Читать книгу Burning Up - Sarah Mayberry - Страница 9

LUCAS WOKE WITH HIS HEART pounding and a film of sweat slicking his body. The sheets were wrapped around his bad leg, causing not a small bit of pain as he struggled to free himself.

Sitting upright, he slid to the edge of the bed and braced his elbows on his thighs, letting his head hang. He hadn’t had the nightmare for decades. It had haunted him as a kid for three long years until finally he’d trained himself to wake up whenever the nightmare started to take over his dreams. After all these years it still had the power to rev his engine—he felt as though every muscle in his body was braced for fight or flight, pumped full of adrenaline thanks to his subconscious mind’s parlor tricks.

Standing, Lucas hopped into the bathroom and leaned against the marble vanity while he sluiced water over his face and shoulders. When he lifted his head from the basin, his reflection showed a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.

He didn’t do uncertainty. Not by a long shot. For years he’d known exactly what he wanted, and gotten it.

At thirty-five, he was a man operating at the peak of his powers. He’d achieved all his career goals and had more money than he could spend in ten lifetimes. Life was good. Strike that. Life was great. There was absolutely no reason for him to be feeling tense and restless. And certainly no reason for a moldy old nightmare to resurrect itself.

Briefly his thoughts flashed to the biography. Okay, so it wasn’t exactly a stretch to connect the recurrence of his nightmare with the appearance of that damned tell-all book.

His expression was grim in the mirror as he allowed himself to think about what was going to happen when the book came out. If it landed on the right desks, he was going to be hounded by every talk-show host to ever draw breath. Kids he’d shared bunks with in state homes over the years would be dug up, his old house mothers and teachers and foster parents would be interviewed. Everything that had previously been only his would be everyone’s to know.

The dark years.

The lonely years.

All the stuff he’d never wanted to see the light of day. The stuff he’d gone to great efforts to bury.

Derek, of course, was convinced the book could only do him good.

“People are going to love you for this,” he’d said once he finished reading the advance copy he’d brought around that fateful night. “Self-made man, dragging himself up by his bootstraps. The kid who had nothing becomes the man who has everything. Hell, it’s a movie in itself.”

Derek had gotten a far-off look in his eye at that point, as if he were about to start tapping away on an typewriter that very second, crafting a smarmy biopic to cement Lucas’s status as an object of pity.

Lucas had killed that little fantasy before it could take flight, that was for sure, along with all of Derek’s other ideas for capitalizing on the biography’s release. Lucas’s game plan hadn’t changed one iota from his initial gut reaction—ignore it, and hope it went away.

His damp skin was chilled now thanks to the air-conditioning, and he reached for the T-shirt he’d taken off when he’d gone to bed. At ten o’clock, no less. Who went to bed at ten, anyway? Five-year-olds? Nuns? He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in bed so early.

Still, it wasn’t as if he had anything better to do, since he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Sophie Gallagher since their almost-close encounter in the kitchen. He’d gone down at dinnertime to find the table set and his meal—a goddamned salad with steamed salmon and a midget-size portion of fruit salad—laid out in state for him. After eating alone, he’d exhausted the possibilities of television for a few hours, then finally retreated to bed to read some of his scripts.

Now it was three in the morning, and he was awake. And unlikely to be going back to sleep, the way he was feeling right now.

Grabbing his crutches, he tucked them into his armpits and headed for the door. Just for laughs, he took the broad steps down to the ground floor two at a time, then hopped into the living room. The room was dark and filled with shadows, but he’d identified the liquor cabinet earlier and now honed in on it unerringly. After swigging a mouthful each from three bottles, he identified a nice single-malt scotch and poured himself a generous tumblerful. He could have turned on the light and read the labels, but where was the fun in that?

Grabbing the bottle in one hand and the tumbler in the other, he made his way to the long couch in front of the fireplace. Stretching out along its length, he settled into the cushions and savored the burn of good alcohol sliding down his throat.

Technically, he wasn’t supposed to drink in combination with the painkillers he was on. He laughed as he poured himself another generous drink. He’d never been good at coloring within the lines.

As he stared out into the dark night, his thoughts gravitated to the absent Sophie again.

What was her story, anyway? It was possible she was married, of course. He’d checked for a wedding ring—none, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t. He didn’t do married. He didn’t do anything that smacked of hassle, trouble or strife. Or, more importantly, commitment. So perhaps it was just as well that Sophie had slipped away from him this afternoon, remembering the way her big brown eyes had stared at him as he’d zeroed in for the kill. She wasn’t like Candy-Cindy, ready to barter her body in exchange for a brush with fame. He recalled the feeling he’d gotten from Sophie—that sense of warmth and earthiness.

No, it probably was just as well that nothing had actually happened between them.

He laughed soundlessly as he swallowed another mouthful of scotch.

Who was he kidding? If the opportunity presented itself, he’d take advantage. Hell, he might even go so far as to make an opportunity present itself.

Grinning in the dark, he reached for the bottle to top up his drink again.

HE WAS DRUNK. Or at least he had been at some stage during the night. Even standing a few feet away from him at eight o’clock the next morning, Sophie could smell the alcohol coming off his body—his almost-naked body—stretched out along the couch in a boneless sprawl.

Or maybe naked was a subjective assessment. Some people might consider the skin-hugging, black boxer-briefs and chest-moulding T-shirt he was wearing more than ample clothing. Nudists, for example.