“Fuck,” I say, mimicking Caleb’s earlier sentiment. “He can’t do that. He can’t do that, right?”

“He just did.”

I look around, my mind working double time to find a way to fix this debacle, but it’s too late. The sounds of electric guitar are already echoing throughout the studio, along with the hypnotic rhythm of drums. Even though the band could play just about anything on their own, The Roots accompany them to add an extra dimension of sound. Luckily, they know this, which is surprising, since it’s not a Ransom original. I can’t even place what it is exactly.

Until he sings.

I should have known. I should have fucking known. Of course, he’s still pissed at me and wants to let the world know just how much of a mind-fucking slut I am. And maybe he should. If this is what it takes for him to let this go, then better to do it in song than let it play out on TMZ.

But as he belts out the first verse of Prince’s “Darling Nikki,” a cover they featured on their last album, I know that this is so much more than musically venting. Ransom isn’t . . . right. He looks good, and he’s engaging the crowd in that wildly sensual way that gets them screaming for more, but there’s just something off about his movements. Even his voice isn’t as crisp as it usually sounds. There’s something lying underneath it, be it pain or desire or shame. I just know this isn’t the Ransom Reed I saw kill it in front of the massive audience at Madison Square Garden just two Fridays ago.

Still, the band finishes to a cheering crowd and a standing ovation, which is a good sign, despite the glaring truth staring us in the eye. Ransom wouldn’t know it though. As soon as the music stops and Jimmy appears on stage, holding a vinyl copy of their last LP, Ransom drops the mic on the stage and walks off, brusquely pushing past the host and his bandmates. And me.

“Never performs less than sober, huh?” I say to Caleb, both of us too stunned to do more than just stand there.

“Holy fuck. Holy fucking fuck,” he groans.

“Yeah. My sentiments exactly.” I look over at the shell-shocked agent and sigh, releasing my last bit of resolve. “So about getting him out of town . . . I think I might be able to help with that.”

Chapter Nineteen

Convincing Ransom of getting out of the city is much easier than Caleb and I anticipate, and we’re left wondering if the young rocker was already getting burned out of “the life.” We knew that confronting him after his grand performance would only lead to tragedy, so we waited until Tuesday—today—to give him the ultimatum—take some time out or we walk. Both of us. I can’t understand why that would be a big enough incentive, but apparently, it works.

Now, convincing Tucker? That’s a different story. One that I’m not quite prepared to hear.

I get home from work at my usual time, knowing that coming in late would only agitate him and make it harder to plead my case. He’s sitting at the bistro table, sipping a cup of tea and reading a document from a stack of papers in a file folder. The scents of fresh herbs, tomatoes, and lemon waft from the kitchen, and my stomach growls. Even though Lucia has already left to go home for the evening, she always leaves dinner in the oven. Tonight smells like her famous citrus herb chicken.

Tucker looks up as soon as I approach and smiles, although I can tell it’s forced. He looks tired . . . even older. I can’t imagine what must be troubling him, and I make it a point not to ask. That’s our thing—work stays at work. Still, I can see the past few days have worn on him, and I am yearning for him to let me comfort him.

“Hey babe,” I say, wearing a genuine grin. “Something smells good.” I kiss him on his full lips and go into the kitchen to pour a glass of wine. I’ll need it for the conversation we’re about to have.

“Lucia made chicken and a Caprese salad.”

“I was talking about you.” I turn to give him a wink and see him soften just a fraction. Ugh. I hate to spring this on him, especially with how up and down things have been for us this past week. “Want a glass?” I ask holding up a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

“No thanks,” he sighs, looking back down at the papers. I watch him for a beat, sipping my wine, when he looks back up at me, the defeat in his eyes so strong it takes everything inside me not to run to him and fall at his feet. “I lost someone. I lost a patient.”

“What?” This time I don’t hesitate. I put down my glass and go to him.

“Yeah. Young kid, seventeen. There was nothing I could do, but still . . . I feel responsible. I knew him. I knew he was struggling, and I tried everything I could to reach him outside of moving him in and making him sleep on our couch. He was alone . . . he was lonely. His parents were in Monaco when he was brought in after he OD’d. Took them two days to get back here to see about their son. Two days. Apparently, they had been planning that trip for months.”

Without a word, I slide onto his lap and wrap my arms around him, just trying to absorb his pain. He cared for that kid, just like he does all his patients. He knows he’s not supposed to, but Tucker can’t help it. He’s one of those genuinely good, kind souls. He went in to psychiatry because he wanted to help the people whose wounds weren’t visible to the outside world. He understood that suffering inside the prison of your mind was far worse than any iron shackles inside a jail cell. And he had helped people . . . tons of them. But sometimes, he lost them too. They were just too far gone . . .

“I was thinking . . . maybe it’s time we took a vacation. I need a break, Bunny. This one . . . this one was difficult. Think you could take a week or two? I could just really use some time away from here . . . from this. I just need to escape reality with you.”

I sit up in slow motion, and look at him with all the understanding I can muster. Oh no. This isn’t what I needed. I just don’t have two weeks to give him right now, not after the deal I made with Ransom.

I shake the thought from my head. Tucker is my husband. Husband. And he needs me. My loyalty lies with him. He comes first. And my career . . . Shit.

“What were you thinking?” I ask him, trying not to picture the image of my reputation going down like a sinking ship.

“I don’t know. Somewhere far from the city. No traffic, no social media, no paparazzi. Just peace and quiet. And us.”

I smile and nod. That sounds nice. In a perfect world, that would be all I’d ever need.

“So can you make it?” The optimism in his voice is undeniable. I can’t crush him—not now. Not when he’s already in ruins.

“See . . . the thing is . . . I have to go out of town for a little while, but maybe I can just cut it down to a few days and be back by this weekend to leave with you.”

“Out of town?” he frowns. “Since when?”

“Since today. I just found out and planned to tell you tonight. I have a client that needs to lay low for a while and stay out of the press. I told . . . them . . . I’d ensure they were set up and comfortable. But honestly, I don’t see why—”

“A client like who?” I hear it—the accusation. The skepticism. Still, I play dumb.

“Huh?”

“Your client. Who is it?”

This was not how this was supposed to go. He was not supposed to already be on the edge when I told him. I was going to wait until after dinner and a couple glasses of wine. Then I was hoping we’d break our recent dry spell and make love. I wasn’t even going to ask him for anything remotely kinky. Hell, if he wanted to do me in a floor-length gown, I’d let him.

He sits there waiting for me, growing more and more suspicious with every second of my silent unease. I just have to tell him. If I want a snowball’s chance in hell at gaining his trust and support, I just have to tell him.