course, I'm not sootheable at all.
I pay, get out, and then climb the stairs to the main door of Brody's building. He and Stacey rent the entire third floor of the converted townhouse, along with the roof garden that's accessed by a private staircase. I'm about to ring the bell when the door opens and Stacey says, "Oh!"
"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." She's wearing workout gear and carrying a gym bag. "Is Brody--I mean, is it okay if I go in?"
She studies my face, and I'm sure she can see that I've been crying. "Of course you can. He was in the shower when I left, but he'll be out soon. There's coffee in the kitchen and some croissants in a bag. Make yourself at home."
I'm eating a chocolate croissant when Brody comes into the kitchen wearing absolutely nothing. And, with the kind of aplomb that is so very Brody, he doesn't even blink when he sees me sitting there.