Full Tilt (Full Tilt #1)(88)

In the limo on the ride home, I sat with my temple resting on Jonah’s shoulder. “Dena’s right, you know,” I said. “The art world is going to lose their minds over you. And you deserve every bit of it.”

He nodded against my head. “A legacy,” he said. “That’s all I wanted.” His fingers picked my chin up and he regarded me, his brows furrowed in the dimness. “I never thought to ask for more.”

A twinge of unease tainted my happiness, like a drop of black ink in a clear bowl. “Are you all right? You seem a little…”

“Tired,” Jonah said. “Tonight was…surreal. More than I’d ever imagined. I feel a little punchy.”

“Let’s go to your place,” I said, my hand on his thigh. “To celebrate.”

He smiled and took my hand in his. “Have something particular in mind?”

“I can think of a few things.”

But back home, after he changed out of his suit and emerged from the bathroom in his sleep pants, it was a different matter.

“I know I’ll regret this later,” he said, his gaze trailing over me as I sprawled on his bed in my lacy red underwear. “But I’m about done in. Give me a few hours to recharge?”

I took the raincheck and kissed him goodnight. I curled up next to him and closed my eyes, expecting to wake in the deepest part of the night by kisses along my neck—his customary line of attack. Instead, my eyes next fluttered open to full daylight. The clock on the nightstand read six a.m. Jonah was still sleeping, his warm breath wafting over me.

No big deal, I thought. He’d been working nonstop on his glass for months. No surprise the bottom fell out. He needed—and deserved—a long rest.

I dozed until his watch alarm went off an hour later, indicating it was time for his meds. He went into the kitchen and I drifted between awake and asleep, pleasantly anticipating his return, sure we’d make love now. But instead he slipped back into bed, wrapped his arms around me, and went back to sleep.

Now I lay wide awake, listening to him breathe. In and out, a whispering metronome, keeping time, counting down minutes.

When he finally stirred awake at quarter to nine, he frowned at the clock as if he couldn’t believe what it said. I saw a sliver of fear his eyes, and felt its twin slide itself into my heart.

“Come here,” I whispered. I kissed him hard, and he responded immediately, gratefully. We fell into each other, grasping and rocking until the headboard banged the wall.

Afterward, I told myself it was the intensity of our lovemaking that sent Jonah back into sleep again.

Nothing more.





Two days after the opening. Two mornings of Jonah sleeping late, waking only to take his meds, then going back to bed. Two days of him hanging around, skimming Facebook on his phone, hardly saying a word to me, or watching mindless noise on TV. Two days of increasing tension between us that had no source, but that scared me to my bones.

On the third day, Jonah and I had breakfast at Baby Stacks café, a pancake house off the Strip. It had been my habit to order the same types of food Jonah ate, partially out of solidarity, but also because I ultimately felt healthier. Everything I had done since moving to Vegas had been better for my health, mental and physical.

The waitress came to take our order.

“I’ll have an egg-white omelet…” I began.

“Jesus, Kace, get pancakes if you want them,” Jonah said. “Order whatever you want.” His smile came a little too late. “They have killer pancakes.”

I stared as he turned to the waitress. “I’ll have a short stack, decaf, and a side of house fries.”

“House fries are too greasy,” I said.

He handed his menu to the waitress, not looking at me. “One order can’t hurt.”

I ordered the egg-white omelet with a side of fruit and coffee. The waitress took our menus and left. Jonah’s eyes were on the table, brows furrowed as he rolled his spoon between his palms, like a mini blowpipe.

“Hey,” I said softly.

It took me three tries of saying his name before he looked up.

“Sorry, Kace, what’s up?”

“You tell me. You’ve been running hot and cold lately.”

“Have I?”

“Yeah, you have. I feel dizzy trying to keep up.”

He wilted a little and reached across the table to take my hand. “I’m sorry. I’m a little distracted lately. I’m not used to so much time off. I don’t know what to do with myself. I guess it’s making me a little irritable.”

Yes, okay. That makes sense.

I squeezed his hand. “Why not go to the hot shop anyway? Make something just for you?”

He shrugged and muttered something that sounded like, “Maybe,” and took his hand back.

Silence.

“Tania told me three different galleries want your installation,” I finally said. “London, Paris and New York. That’s the trifecta of the art world, isn’t it?”

“Why, because Vegas isn’t good enough?” He waved a hand. “It’s glass. How they think they can move it across the ocean is beyond me, but they can try.”

I sat back in my chair, feeling as if I were having breakfast with a stranger. Or worse, my father.

Ten more minutes of silence squeezed by before our food arrived. I picked at my omelet, my appetite disappeared. Jonah stared at his plate of food and finally forked one wedge of potato. I watched from under my eyelashes as he chewed it slowly, as if it were a lump of gray clay. He swallowed hard and washed it down with sip of water. Then he pushed his entire plate away.