Acid and amaretto climbed up the back of her throat.
She needed to find a place to vomit. She forced her way into the crowd, pushed through bodies swaying to the rapid tempo. The music bombarded her. Lights strobed. Sour body odor, cologne, alcoholic breath. Hard limbs and pointed joints.
Was Michael still kissing that woman?
Her eyes flooded with tears. The bodies formed a cage around her. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t cry for help.
A hand closed around hers.
Michael?
No, it was Quan.
He shoved people aside. A woman swore at him when he made her spill her drink. A guy shoved him back. Quan merely elbowed the guy to the side and brushed past. Through it all, his hold on her hand remained secure and steady. He led her through the people, opened a door, and cool, sweet air floated over her face.
The door clicked shut, muting the music. Someone was gasping. The flashing light was gone. She covered her eyes and sank down to the cold cement. Her trembling legs refused to take her weight.
“Thank you,” she made herself say.
“Are you all right?”
“Going to throw up.” Her nails clawed at the sidewalk as she tried to find a suitable place to be sick. She couldn’t get enough air into her lungs.
“Easy, easy. Slow breaths.” He moved as if to touch her but stopped when she flinched away. “Sit up straight. That’s it. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
Who was gasping like that? The sound was driving her out of her mind.
“Hold on. Let me go get Michael.”
“Don’t.” She grabbed his wrist. “I’m fine.” She leaned back against the side of the building and turned her face into it. The coldness felt good on her fevered forehead, distracted her from thinking about Michael with that woman. Michael kissing that woman.
With her mouth almost touching the wall, the sound of the gasping grew louder, and she realized it was coming from her.
She gritted her teeth together, fisted her hands, and tightened every muscle in her body. The gasping stopped.
“Do you need anything?” Quan asked.
“I’m fine. I’m just overstimulated.” She was already feeling better, though her temples throbbed.
Quan tilted his head to the side. “My brother used to get overstimulated just like this. He’s autistic.”
Her chest constricted at his words. She shouldn’t have used the word overstimulated. Most people didn’t use it. Why would they? When he narrowed his eyes, she could almost see the connections being made in his mind, the question forming there.
She held her breath and hoped he wouldn’t ask. She could withhold the truth, but she’d never learned how to lie.
“Are you?”
Her shoulders slumped, and her throat burned with shame. She made herself nod.
“Michael doesn’t know, does he? He never would’ve taken you here if he knew. You should tell him.”
All she could do was shake her head. Anytime people learned about her disorder, they started walking on eggshells around her. It strained the relationship until they found a way to leave. She never told people anymore. Apparently, that wasn’t enough to keep some from figuring it out on their own.
“Can I borrow a hundred dollars from you, please? I want to go home.” And her credit card was inside.
“You’re going to leave? Michael’s probably looking for you.”
She doubted that. He’d been busy. As she pushed herself to her feet, she marveled at the disconnect between her body and her mind. How could her limbs still follow orders when her head felt so tired and hollow? “I promise I’ll pay you back.”
“Is this because that chick kissed him? I hope you saw Michael trying to peel her off. He sucks at protecting himself from women.”
Hope sparked, bright and foolish. “Really?”
The door opened, and a swift techno beat radiated from the doorway.
“There you are.” Michael stepped outside, and the door shut behind him, silencing the music. His gaze jumped from her to Quan and back again. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I needed some fresh air.”
Quan’s brow furrowed like he wanted to speak, and Stella held her breath.
Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him. Don’t tell him.
He’d change. Everything would change. And she didn’t want that to happen yet.
“She was trying to borrow cab fare from me. She saw you and that blonde necking and wanted to run,” Quan said.
Her stomach didn’t know if it should relax or knot tighter at his words. He made her sound emotional and possessive. She wished it weren’t true.
“You were going to leave? Just like that?” Michael asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
She stared down at the pavement. “I thought you and her—that you—”
“No. With you right there? Give me some credit, will you? God, Stella.”
He gripped her waist and pulled her against him. His smell, his arms tight around her, his solid presence. Heaven. She shut her eyes and sagged against him.
“Do you want to go back in?” he asked.
“No.” Adrenaline shot through her body, tightening every muscle that had relaxed in his embrace. As an afterthought, she added, “Please.”
“Let’s go home, then.”
Chapter 11
Stella was reserved as they walked the few blocks back to her white Model S. Several times, Michael caught her massaging her temples, but when he asked if she had a headache, her response was an unintelligible mumble. He would have thought she was doing the silent martyr act in retribution for his supposed cheating, but that didn’t seem her style.
No, her style was leaving him without a single word. When Quan had told him she wanted to abandon him at the club, it’d sucker-punched Michael in the gut. The last person to leave him had been his dad. But where Michael’s dad had left him with an enormous mess to clean up, Stella had planned to leave him with her car and her credit card. Who did that?
Even worse, he hadn’t deserved it. Either time.
Tonight, he’d been busy preventing his crazy ex-client from making an enormous scene in front of Stella. Aliza was a true diva and loved drama in all forms. Now that she’d finally succeeded in divorcing her millionaire husband—and taking half of his net worth—she wanted Michael back. She was willing to pay whatever it took.
She refused to accept that Michael would rather fuck his way through splintered driftwood than return to her bed. She’d detained him for long minutes, tossing extravagant numbers at him before plastering her mouth to his.
He would forever associate the taste of cinnamon gum, cigarettes, and whiskey with Aliza.
So different from Stella, who tasted like . . . mint chocolate chip ice cream.
They piled into her car, and she activated the seat warmer, sank against the backrest, and stared out the window, absently tapping her fingers on her knees. He turned the radio on to break the silence, but she promptly turned it back off. Her fingers resumed their tapping. It was hypnotic but a little annoying.
He sent her a pointed look, but she didn’t notice.
After he took them out of the city and merged into the light traffic on 101S, he broke down and said, “When you do that finger tapping, are you playing a song? Like on the piano?”
She stopped tapping her fingers and sat on her hands. “It’s Debussy’s Arabesque. I really like the combination of triplets and eighth notes.”
“So you play?” When he’d picked her up from her downtown Palo Alto house, it had been impossible to miss the black grand piano dominating her otherwise empty living room. If she was artistically talented on top of being smart, successful, and gorgeous, she was officially his dream woman in the flesh. And so far out of his league as to be laughable.
Even if he didn’t have all the shit associated with his dad dangling between them, he had almost nothing a girl like her could want. There was his face and his body, but anyone could have that if they paid enough. Maybe she would have been attracted to the old him, the man who had been free to pursue his passions. There’d been a lot going for that guy. Michael barely knew him anymore.
“I do,” Stella said. “I started playing before I could speak.”