I had to hold it together before I completely lost it. “I just want you to be happy, Ryan, without jeopardizing your career. The media is going to rip you . . . I can’t stand it, knowing I caused you pain and humiliation today. You have no idea how sorry I am. I should have stayed out of the way.” I walked back into the bedroom and grabbed some of my clothes, shoving them back into my suitcase.
“What are you doing?”
“Packing.”
“We don’t leave until the morning.” I ambled around the room collecting my things, feeling soreness in my bruised knee. I knew if I stopped moving the tears would flow and I really didn’t want to cry in front of him right now.
“You’ve spent enough time today worrying about me,” I muttered ruefully. “Please just . . . You need to get ready for your premiere.”
His face fell. “Babe, are you hurt somewhere else? You look like you’re limping.”
If I tell him, he’ll blow off the premiere for sure. Well, not because of me, he won’t. I tried to shove the pain aside. “No.” Ryan marched over to me, ripped my shoes from my hand, and hurled them across the room.
“Stop fucking packing! “What part of I’m
not going without you didn’t you understand? You expect me to what, just roll out of here without you so I can come back later to find that you’ve run off?”
I shook my head, adamantly denying his assumption. I doubted France had a big enough rock for me to crawl under.
“You think I don’t know your MO by now?
How you willingly martyr yourself for my greater good? Dammit, Taryn. You think all this shit means that much to me? I can’t believe you’d think I’d just leave you here alone after all you’ve been through today.”
He threw a few of his own clothes into his open suitcase. “You wanna go? Fine. Let’s go.
We’ll be on the next fucking plane home.” I set my jacket down. His newfound anger frightened me. “I wasn’t going to leave.”
Well, not that I would ever admit. “It’s just . . . I feel like shit for bringing this on you. I’m mad, and embarrassed, and frustrated.”
The scab on my lower lip pulled, reminding me that I had matching bruises on the outside as well.
“I will
never, ever put you in a position where you’d have to choose between me and your career, Ryan.
Never. I’ll never do that.” I gathered up my shoes from the floor.
Why he puts up with me, I’ll never know.
“What did you just say?”
I froze. I didn’t think my internal grumblings were audible.
“Did you just say, ‘put up with you’?” I reluctantly nodded.
Ryan grabbed one of the ornate side chairs, forcefully pulling it closer to the bed.
He propped his legs up, crossing them at the ankles. “Oh, I’ve gotta hear this shit. Please, go on. Enlighten me how I
put up with you.” Common sense told me this wasn’t going to end well so why bother starting. I should have kept my mouth shut.
“Well?” He was growing impatient. So was I.
My Christian Louboutin black pump ricocheted off the lid when I lobbed it at my suitcase. I was so riled I’d resorted to mistreat-ing the thousand-dollar shoes that Ryan had purchased for me. “All I wanted to do was look at a jacket and even that turned into a disaster.”
He looked around the room. “Did you buy it? I don’t see any bags.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“You went shopping and didn’t buy anything?”
“I lost my shopping bags when I fell. I bought some gifts, but everything I bought disappeared in the mêllée.”
Ryan sat up. “How much did you lose?” I shook my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”
“I used my charge card so it’s my loss,” I muttered contritely.
“Jesus Christ, Tar.” He got up and stalked around the room. “Where’s your purse?” he growled, shoving things around to look for it.
“What do you want it for?” I moved my coat to get it.
“Because now you’ve pissed me off.” He grabbed the small bag from my hand and yanked on the zipper. Then he slipped my credit card out and examined it.
“This,” he said, holding it up, “is mine now. It doesn’t exist.” He looked at the other card, which was our joint card, and shoved it back in its slot.
“Wait, stop—”
He grabbed his wallet out of his jeans pocket and confiscated my card. “I don’t give a shit if you need it to put gas in your fucking car; you use our card from now on.” He was being ridiculous. I held out my hand. “Come on. Just give it back.” He shoved his wallet back in his pocket and glared at me. “Do you want to wear that ring?”
“What?” I looked at my hand.
“Do you want to be my wife, yes or no?” Now he was scaring me. “Of course I want to be your wife, but th—”
“No buts. It’s a yes-or-no question, Taryn.”
I squared my shoulders. “Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
Gah. “Yes, I want to be your wife.”
“Good. Then get over your shit. Got me?”
“Ryan, you know I—”
“Got me?” he yelled louder. “I’m not playing this game anymore, Tar. All this bullshit provides for one hell of a lifestyle so deal with it. I provide. I take care of what’s mine.
And if you even so much as breathe on my wallet to get your card so help me God I will tie your ass up, lock you in a fucking room, and play Guns N’ Roses on endless loop.” I gasped. Now he was fighting dirty. “You wouldn’t . . .”
“Oh no? Try me.”
“You can’t take my cr—”
“Oh no? ‘Welcome to the jungle, baby.’
Over and over again. That what you want?” I rubbed a fingertip over my cracked lip, cringing. “No.”
“Good, now that we have that settled, why don’t you tell me how this other bullshit got started.”
“I woke up?”
He frowned at me.
I sat down on the edge of the bed. “There wasn’t a huge crowd outside when I left the hotel.”
“And?”
“And . . . when I came back there were hundreds. The police wouldn’t let me enter the hotel without proof of stay. I tried to get closer to the entrance and then I accidentally stepped on some girl’s toe.” Ryan stared at my incredulously. “A toe.