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I replay our meeting, from when he praised my work–only in the entertainment industry is shaking my hips and thrusting on stage considered praiseworthy–to his offer to represent me in a multi-million credit deal.
Glancing at my wrist-comm, I wonder where Delia is. I’m going to have to run to the docking bay to make it on time, and she hasn’t returned to the room yet.
Grabbing her suitcase and tossing it on the bed, I turn to the closet to start throwing her clothes in as fast as I can. Surely she’ll understand why I couldn’t take the time to pack them with care.
The door opens and Delia steps in, shoulders stooped, her gaze focused on the ugly red carpet. When she looks up, she seems surprised to see me.
“Jarrn?”
“Sorry, uh… since time is of the essence, I thought I’d pack for you.”
“Really?”
Her green eyes are wide and rimmed with tears. Her face is the picture of grief. Did she just receive bad news about her family?
“You’re packing for me? Did you already inform the ship’s staff that I don’t belong here anymore? Are you going to have them kick me off before I have a chance to book a ticket home?”
Perhaps it’s the adrenaline. My brain must be on overload. I don’t think I’m tracking properly because I don’t understand a word she’s saying.
“Do you need to go home? Did something happen to your mother?”
Delia tips her pointed chin at me and her expression changes fast as lightning. Instead of grief, she becomes angry.
“Really, Jarrn? Sure. Go ahead and pretendI’mleavingyouif that’s what will let you sleep better at night. I thought we had something good together, that our friendship had miraculously transformed into something more, something better, somethingdeeper.”
She steps toward me, though not close enough to touch, and pokes toward my chest.
“Blame this on me,” she says. “Yeah, Delia had to go home to take care of her mother. What a lucky break it happened just as I got a dream job offer and had to fly off to start another,betterlife.”
Her anger evaporates as she slumps onto the edge of the bed and cries. These aren’t the tears I’ve seen her cry before when we watched what she called chick flicks on my couch. These are big tears that seem to appear out of nowhere and look as if they could go on forever.
I don’t know what happened, but it’s clear my Delia is in torment about something. To hell with Strogoff’s fifteen-minute time limit. I brush her suitcase to the floor, sit on the bed with my back to the wall, and pull her onto my lap.
She tries to shrug away at first, then melts into my arms and clings to me as though her life depends on it.
“I’m here for you, Love. I always will be,” I murmur in her ear.
I rock her and croon. Even though I don’t have a clue as to what’s wrong, I know she’s in misery. Although I might be the cause of it, I’m certain my presence will soothe her somehow.
“We’ll work it out, sweet. Whatever it is, it’s not bigger than my love for you.”
This causes her to wail louder, but I keep rocking her and combing my fingers through her hair, my claws gently scratching her scalp the way I’ve learned she likes.
The back of my mind screams that Strogoff might be so pissed he takes off without me. I allow that thought exactly once, then banish it. Nothing, not even the role of Amerson in the Male of Boursen film series, is more important than the little female in my arms.
Finally, her wailing dwindles to sniffles as all her muscles relax. I reach to the tiny bedside table, grab a handful of tissues, and place them in her palm. Her head tucked under my chin, she dries her face, then leans to look at me.
Her forehead crinkles in confusion and she asks, “How can you call me ‘sweet’ and tell me you love me when I’m going to hold you back in your career so badly you’re leaving me?”
“Leaving you?”
Five minutes and a dozen questions later, Delia has related her conversation with Strogoff. Her grief has disappeared and is replaced by anger at Strogoff, which is not only matched, but surpassed, by my fury at the conniving gasbag.
“But after all we’ve been through, the way our love has grown, how could you believe I’d take off without you?” I ask.
I thought she would have cried all the tears a person could cry, but they begin again in earnest as she manages to say, “The fire. It’s all my fault.”
For a moment, it feels like an arrow has pierced my heart, then I embrace the moment. This has been between us since the moment I woke in my hospital bed and saw her sitting next to me, a look of agony on her beautiful face.
