RUSH (City Lights, #3)(59)

Red and blue lights lit up the silvery rain that darted down. Two police officers were just stepping down from the front walk of the townhouse, returning to their squad car. My veins filled with icy dread. They’re here to deliver the news. The worst news…

I imagined, with perfect clarity, an officer walking up to me, his eyes heavy, “I’m very sorry, ma’am…”

I hurried up to the police officers before they could climb into their car. “Excuse me?”

I couldn’t say anything else. I stood there, shivering in my drenched clothes, waiting for the policemen—one Filipino, one an older African American man—to tell me how bad it all was going to be.

“Ma’am?” the Filipino officer—the pin on his rain jacket said Flores. “Do you reside here?”

My head bobbed. “Is Noah okay?”

“Noah Lake? Yeah, just dropped him off,” said the other officer—Brant—said. “We picked him up in Queens. He’s a little banged up, but nothing serious.”

“Queens? What the hell was he doing in Queens?”

“Getting mugged,” Flores said. “According to the lady who called us, he was mouthing off to a couple of thugs who took his wallet, the crazy bastard.”

“It could have been worse,” Brant said calmly, shooting his partner a look. “Outside of comic books, blind guys don’t usually do so hot in street fights.”

“No, I don’t imagine they do,” I muttered. “Thank you, officers, for driving all this way.”

They tipped their caps. “Just doin’ our jobs, ma’am. Please get yourself dry and warm, and have a good night.”

I went inside, my clothes dripping water all over the marble foyer floor. I closed the door and then sagged against it. My nerves felt raw and I couldn’t tell if I were pissed off at Noah or overwhelmed with relief that he was safe. Both, I decided, and stormed upstairs.

I texted Lucien: He’s home. He’s fine. I’m going to kill him.

The reply came as I rounded the second flight of stairs. Thank heavens. Try not to maim him any more than you feel is necessary, and call me in the morning. Adieu.

I threw open the master bedroom door without knocking. Noah was in the bathroom, in the shower. His clothes were in a pile on the floor—black jeans, t-shirt, leather jacket, all dirt-streaked and scuffed.

I stood in the middle of the room, hugging myself, my rising anger keeping me warm despite my sodden state.

In the bathroom, the water shut off and the door opened. It occurred to me—a split second too late—that Noah might come out naked. But he had a towel slung low on his hips. A hot rush of lust swept through me at the sight of his body, and I hugged myself tighter, wondering how it was possible to feel so many different emotions all at the same time.

Noah stopped at the boundary between bedroom and bathroom. “Charlotte.” A small cut above his eye was dark with congealed blood, and a rounded lump was rising on his cheekbone. Otherwise, he looked unhurt.

“I’m here,” I said stonily.

He said nothing but made his way to the walk-in closet.

“Where were you?”

“Queens, apparently,” he said from inside. I heard drawers open and close.

“But…why? Were you visiting someone?” Some other woman? I thought of that model he’d been photographed with before the accident. I swallowed hard. “You just left without telling me.”

Noah emerged from the closet. He wore a white t-shirt that accentuated every cut line of his torso, and flannel pajama pants. He looked like a Ralph Lauren model, damn him. He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, his gaze cast toward me.

I flapped my hands. “Well?”

“I was riding the subway. One to the next, again and again, changing trains and riding them until the names over the intercom were foreign to me.”

“But…why?”

He cocked his head. “Is a window open? I smell rain.”

“Noah, I was scared to death. I didn’t know where you were or what happened to you. Are you’re telling me you just went for a joyride?”

I expected anger or attitude, but Noah looked unsettled. He flinched and reached a hand to anchor himself to the entrance to the walk-in. “That’s one word for it.”

Anger poured into me as if from a pitcher. “Do not tell me that you went out looking for a rush. Another high.”

His silence spoke volumes.

“Oh no. No, no, no. I’m not going to listen to you say you’re flying high off a fight with a couple of street thugs over a hundred bucks. God, don’t tell me that or I’ll be sick.”

“How did you know I got mugged?”

“The police officers who dropped you off were kind enough to inform me. Unlike you, who didn’t tell me anything.”

Remorse flashed over his face. “I had to get out. I had to try. I was suffocating and I needed to feel something besides anger.”

That hurt. Oh, god, did that hurt. My heart started to crack. Small fissures that I had promised myself I’d never allow to form again, were forming. Was this my penance, to be suffered again and again, each time I let myself care for someone?

“You needed to feel something?” I asked, hating how small my voice sounded. “Well, too bad you aren’t me. Because apparently I feel enough for the both of us.”