Why Resist a Rebel? (15 page)

Until tonight. Tonight he’d done a really crap job of hiding it.

He didn’t think Ruby would be coming back tomorrow night. This wasn’t what she’d signed up for.

He pushed the door open, not bothering to switch off the light. The bathroom light flooded the room, and the obvious feminine shape on the bed.

For a minute or more he just stood there, then gave his increasingly blurry head a shake, and switched off the light.

In the gloom he slid onto his side of the bed, and without letting himself think too much—and quite frankly with the drugs unable to do much thinking anyway—he reached for her.

She wasn’t asleep, he realised, and she turned to face him in his arms.

‘I’m fine,’ he whispered into her hair.

‘I want you to be,’ she said, her breath tickling his chest.

And then his eyes slid shut, but a moment before the thick blackness of drugged sleep enveloped him he made a decision.

Tomorrow things would change. Not because he’d crossed his fingers or shouted into his brain that it would, but because he’d just lied to Ruby.

And he didn’t want to do that again.

I want you to be.

Finally, he slept.

TWELVE

Late on Wednesday afternoon—two days later—Dev knocked on his mother’s front door. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans to stop himself fidgeting, but it was a pretty useless gesture.

He was nervous.

He’d chartered another jet, and the entire flight he’d bounced his legs, or tapped his toes or
something.
Now he turned around on the spot, looking out onto the manicured front garden and his nondescript hire car, taking deep, relaxing breaths.

This really wasn’t a big deal. It was his mum, and—despite everything—he knew she loved him.

Behind him the door rattled—the sound of the brass chain lock being undone, the click of the deadbolt, the twist of the door handle.

By the time the door opened, he was staring at it, waiting.

‘Devlin!’ his mum exclaimed, once again with a smile broader than he deserved. Then she paused. ‘Is everything okay?’

She looked momentarily stricken, and he wanted to kick himself. Was a disaster the only reason she could imagine him visiting her unannounced?

Well, given the past fourteen years—probably.

‘Everything’s fine. Everyone’s fine, as far as I know.’

She nodded, then opened the door wide. ‘Well, come in! I was just going through the photos from my party. It was so wonderful to have you there.’

He nodded automatically, then reached out, grabbing his mum’s hand and holding it tight.

‘Mum, I’d like to talk to you about Dad.’

Instantly he saw the pain in her eyes, but she squeezed his fingers tighter.

‘Good,’ she said. ‘Because I’ve got something I want to show you.’

Dev had cancelled dinner last night, and as Ruby walked to his front door late on Wednesday evening she wasn’t sure what to expect.

Tuesday morning had been...eye-opening. When his alarm went off Dev just kept on sleeping, and it wasn’t until she’d given him a decent shake that he’d finally woken.

He’d looked unhappy to see her, though. As if he’d wished the night had never happened, that she’d never seen him like that.

She’d felt like such an idiot, as the final pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place. That morning a few weeks back when she and Graeme had nearly bashed the front door down, Dev hadn’t been sleeping in. He hadn’t been so arrogant to believe his needs were more important than the rest of the cast and crew.

Something serious was going on with Dev, and she’d been at first oblivious—and then later deliberately dismissive—of the signs.

She’d been scared by how close she’d felt herself get to him, so she’d kept her distance.

Yeah, that was the word: scared.

But now what was she to do? All she could offer him was two more weeks. That was all she had. And she desperately wanted to help.

Now wasn’t that a contradiction? So worried for Dev her heart ached, but so sure she had to leave.

He’d left the front door ajar, so she pushed it open, her heeled boots loud on the hallway’s floorboards.

‘Dev?’

He called out from the kitchen, and so that was where she headed. He sat at the rustic dining table, cutlery, a bottle of wine and two glasses set out neatly. On his placemat only, however, lay a battered-looking notebook. He stood as she walked into the room.

‘What’s all this for?’ she asked, taking in the soft lighting, and the scent of something delicious bubbling on the stove.

‘I cooked,’ he said, then added when she must have displayed her scepticism, ‘Really. I make a mean puttanesca.’

She smiled, his enthusiasm completely infectious. ‘Lucky me.’

He bent to kiss her, his lips firm. It was more than a quick hello kiss, and when they broke apart Ruby’s heart was racing. Without thinking she brought her hand to her chest, and his lips quirked at the gesture.

‘Me, too,’ he said.

Dev wouldn’t let her help as he confidently moved about the kitchen, so she propped a hip against the bench, and watched him as she sipped her wine.

They chatted about the day on set—about the temporary disaster of Arizona falling off the horse she was riding, the director’s latest tantrum, and even the glorious cool but sunny weather.

But not the little notebook on the table.

Ruby would glance at it every so often, and after a while Dev grinned. ‘I was going to explain while we ate—but you can go grab it if you like.’

She didn’t need to be asked twice.

She sat at the dining table, facing Dev. But he’d slowed right down, his gaze regularly flicking in her direction.

The notebook had a brown leather cover, with Dev’s surname embossed in a corner. Ruby ran a finger over it, already sure she knew who it once belonged to.

‘It’s your dad’s, right?’

Dev nodded, but he kept his eyes focused on the pot he stirred.

Ruby opened the book. The first page was covered in numbers and dollar symbols. As was the next. A quick flick through the entire book showed it was nearly full with almost identical pages—dollar amounts. Some huge. Tens of millions of dollars. Hundreds of millions.

‘What is this?’

Dev was carrying two plates piled high with pasta to the table. He placed them down carefully, then waited until he was in his seat before looking at Ruby—straight into her eyes, his gaze crystal clear.

‘All I wanted, growing up, was for my dad to be proud of me.’

His voice cracked a little, and Ruby wanted to reach for him, but knew, instinctively, that now wasn’t the time.

Dev swallowed. ‘A cliché, I know. When I failed at that as a kid, I told myself I’d stopped caring what he thought. I used to tell myself that I wanted to become an actor because Dad would hate it, not because, deep down, I knew I was good at it. And that maybe, eventually, he’d see that.’

He kept twirling his fork, the same strands of pasta wrapping tighter and tighter.

‘But he didn’t. Then I left, and that was that. No more caring what Dad thought about me, no more looking to him for praise and approval. Except, then he went and died. And I realised that was all absolute crap. I’ve been waiting fourteen years to speak to my dad.’

‘You still cared what he thought.’

Dev nodded, but then shook his head. ‘Kind of. Of course I still wanted the slap on the back, the
good job, son,
all that stuff. But most of all, I just wanted to hear his voice. He worked so hard to achieve his goals, and he reached every single one. I should’ve swallowed my pride.’

His tone was so different from that afternoon on the beach. Now he spoke with near reverence—it was such a contrast. ‘He could’ve called you, too,’ Ruby pointed out. ‘You’re his son just as much as he’s your father.’

Dev smiled. ‘Of course he should’ve. But he was a stubborn old guy. Mum said he never even considered calling me. Or coming with her when I visited. But then, I was exactly the same. As stubborn as him.’

He reached across the table, and took the notebook that was still in Ruby’s hands. ‘You know what this is? It’s the takings at the box office for each of my movies. Every single one, right from that stupid one up at the Gold Coast that bombed. If he could find how much I was paid, that’s there, too.’

He flipped through the pages, running his fingers over the print.

‘Isn’t that a little...?’ Ruby struggled to find the right word.

‘Harsh? Brutal? Mercenary? Yes. But that’s Dad. That’s what he understood: cold, hard cash. He could relate to that in a way he couldn’t relate to my career.’

‘Doesn’t it bother you that this is what he focused on?’

Dev handed her back the book. Ruby opened it on a new page, now understanding the scribbled letters and numbers. It was meticulous: the box office takings across the world, DVD sales—everything.

This wasn’t something thrown together in minutes—it was hours of work. Hours of research over months—years even. Crossing out numbers, updating them, adding them together.

‘No,’ she said, answering her own question.

‘No,’ he repeated.

‘I went to a doctor today,’ Dev said, later, in bed.

Ruby’s back was to him, his body wrapped around hers.

She was silent, long enough that he thought she might have fallen asleep.

‘Yes?’ she said, eventually.

Her head was tucked beneath his chin, and her blonde hair smelt like cake, or cookies.
Vanilla-scented shampoo,
she’d told him, when he’d asked.

He hadn’t been going to tell her this. Stupid, really, when he’d told her all that other stuff.

He hadn’t even told his mum. He’d driven straight from his doctor’s appointment in the city to the house where he’d grown up. Not on the advice of the GP, but because he’d planned on doing it anyway.

He’d made his decision the night before. Things had to change—
he
had to change—and no one but Devlin Cooper could do it.

‘He thinks I could be depressed,’ he said. Then he said the rest much more quickly, before he second-guessed himself silent. Ruby deserved to know. ‘The trouble sleeping, the loss of appetite, the horrible mornings, it’s all textbook, apparently.’

Had she tensed in his arms?

‘I thought depression was...I don’t know. When people lock themselves in their house all day. Can’t work, can’t function, can’t...feel.’ Her words were very soft, almost muffled in the sheets.

‘It can be, I guess. My doctor explained the different types to me, and their symptoms. It just all fits, and the cause is pretty damn obvious. To be honest, I’m not all that surprised.’

She turned, pulling herself up a bit in the bed so her head rested on her pillow and she faced him. It was late, but enough moonlight filtered through the curtains for Dev to make out her expression; for once it was completely unreadable.

His palm felt cool against the fitted sheet, no longer touching her.

‘I knew something was wrong, right from when I first met you.’

She reached for him, tracing the line of his jaw, across to his lips.

‘I should’ve asked more questions, I should’ve pushed harder.’

Dev blinked, confused. ‘I wouldn’t have said anything. Not until now.’

She shook her head against the pillow, and carried on as if he’d never spoken. Her touch reached the fragile skin beneath his eyes, just as she had in his mother’s library. ‘I ignored this. I went back to my place each night
knowing
something was wrong.’

‘You didn’t do anything wrong,’ he said. ‘You
did
ask, but it wasn’t the right time for me to say anything. No time was right.’

Her fingers fluttered away from his skin, and she twisted her hands awkwardly together in front of herself.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

He smiled, but she was too busy staring at her hands to notice. ‘Don’t be. I used to call you my distraction. I did feel when I was with you.’

In different ways. To start with it was very simple, very basic: lust. The thrill of the chase. His competitive nature to win the girl who rejected him.

But it was still heady, still an abrupt contrast to the beigeness of the rest of his days—and certainly the blackness of his nights.

And even her presence hadn’t been enough to take him away from that.

But later, maybe even the first time she’d been in this room—when she’d been willing to do
anything
to get her job done, to get him to set—what he
felt
had shifted.

Oh, the lust was still there. There was something about Ruby, something about her smile, her laugh, her eyes...

But now there was more. Now there were moments of quiet that were the opposite of awkward. Times he looked at her and felt more connected to her than he could ever remember being with anyone. More comfortable but simultaneously completely off balance by his lack of familiarity with the emotions he felt around her.

‘A distraction,’ Ruby said, very, very softly.

Automatically he reached for her, but she moved, and his hand slid from her hip. ‘In the very best possible way.’

Her lips curved into somewhat of a smile, and he knew he’d made a mistake.

‘You’re more than that, you’re—’

But she cut him off.

‘So what happens next?’

He needed a moment to refocus. ‘With my depression?’

Her gaze flicked towards the ceiling. So she didn’t like that word. He was the opposite—the label, in its own way, was powerful.

‘The doctor gave me some pamphlets to read, and told me to have a think about it, and we’ll meet again in a few weeks’ time.’

‘When
The Land
wraps.’

‘Yeah,’ he said.

‘That sounds...’

‘Anti-climactic?’ Dev said, and she nodded. ‘Kind of. We talked for a while, and even though I’d already decided to visit my mum, what he said just made it even more obvious. Depression is the symptom—I needed to resolve the cause.’

‘And you think you have?’

Dev shifted his weight a little. ‘Maybe. I hope so.’

Would he sleep tonight? He had no idea.

He expected Ruby to ask more questions, but she didn’t. Instead they just lay there together, not touching.

More than anything he wanted to touch her, to pull her close against him again.

But if he did, she’d leave. He could as good as hear her excuses in his head.

It made no sense, none at all.

But Dev wanted her here, even at arm’s length—so he didn’t reach for her, and he didn’t say a word.

And, eventually, he slept.

Ruby didn’t sleep. She might’ve dozed, just a little, but mostly she just lay there, watching him.

Could it really be that easy? One visit to his mum, one battered leather notebook—and Dev was all better?

She didn’t believe it.

Something had changed, though. A switch flipped, a corner turned...something like that. Not once tonight had she glimpsed a bleakness in Dev. No more little moments where he’d leave her, leave whatever they’d been doing, and retreat to wherever it was where his sadness, his regret, his guilt and his doubts lay. A weight had lifted.

She
was
happy for him. Thrilled. For him. Watching him sleep like this—
really
sleep, a true, natural sleep—was kind of wonderful.

No, just straight wonderful. Now she knew what she’d seen before, that drugged nothingness masquerading as restfulness—and the difference was undeniable.