Remember When 3: The Finale Part 14

Trip's need to kill Bert was being overshadowed by his need to not destroy our evening. I could see the slight shift in his expression and used that line of logic to my advantage. "It will ruin our night, okay? Please don't let him."

He didn't say a word, but he didn't go after Bert, either. Instead, he grabbed me by my wrist and practically dragged me around the corner, slammed me against the wall and opened his mouth on mine.

Whoa.

I was caught off guard, but it didn't take me long to melt into his forceful kiss. Our tongues tangled as he groped at my breast, his other hand gripping my gown at my thigh, lifting and gathering it in his hand until he could slip his palm underneath and grab my a.s.s. His hips jacked into mine, his hardening length grinding against the front of my dress, causing the body parts underneath said dress to clench from the heat he was creating between us.

I should have been more concerned with someone catching us, right there in a shallow alcove, where anyone could turn the corner and find us at any second. But Jesus, the kiss was freaking hot.

I grabbed his lapels in my hands, pressed myself against him, and I could feel how hard he was, that amazing fifth limb of his straining against the fabric of his pants. He let out with a growl and teased his fingers against the edge of my garters, pulling one of the straps away and letting it snap against my thigh.

"You're mine."

My brain had shut off, stealing my ability to form actual words. "Mm hmm."

"You called me 'baby.' I like that."

"Mm hmm."

"You little liar. You're still wearing your panties. But not for long."

That one jogged me out of my trance as I giggled and answered, "Mmm hmm."

"Do you have any idea what I want to do to you right now? Feel this. Feel what you're doing to me." He took my hand and pressed it against the front of his pants. "It's torture, knowing what you've got on under this dress. You're leaving the garters on."

Note to self: Always, always let Trip see what I'm wearing under my clothes at the beginning of the night.

I was coming unhinged, right there in a restroom alcove in the middle of Chteau Blanco. I mean, the guy wasn't just s.e.xy. He was s.e.x.

"Jesus," he hissed, exasperated. "We gotta get out of here. Unless..." He pointed to the restrooms nearby, and I took note of the signs on the door: Men's Room. Ladies' Room. Men's and Ladies' Room.

"Ewww. Is that one for what I think it is?"

"You didn't see that yet?"

"No! Do people really..."

"Well, they're not really supposed to, but it doesn't stop them."

"Grody! Let's just go back to your place."

"Good idea."

Walking back into the party, some b.o.o.bified blonde intercepted us and wedged herself between Trip and me, her back in my face. "Trip Wiley," she purred, trailing a hand down his arm. "My, my, my. Where have you been hiding yourself, handsome?"

Ugh. Nice line, hosebag. Where did this chick get off? He was obviously there with me, yet she chose to completely ignore that small fact in her quest to make time with my boyfriend. Again, from the looks of it.

Smelly pirate hooker. Go back to your home on Wh.o.r.e Island.

Trip very politely excused himself from her clutches and led me over to our booth to grab our stuff. I'd been looking forward to diving into the SWAG bags as soon as humanly possible, but suddenly, I could care less about them. I was way too p.i.s.sed to be curious about a sack of free tchotchkes.

Trip put a hand at my elbow, and the contact served to break my control. I spun on my heel and snapped, "Is there anyone in this city you haven't f.u.c.ked?"

His shoulders sunk as he registered the broken look on my face, the barely restrained tears. "Layla, come on. That was before. You and I weren't together for a long time."

"Oh, but 'you never stopped loving me'. I was 'always with you'."

He slid his hand up and down my arm. "You were. You are. Babe. Don't do this. Don't be one of those crazy jealous girls. It's not who you are."

I don't know where he got the impression that I wasn't a jealous person. I guessed we just hadn't ever been a couple long enough before to be able to find out.

The truth was, I was feeling pretty green right at that moment. Not just green-eyed in a monster-like capacity, but green about this entire world of fast and loose s.e.x.

Green-skinned as I became sick to my stomach.

Trip was looking at me hopefully, unsure of just exactly what to say. He raised a hand to my face and brushed a thumb against my cheek. "I love you."

I let out a conceding breath at his words. "I know. I know you do. This is..." just so much to handle. "This is just not how I pictured the ending of our night. When I see hints of your life as him, it's kind of confusing for me. Understand?"

"Oh, Lay," he chuckled and wrapped his arms around me, holding me tightly against his chest. "It's not real. We are. I'm sorry if all this made you doubt that."

All this. The glitz and the glamour, the flashbulbs and the phoniness. I shouldn't have been doubting him. Just because he was playing Trip Wiley all evening didn't mean that's who he was to me. I'd have to do a better job of reminding myself I was in The Land of Make Believe. To be honest, it felt as though I were playing some sort of part, too. The jealousy thing was a tad out of character.

He tipped my chin to his face, bent down and gave me a sweet kiss along my lips.

A very real, very sincere kiss. A Trip Wilmington kiss.

The gesture thawed me out and allayed my concerns. And thankfully, by the time we got back to his house, we'd both decided to table the incident.

It was easy to overlook almost anything when Trip was intent on making me forget.

He made leisurely love to me for hours, and after that, I couldn't even remember my name.

Chapter 20.

COME AWAY HOME.

We had a couple free weeks to take it easy, considering Slap Shot wasn't due to start filming until the end of March. We went out into the world sometimes, but mostly, we just enjoyed staying in. It was easier to relax when we were able to take up residence in our own, private coc.o.o.n.

Because going out was always a spectacle.

In spite of the baseball cap, Trip was stopped everywhere we went; people asking for autographs, tourists snapping pictures. He took it all in stride, but it was a little overwhelming for me. I was astounded at the attention he attracted. I mean, I knew he was famous and all, but knowing something and living it were two totally different things. I watched his interactions with awe, seeing "Trip Wiley" the way the world saw him, the pieces of this public figure they thought they were ent.i.tled to. Who was this s.e.xy, urbane man that had emerged from the clunky (but okay, yeah, still s.e.xy) teenager I once knew? When Trip was being him, he carried himself with an inflated confidence which managed to come off as almost... graceful.

I spent some of our time in seclusion getting some writing done, and thank G.o.d, because I had barely thought about work since the moment Trip walked back into my life. Aside from that notable distraction, it was just simply too hard to get back into the grind out there. California was so laid-back. Content. Peaceful.

At first when I'd taken over Trip's office, I spent more time staring out at the sunshine than doing any work. I daydreamed. I called Dad. I called Lisa.

My best friend was such an enabler during that time. She'd call every few hours with questions about the Academy Awards. Who was hotter in person; how tall was so-and-so really? I told her a few stories, but kept most of the slimy stuff to myself for the time being. I didn't want to tarnish her impression of the glamorous Hollywood faade that she'd come to know; the shiny, star-studded lifestyle of her imaginings. Besides. Lisa was never one to let me get more than a few words in edgewise. I was saving the details for when I got home.

I was also, apparently, saving my productivity for another time. I did everything but work during those first days.

I watched every one of Trip's movies that I hadn't yet seen, then I watched the ones I already had. I collected all the entertainment magazines that had covered the Oscars and clipped any pictures I found of Trip and me together.

I swam. I cooked. I organized my notes.

I was totally stalling.

Finally, out of nowhere, inspiration struck and I spent three solid days banging away at my keyboard, barely coming up for air. Trip was busy preparing for his movie, so I was able to get some words down without feeling too neglectful. But even so, when an idea for a book finally sets off a creative spurt, I have no choice but to run with it.

My big epiphany had come from that read-through the other day. After meeting Patrick Van Keegan, I'd come up with a story about a washed-up Hollywood actor in the days leading up to his suicide. I'd hardly call Patrick Van Keegan a has-been, but seeing him that day gave me the idea. You just never know when a muse will present itself. I'd already t.i.tled it "The Last Act," and the ideas for it just wouldn't stop flooding my brain.

I'd called Diana with the pitch, and she just went nuts for it. That added motivation was what had me tapping away on my laptop the past few days, practically nonstop. Which was a good thing, because between the fiction novel for Diana and the memoir for Trip, I had a lot of writing to do.

I was starting to burn out.

But I had to keep going. Not only was I on a self-imposed deadline, but I truly loved it. I knew, though, that I had to find my balance between loving it and loving Trip at the same time. It was too easy to get lost in him, and I didn't want that to happen.

Trip seemed to be stressing a bit as well. I had walked in on another heated phone conversation that morning and quickly realized it was Bert coercing Trip into doing his film. It wasn't the first call like that, and I knew Trip was tired of the incessant pressure and schmoozing. My impression of Bert at the Oscar after-party still lingered, and I felt it was pretty insane that either of them would even consider working together after almost trading fists.

But this was Hollywood. Things were a little different out there.

Bert was a complete a.s.s, but a talented director, and Trip thought that the script was amazing. The whole situation was absolutely crazypants to me. Where else on Earth can a potential employee threaten to beat the s.h.i.t out of a potential employer and still be pursued for the job? I thought the man was a skeeze and I hoped Trip would flat-out turn him down. But it wasn't my decision to make. Trip wasn't even surprised to find that the guy still wanted to work with him, which was more than a little disconcerting. He'd become almost used to the way things were done in that city. I didn't think I ever would.

His moody outbursts had become more frequent over the past few weeks, but I made a point to remind myself that it wasn't personal. The old Layla would have a.s.sumed she had done something wrong; the new Layla trusted that he would come to me if I were the source of his frustrations. Striving for better communication wasn't always easy, but our recent efforts had been an improvement between us, and that certainly counted for something.

Between his dealings with Bert and his preparations for his upcoming movie, Trip was burning out, too. He must've finally decided to take a break from studying his script as he made his way into the office and slumped down in a leather chair across from the desk. I looked up just long enough to acknowledge him as he shot me a contented smile. He didn't interrupt my frenetic pace and just sat there watching me for a while. It was nice having him there, his silent presence a cozy encouragement.

I was in my zone and had barely registered that he was even still in the room when he asked, "Hey. You in the mood to catch a concert? The Chili Peppers are playing at the Bowl. I can get us tickets."

I had a pencil between my teeth and didn't even look up from the keyboard. "Can't. Writing."

"How 'bout some dinner? You want to go out or stay in?"

"Hmm. Sounds good, hon." I registered that I wasn't really paying attention to whatever it was that he was asking, but whatevs. We'd talk about it later. Tapatapataptap.

"You want to move in with me?"

I was still pounding away at the keys, and wasn't even sure what he'd just said. It took an extra minute for his words to finally sink in, and when they did, I stopped dead in my tracks. My hands went motionless and I looked up to meet his eyes. The pencil dropped out of my mouth as I asked, "What?"

"Well, that got your attention!" he said, cracking himself up.

Did he seriously just ask me if I wanted to move in with him? "Wait. Did you... what?"

He came around to my side of the desk, knelt down on the floor, and swiveled my chair to face him. He rubbed his hands against my knees and said, "I know you're heading back next week, and I kind of figured you'd be coming back, but I wanted to officially ask you to do so." He pulled a mini Rubik's Cube keychain out of his pocket and dangled a silver key in front of his face. "I had this made for you."

"Trip!" I shouldn't have been so stunned. I mean, how did we plan on being together if I lived on the opposite side of the country? But just hearing him actually say the words, seeing the sweet, shy look on his face... my body's response to his gesture just caught me by surprise. My heart started pounding and my eyes actually welled up as I took the keychain from his outstretched hand.

And then I kissed him.

Right there on the floor of our office.

Trip's birthday was on March 15th.

He had yet another meeting with the Slap Shot crew, as they readied to start shooting in a few more weeks. I was amazed at how much time and work went into filming a movie even before the cameras started rolling. Trip informed me that it was nothing compared to the time and work that goes into a movie after. But at least his bodily presence wouldn't be required too often during that phase until it was time to start promoting it.

His meeting was first thing in the morning, so I barely had a chance to wish him a happy birthday before he was out the door. I felt bad that the guy had to go in to the studio on his special day, but he a.s.sured me it wouldn't take very long. It ended up working out great, though, because it gave me a few hours to throw an impromptu "party" together. The guests would only consist of his immediate family, but I figured they were the people he'd most like to spend his day with anyway.

What was interesting to me was that he had numerous acquaintances out there, but not too many close friends. He was tight with his agent, David, and he'd bonded instantaneously with Carlos, his director from Slap Shot. I saw the way he interacted with all those industry people at the Oscars, laughing and chatting and having a great time. But he wasn't really friends with any of them. I guessed since he spent most of his time trying to avoid the limelight-and the drinking that went with it-he was kind of insulated from the social aspects of that world.

He'd been talking to Pickford pretty regularly since the wake, though, and I was glad that between his old buddy and his new pals, he at least had a small handful of people to make up his inner circle, a reliable group of friends that would make sure not to lead him astray.

I was just putting the finishing touches on the dining room table setup when Sandy arrived to help me decorate the house. She put the baby down in her bedroom, the pink-and-white s.p.a.ce that her uncle had painted himself in antic.i.p.ation of her arrival months before.

Sandy and I got to work decorating, and we really pulled out all the cheese to do so. She actually picked up some crepe streamers and balloons on her way over to the house. Sandy started in with hanging the streamers, and I took over balloon duty. But since we didn't have a helium tank, I just blew them up and piled them all along the bar.

It was ironic that Trip had a fully-stocked bar in his home, so huge it took over an entire wall of his living room. I mean, not only was he a recovering alcoholic, but he didn't do much entertaining. I couldn't quite grasp why it was even under his roof, much less in the most lived-in s.p.a.ce in the house.

I had just finished with the balloons and recovered from my lightheadedness when I decided to join Sandy with the rest of the decorating. Out of nowhere, she took a deep breath and blurted out, "I owe you an apology."

"For what?" I asked absently, balancing on a step ladder.

Sandy rolled the leftover streamers around the spool as she slumped down onto a side chair. "For not...you know... For not trying to step in and straighten you two out all those years ago."

I was startled by her words and came down off the ladder. "Sandy... Why would you owe me an apology for that? We screwed that up, not you. It wasn't your fault."

"It was just difficult, you know? It's so hard working for family sometimes. I never know when to draw the line between being an employee and being a sister-in-law to him. I really try to separate the two, and normally, I do a good job of it. But that thing in New York... I just want you to know that I know I chose the wrong role."

I sat down on the chair next to hers. I was touched that she was taking my life so personally, but I really didn't want her to keep beating herself up about it. "You were only doing what Trip asked you to do. I wasn't happy about it, but I never blamed you."

"But I should have told him to get his head out of his a.s.s. I should have told him to at least speak to you." She played with the roll of streamers in her hands before adding, "You should know that I came right over here as soon as he got back and tried to talk some sense into him. But he said if I ever even so much as mentioned your name to him again, he'd not only fire me, but cut Claudia off as well."

That sounded a bit extreme to me, but I was sure he was only lashing out at the world because I'd hurt him so deeply. It didn't make it right, but I understood the feeling. All too well.

She put the streamers on the table and met my eyes. "I knew he didn't really mean it, a.s.sumed he was simply too raw to discuss it at the time, and just figured I'd give him a few days to cool down about it. But then I made the mistake of trying to talk to him one day when he had a few in him. He shot me a look-G.o.d. I'd never seen that look on his face before or since-it just froze me in my tracks. I didn't want to take the chance of riling him up if it meant he was going to make good on his threat. We'd just bought the house in Santa Monica, we were looking into adopting the baby... we knew we needed his help with those things. I've always been ashamed that I didn't bring it up again."

"Oh, Sandy. I'm so sorry you got mixed up in all that! You didn't do anything wrong. In fact, you did exactly what he asked you to do. I'm so sorry I turned him into such a monster."

"He really was," Sandy snickered out. "It took me some time before I was able to figure out he was only taking out his hurt on us. I should have known that sooner and stepped in. I should have stepped in anyway."

She looked so guilty sitting there, but I truly didn't want her to hold herself responsible for Trip's and my stupidity. "No. Please don't question yourself about it another minute. Please stop being so hard on yourself! Really. Everything is working out exactly as it was supposed to. I just feel bad that you've been so stressed out about it all this time. If anything, we owe you the apology. Did he ever...?"