The Alpha Men's Secret Club 3(4)

“I hope not too, sir.”

She left, her cheeks flaming.

So she was free to continue her liaison with Rust now.

But at what price? And who would continue to pay for it?



*



She took a train to Rust’s penthouse and walked three blocks to Hartford Avenue, that swanky district which usually didn’t host the likes of her. Rust’s phone still went to Voicemail, but she had to see him – to find out if he was mad at her for whatever reason and how he was coping in general. This had to be tough for him. He was always so much in control, and a blow like this to his professional career had to hurt, no matter how stoic he seemed.

Her heart was bleeding for him. Rust, oh Rust. I love you so much that it literally hurts. Whatever Dean Whitehouse had said about him rankled, and she shoved it out of her mind. They didn’t understand what Rust and she had. None of them understood.

She wasn’t even sure if Rust was home, but she had to try.

When she got to the apartment building, a small crowd of photographers and reporters were standing outside. The doorman was steadfastly refusing them entry. Kate’s heart sank. She had not expected this.

“We just want a statement,” said someone.

“Do you know who the young girl is?” Someone else hurled this at the doorman. “Is she under-aged?”

“Did Professor O’Brien act in any sinister fashion in all the years he has been staying here?”

Kate’s feet froze. She wondered if it was a good idea to be coming here at all. The doorman, Tim, saw her standing at the edges of the crowd, and waved her in.

“Excuse me, please . . . you are blocking the way. We have residents waiting to come in.”

Kate was hesitant, but Tim nodded at her, as if to say, ‘It’ll be OK. I’ll take care of you’. Her urgency to find out if Rust was OK overrode her instinct to flee from the ravenous reporters. So she weaved her way through the crowd. She could smell the blood lust, like the tang of iron in the air, as she made her way into the apartment building.

She wondered if Rust was upstairs, looking down at the mayhem. She wondered too if he had seen her.

Tim said in a low voice, “Right this way, please.”

He ushered her to the penthouse elevator.

“Is he in?”

“Yes. He returned a few hours ago and barricaded himself inside. Just let me call him to tell him you’re here.”

“OK.” Her voice wavered. What if he didn’t want to see her? He had moods, she knew, and he had to be like a wounded tiger now, prowling around and hurting.

Tim went to the reception, picked up the phone and punched in a number. She stood there, aware that the reporters were still milled outside this private residence, afraid to step across the threshold for fear of prosecution. She could hear the phone on the other end ringing.

Tim clicked off.

“No answer.” He paused. “But he’s in there all right.”

“I see.” She licked her lips nervously. “C-could I go up anyway? I mean . . . I hope he’s OK.”

Tim eyed her, and then nodded. “I’ll show you up and you can ring the doorbell. But Ms. Penney? If he doesn’t want to answer . . . you have to leave him be. Some people just need to be alone when . . . you know.”

“Yes, I know. If he doesn’t want to answer, then – ” She shrugged helplessly.

He led her to the private elevator for the penthouse. He swiped the card and pressed the top button.

“You go right in, Miss.”

“You won’t be coming up?”

“No.” He smiled ruefully. “He might be mad if I did. But . . . he won’t take it out on you. I hope.”

“OK.”

Now she was more nervous than she had a right to be. The trouble with having a lover as volatile as Rust was that she didn’t know what to expect. Everything could be calm on the surface at one instant, and then it would be a thunderstorm the next. It made their relationship wondrously exciting – like ‘living on tenterhooks’ exciting. But it was also scary.

For all she knew, he could be getting ready to dump her already. She cringed, picturing what he could be thinking: Too much trouble. She’s already cost me my job. What else is she going to cost me?

“Good luck,” Tim said.

“Thanks.”

The elevator doors closed, and she was up. As the floors shot up on the indicator, her stomach grew tighter and her throat constricted. She had never been so scared in a long, long time. Oh God, I’m in this bad.

The doors finally slid open, and she made herself walk out to the penthouse she had become fairly acquainted with in a short period of time. She stopped in front of the imposing double doors. Should she ring the doorbell? Should she knock?