“I need to get him in a cab and get him home,” I grunt, trying to transfer the much larger man’s weight.

“I’ve got a car waiting out back. Take it. The driver’s discreet. I’ll grab a cab.”

He helps me to the back entrance where a black Lincoln MKT awaits. After maneuvering Ransom into the backseat, who appears to have passed out, I slide in next to him, allowing his heavy head to fall across my lap.

“Heidi . . .” Caleb begins from the doorway. He looks away into the black night and then back to us. “I told you to be careful with him.”

“What makes you think that I wasn’t?” I frown.

He purses his lips knowingly, flattening them into a thin line. “Just get him in bed. And call me later.”

He slams the car door on my blank expression and taps the roof of the car, signaling the driver to go. When we turn onto the main road, he asks, “Where to, ma’am?”

Shit.

I don’t even know where Ransom lives. And I damn sure can’t take him back to my place. And rolling up to a hotel at this time of night will definitely have the blogs talking by dawn.

I look down at Ransom’s sleeping form. He looks so sweet and small right now. So peaceful in his chemically induced dreams. I lightly slap his face, and of course, he doesn’t respond. I do it again, adding enough force to create a smacking sound. When that doesn’t work, I slap and shake his heavy body until he begins to groan.

“Ransom!” I shout directly in his ear. “I need you to tell me where you live.”

He groans again, as if every cell in his body aches. Considering the stench coming from his pores, I bet he’ll be feeling even worse in a few hours.

“You know,” is all he grunts out, before drifting off to sleep.

“Huh? Ransom wake up! What do you mean, I know?”

He mumbles something unintelligible before I pick up on a clue that immediately lets me know where to take him. Hell, I should’ve known.

“. . . I fucked you on my bed.”

I look to the driver with my face flamed with embarrassment, silently praying that he didn’t catch that last part. “Take us to the Royal, please.”

Chapter Seventeen

The Royal is not the usual haunt for celebrities, or even celeb wannabes. To be frank, the only thing royal about it is its name. It’s considered boutique in its size and amenities, and while the décor is posh and modern, it doesn’t scream opulence. And right at this moment, I could not be more grateful for that.

The lobby is completely empty, with not even a doorman in sight. Our driver helps Ransom from the backseat, who finally has decided to wake long enough to walk inside. Thank God for that. There was no way I could carry him.

By some miracle, Ransom successfully staggers to the elevators and stays upright long enough to press in his code to the penthouse suites. Funny. I don’t remember there being one last week when we were here. But then again, I was with Caleb, and far too high on champagne and nervous energy to really pay attention.

When the elevator begins to lurch upward, he slumps back against the far end wall, opposite where I stand. Although we’re not even close to touching, his glassy-eyed gaze sweeps over me with what can only be described as pure fire and malice. He looks at me like he hates me, like I disgust him, yet I can’t find the nerve to abandon him. Not when I know that he needs me more than he hates me. More than I hate what we’re doing to Tucker.

The doors slide open once we reach the top, and I go to help Ransom out to the hall. At first, he flinches at my touch, but his body can’t support its own weight, so he lets me lead him to the door of the suite. The odor of alcohol and smoke singes my nose, but it’s almost completely overshadowed by the heat of his body against mine.

“I need your key, Ransom,” I tell him.

He looks perplexed at my words for a split second before stuffing a hand down his back pocket and fishing out a keycard. He hands it to me instead of sliding it in the card slot attached to the door. When I take it from him, our fingers brush against each other, and while I’ve had him literally asleep in my lap for the last twenty minutes, this . . . this seems more intimate. Like maybe it’s a subconscious thing for us to want to feel the other’s skin. Be in the other’s skin.

I usher him into the suite, which is as meticulous as I remember it with no signs of permanent residency. I can’t believe he actually lives here, considering that he’s in the city for at least a third of the year. The other two-thirds? I have no idea. And I’m not sure if I want to know.

“Can I get you anything else?” I ask, going straight to the wet bar to grab a bottle of water. I crack the seal and hand it to him. He takes it without provocation and flops onto the sofa. “Food?”

“Nah,” he answers before taking a swig. “Order yourself something if you want.”

“That’s ok. I’m not staying,” I reply, looking at the door. I really should get home. Tucker will be home any minute and although I left a note, he’ll still be worried sick.

He snorts out a sardonic laugh before draining the rest of the bottle. I grab another and hand it to him. “What?”

Ransom shakes his head. “Nothing. Of course you’re not staying. I’m too fucked up to give you anything.”

“What?”

He struggles to his feet and staggers to the bedroom. “Nothing, H. Go on home to your husband. Don’t worry, whiskey dick usually wears off in a few hours.”

I’m right on his heels, filled with renewed pisstivity. “What the . . . what are you talking about, Ransom?”

He spins around, not as coordinated as he usually is, but successfully startling the shit out of me. I follow the swift movement of his hand, completely enraptured and unable to look away as he cups his manhood for the second time tonight. “I said, don’t worry, baby. I will still get hard for you. That is what you want from me, right? That is why you’ve left your warm, marital bed to come save me from myself, abandoning poor Tucker, right? But don’t worry. He looks like he has no problem taking care of himself.”

I don’t know what possesses me in the next pivotal moments. It’s like having an out of body experience as I watch my right hand pull back and lurch forward to connect with Ransom’s stubbled jaw with enough force that his chin meets his shoulder. Slowly, he turns back to look down at me, his nostrils flaring and his dark eyes brewing with ire. A single trickle of blood escapes the corner of this luscious mouth, and he sluggishly drags his tongue to his lip to lap it up, those sultry, onyx eyes never straying from my face.

“I see how you want it,” he rasps, his voice husky with anger and alcohol. “You like to give it just as much as you like to take it.”

“Fuck you,” I spit out. “Fuck. You.”

“You did, baby. Don’t you remember? We talked. We laughed. We drank. We fucked. We came. Hard. Or was I that forgettable for you?”

His words are ice but the look on his face is all fire. And even through all that . . . even through the bitter bite of his insults, I see his pain. I don’t want to—I want to hate him—but I see in him the same thing that I see every time I look in the mirror. The same thing I see reflected in Tucker’s eyes when he gazes at me in pity and confusion.

“I didn’t forget you.” I say it because he needs to hear it. I say it because it’s true.

“Then why do you want to leave me?”

I don’t expect that from him—that raw, unguarded truth—but it’s right there. And he’s not taking it back.

His strangled words are barely a whisper, but I hear them loud and clear. “I can make you feel young again, Heidi. I can make you feel things that he can’t. Let me be your second chance.”