Being Me(Inside Out 02)(102)

At the front of the building, I order my car brought up to me. Once I’m inside it I sit behind the wheel, unsure of where to go. I want to be with Chris, but the secrets he keeps, on top of the rawness of his withdrawal this past week, eats away at me.
He didn’t trust me to go through the loss of Dylan with him.
He didn’t trust me to tell me about Rebecca. No, about the club.
He hid that from me for as long as he possibly could. What else is he hiding and unwilling to share because he still thinks I can’t handle it? I’ve poured my heart out to this man, and now I’ve given up my job for him. I had put all fear aside and gambled on us. When will he fully gamble on us? Will he ever?
My phone rings and it’s Chris. I decline the call. The doorman knocks on my window and I jump. He mouths, “Are you okay?” and I wave and pull onto the road. I don’t know where I’m going; I just drive.
An hour later, I end up at Mark’s white mansion in the same
Cow Hollow neighborhood as his club. I have no idea why I am here. Honestly, I have nowhere else to go. And Mark really is my one real connection to both Chris and Rebecca, who have both become a huge part of my life. Both of whom I now feel like I am losing.
Besides, Mark is all about facts, not the emotions I am letting control me right now. Just hearing him tell the same story Chris has told me about Rebecca might give me new perspective about why Chris’s silence on the subject bothers me so much.
I grab my purse and shove open the door. Motion detectors flicker to life and doors identical to the ones at the club become visible, sending a frisson of unease through me. I press past it and ring the bell. I shiver, telling myself it’s because I’ve hastily forgotten a jacket, not because of my location. It doesn’t work.
Nerves flutter through me and the frisson becomes full-blown doubt. I’m about to make a mad dash for the car when the door opens and Mark appears, looking like a Mark I’ve never seen.
He’s barefooted and his normal, finely groomed blond hair is rumpled. The perfectly fitted suit I’ve become accustomed to him wearing has been replaced by a white T-shirt and faded jeans.
His gaze sweeps my jeans and T-shirt, clearly finding my attire as striking as I do his. One blond brow lifts. “Ms. McMillan.
What a surprise.”
“Isn’t it?” I ask, sounding as awkward as I feel. “Am I interrupting anything?”
“Nothing that can’t wait.”
He motions me forward and I hesitate, remembering the
room called the Lion’s Den at the club, and that caged feeling I’d had in the demo unit. But I want answers. I need answers. I draw a breath and step onto the pale ivory hardwood floor and into a narrow hallway, too close to Mark for comfort.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
“Yes. No. I just need to ask you a few questions about … Chris.”
His eyes narrow. “Chris?
“And Rebecca.”
“And Rebecca,” he repeats, and I catch a flash of consternation in his gaze that quickly fades. “I’m not sure how they connect but I’m intrigued enough to see where this is going.” His chin lifts to urge me forward. I just stand there, frozen in place, his gray eyes sharp as he watches me. Oh yes, I feel like I am in the lion’s den and want out. “Staying or going, Ms. McMillan?”
Answers, Sara. You want answers. “Staying. I’m staying.” My feet move. That’s progress. One step into the den is closer to one step out.
The massive living room I bring into focus a few feet down
the hallway is exactly what I expect of Mark. Rich, rich, and rich in every way. An obviously expensive chocolate brown leather couch is framed by two oversized matching chairs. A fireplace is to the left, and above it a painting I recognize as a Motif. Two sculptures are to either side of the fireplace, and I have no doubt they were done by famous artists, though I am not knowledgeable enough to be certain.
Mark steps to my side, intimidatingly tall and close. “Let’s sit.”
I walk forward and choose the solitariness the overstuffed chairs allows me and perch on the edge of one, setting my purse beside me. Mark sits on the arm of the couch facing me, automatically assuming the position of dominance.
My throat is ridiculously parched and my pulse starts thrumming wildly, afraid of what may be another Pandora’s box.
“Yes, Ms. McMillan?” he asks when I’ve apparently let too much time pass.
A heavy breath escapes my lungs. “I need to know what caused you and Chris to come to bad terms.”
He considers me a moment. “What did he tell you?”
“I’d rather hear it from you.”
“Why is this important?” His voice is crisp.