Chapter 51: The Crazy One

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"Look at me, Farmer."

It was hard to believe she'd once said those words to him. All he did was look at her. How had she not known? How did she not notice? Because she was the one whose focus was always on the world. His focus was always on her.

Frank Farmer was having an identity crisis.

But it wasn't Rachel Marron's fault. Not directly at least.

In the past week he'd flirted with a woman he hated, to get the name of a man he hated, to pay off that man with a load of cash he'd never see again, then he'd made Rachel flirt with a man she hated, in order for him to fulfill some paranoid delusion that everyone in this city was out to sabotage his only allowance of peace.

And he had failed.

Brock Chutney was not a good man, but he was not guilty of the crime in question.

Well, hell, it wasn't even really a crime in the eyes of the state.

The only crime that had been committed against Frank Farmer was that his privacy had been taken away. He was no better off than Rachel Marron. And that was his worst nightmare come true.

He'd done it all for Rachel. And he would have likely done it again. Because he was insane. And armed. And dangerous. And unmedicated.

While Tony and Ricky downed their bourbon in the room just across the hall, Frank crushed his forehead between both hands at the desk of Scott Pettigrew in the dark library, under a full judgemental moon. He'd laid his pistol out on the surface of the desk, allowing its striking black gleam to taunt him – just like Rachel's eyes.

Rachel fucking Marron.

All he wanted was to marry the woman, and he had suddenly become a hurricane of lost self-control leaving disaster in the wake of his love for her. He'd gotten only a taste of this madness on the night he'd beat up that man in the kitchen of the Fontainebleau. Maybe this was why he'd never allowed himself to fully fall in love with a woman. He became a tyrant.

There had always been a part of him that had held the tyrant back. And now Frank realized just how important that part was. It had kept him sane, calm, collected – all the things he no longer seemed to be, except on the outside.

He hadn't intended for this to become such a mess. It had all unfolded like a badly written movie script – a role Rachel herself probably would have turned down if offered. He wished he could erase everything. Shut down the computer without saving, and restart tomorrow.

But life didn't work that way.

There were so many people who could have leaked information about them to the media, even if they'd only seen him or Rachel for a snapshot of a second in real life. Frank thought of the countless faces they'd come into contact with over the last few months. Fletcher's roommate Thomas, any of Fletcher's friends who had helped with the move at Rachel's house, the men who had tried approaching Rachel at the rest stop on the way to Tahoe, the waitress at the diner in Tahoe, the woman at the airport who had flirted with him, Mr. Gallagher Jr. and his wife, Rachel's OB-GYN . . . the list went on and on.

He remembered the oily voice of Oliver Nicholls accidentally saying "her" and thinking it had to have been Leah Christensen — but Frank hadn't considered that it might be Tina Brennan. The woman who had known about their relationship and the miscarriage long before anyone else had. The woman who had sent flowers to his house in Chatsworth and who hugged Rachel Marron as if she were her sister.

He hated to even consider it, especially with how close Rachel was to Tina. He hated to even hint at such a thing to Rachel, whose ability to trust had no doubt been dampened over the course of her career.

His senses tuned in to the soft patter of footsteps on the hardwood floor behind him. Frank glanced warily over his shoulder and saw Rachel approaching from the shadows, looking like a goddess in her midnight blue night robe, her black hair falling in perfect tendrils around her cheeks which were newly plump from pregnancy. He wanted to tell her all of his deepest, darkest secrets, and fuck her on the desk like the beast he was, and cry into her shoulder, all at the same time.

"Who put you in leather?" she asked in a smoky whisper, her soft hands gliding down the sleeves of his jacket from behind.

He saw their faded reflections in the sleeping computer monitor and offered her a weak half-smile. "I did."

"Maybe you don't need a stylist after all," she purred. Her plush lips pulled gently at his earlobe, and every nerve in his body sizzled with desire. "Tony told me you really let Brock have it," she murmured, sounding so happy he felt sick. "I wish I could've been there to see you going all alpha-male on him..."

Frank exhaled, shaking, and met his own eyes in the dark computer screen. He had never seen himself looking so hollow.

"He denied it, Rachel," he revealed quietly.

She shifted behind him. "Of course he would."

"No," Frank said firmly, finally looking over his shoulder at her. "He's innocent."

"How do you know?"

"I called Beverly Broadbank just an hour ago to check on the house. She just happened to be watching a re-airing of Brock's performance in Toronto… over Labor Day weekend."

Rachel's face fell in confusion. "Toronto?"

"Brock wasn't even in New York when we were there," he said.

That was when she looked down and saw the gun on the desk.

Noting the look of question in her eyes, Frank gently took the pistol in his hands and released the magazine. "Do you know what this is?"

She looked wary as her eyes took in the details of the weapon in his hands. Slowly, her gaze lifted to meet his, waiting with bated breath for him to answer his own question.

"It's the pistol I used the night of the Oscars."

He could see her lower lip tremble despite her efforts to keep her face unaffected.

"I had a reason to use it that night. I always had reasons to carry and use my weapons." He looked down, something like chagrin tugging in his chest. "But today I had no reason. Maybe in the last several months, I've had no reason."

"Frank, I know you're trying to protect me," she said softly, her hand cradling her belly, "but I kept telling you… it was getting out of hand."

"You were right," he admitted. He stared imploringly up at her. "I don't recognize myself anymore, Rachel."

Her voice was quiet but confident as she placed her hand on his heart. "I recognize you. And I still love you just the same as I did before all of this happened to us."

He was warmed by her declaration. "I know you do. I'm just wondering if I deserve it."

She shook her head with a small smile. "I'm no saint myself, Farmer. We all screw up. If we didn't, you and I would be having this baby when we were still in our thirties."

He helplessly returned her smile as she tugged his hand to place it on her belly. The heat from her skin beneath the silken fabric was arresting. The smile faded from his face as he found himself lost in the darkness of his thoughts again.

"Do you think I'll be a good father, Rachel?"

Her smile widened. "I think you'll be a fucking amazing father, Frank."

He looked up at her and studied every feature of her face, still uncertain.

"You're not scared, are you?" she asked.

"No, I'm not scared," he said quickly, quietly. "I'm nervous."

"Because she's a girl?" Rachel guessed.

His hand still held that precious connection with her belly, and at that moment it weakened him to his very core. Frank felt the hot trickle of tears threatening his eyes as he bowed his head against her belly and whispered, "It's just . . . a lot."

She hugged him fiercely in only the way Rachel Marron could hug someone.

"I know, honey."

Honey.

This woman was like warm water flushing out the salt in his wounds. He loved how confident and comforting she was. She had only really become this way over the damned decade they'd spent apart. He held her tighter, and she threaded her fingers through his hair.

"Come upstairs," she beckoned.

His body weakened to her whisper and he nodded against her. She tugged on his arms until he stood up to his full height, and she watched as he pocketed the pistol.

Frank was addicted to having Rachel undress him. He found himself wearing more articles of clothing than necessary at the start of each day, just with the hope that he could prolong the process of her removing them later that night. There was a deftness to her hands that bested his own in this ritual, and he could do little but watch in wonder as she stripped him bare and gently pushed him down into bed beneath her.

If he had thought her body perfect before, it was nothing compared to how perfect she was in pregnancy. Her lovely form was softened by her extra weight, her curves accentuated by streaks of moonlight that snuck through the half-curtained windows. The sheets about her waist tried in vain to cling to her hips before wilting around her thighs as she hovered over him. Everything this woman did was unspeakably sensual, and he was a slave to it.

She shuddered with pleasure as she settled onto him, making shy little adjustments to accommodate her growing belly. He was taken with her subtle smile, the significant shimmer in her eyes as she appraised him, her hips gliding over his with a tender tempo. As reserved as he was outside of the bedroom, Frank maintained unwavering eye contact during sex, which had often earned him more bashful turns of the cheek from his lovers over the years. With Rachel, it was different. She met his gaze with an almost obsessive voracity. Because her eyes were so dark, he could sometimes see the reflection of his own within them. It was an intoxicating experience only she could provide for him.

She was easy to read, especially in bed. Her expressions gave away every emotion as if he were reading them off a picture book. She looked at him with reverence, with perplexity, and sometimes with a touch of amusement, as if she were remembering the many times he had scolded her as often as he'd saved her. If he lost himself in the memories, he could last longer. She seemed to understand this, and she would always slow her pace to just a gentle pulse, allowing their eyes to carry the weight of their lovemaking for a time.

He didn't understand why she still seemed so bewildered to be holding him this way. She could have had any man she wanted, yet she had chosen him. She had wanted him. After all these years. If anything was contributing to his imposter syndrome, it was that he was the object of Rachel Marron's desires.

As if reading his mind, she bowed her head and confirmed her love with a lingering kiss on his shoulder. Her warm breath fanned out over his skin as she placed a trail of kisses along his neck, until her eyelashes fluttered against his ear. He was all but swallowed up by the tiniest touch there, and his hands grasped her bottom, begging her to quicken her pace. But she denied him.

She retreated teasingly, then impaled herself on him, over and over again with languid persistence, building a desire so strong it was almost physically painful within him. He had taught her well the ways of his torture, and now he would pay the price. It was appropriate, Frank thought, that Rachel should torture him because she loved him – it was the only sort of torture they both seemed to tolerate from the other. So he let her go on that way, rolling her hips against his with agonizing intention. His mind was assaulted by unbidden images of her dancing provocatively in her music videos, the enticing movements of her slender legs, her thighs, her waist – he'd felt like he was violating her by watching her move that way, but now she moved that way for the sole purpose of bringing him pleasure. The thought alone was enough to finish him.

His long fingers stretched around her dark hips with trembling urgency, and he watched her nipples harden in response. His hands swept slowly, firmly up the sides of her body, grasped her breasts, and circled her nipples with his thumbs until she sighed in submission. Knowing he had weakened her just enough to compromise, he fastened his hands around her lower back and bucked his hips against her mercilessly until he came, heavy and quivering, flushed from head to toe.

Rachel had long erased any feelings of guilt that had been ingrained in him from coming first. Her obsession with giving him pleasure was almost overbearing at times; she was so capable of insisting without any words. He knew she was watching him – every shudder, every rasping breath, every bead of perspiration on his forehead – she was drinking it all in like it was some forbidden elixir for her soul.

He understood the reason behind her uncharacteristic silence. The bittersweet intrusion of her growing belly had made things increasingly complicated for her to find pleasure as quickly as he did. With infinite tenderness he anchored her beside him, his arm cradling her neck, her head resting against his chest – so that he could feel his heart pumping against her cheek. Her knees parted in anticipation for the unfailing strength of his fingers, knowing he would not spare her. After all, he did work for her.

Muscle memory had made him use the trigger-pull motion of his index finger more than once. He'd learned it could elicit much more than a fired bullet when used properly in bed. Every moan that escaped her perfect lips massaged his ego until it was throbbing. Her flesh was so hot and slick – from him – and it fulfilled something frighteningly territorial deep inside of him. She opened her legs further as his finger pulled the trigger again, and again. And again.

Trigger-happy, he thought with a smirk. That was what she'd called him.

Every outward breath she released was a secret command only he could interpret. Though her eyes were closed, he watched every miniscule shift in her face, every tightening of muscle, every twitch in her thighs. His fingers moved of their own accord in response to every unwitting signal she offered, until he heard that telltale crescendo of tiny gasps, encouraging him to use every last bit of strength in his hand.

Rachel made the best scenes, especially when she wasn't acting.

He was still in awe of her, every time. How she tossed her head back, arched her back, raised her hips. She cried like a harlot and deliriously palmed her own breasts and shuddered out fragments of his name. She used his last name that night. It must have been the trigger motions.

He knew better than to take his hand away before she had finished her performance. The harder he pressed, the harder she came. He was enamored with her – all of her – from the raging flutter of her lashes to that beautiful flinch in her inner thighs.

By the time she'd finished, the ache in his fingers was bested again by the ache in his loins.

Rachel had always blamed him for why these nights never ended. But Frank knew that she was to blame.

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Four A.M. was when most of his revelations came about. It must have been some sort of glitch in his REM cycle. An overactive nerve in his brain that misfired at exactly the same time every night.

In his half-asleep state, Frank wondered why he'd even pursued Brock Chutney as a suspect in the first place. It wasn't until he had fully awoken that he remembered.

Devon had told Rachel that Brock was in the lobby of the Sheraton. Obviously this had been a lie. But why lie unless he had to pin the ransacking on someone else to begin with…

Frank wanted to shake Rachel awake right then and there, but as his tired eyes drifted adoringly down to her warm, naked, pregnant body, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Her arms were still curled possessively around him, even in sleep. Her lips were always just slightly parted, poised as if preparing for a kiss in her dreams. Because the temptation was too great, he gave in and kissed her softly, hoping he had invaded her dream.

He lingered longer than he'd intended, and when he backed away, her eyes fluttered open.

"Have you been up all night?" she asked hoarsely, her eyes full of pity.

"No," he replied, tucking stray locks of hair behind her ear.

She closed her eyes again and settled her head on his shoulder. "You have something to tell me," she murmured.

He looked down at her in surprise. "Yeah."

"I'm gettin' better at reading you," she said softly.

"I noticed."

"It's about Brock?" she guessed.

His chest tightened. "No, Devon."

She opened her eyes. "What about Devon?"

"He was the one who told you Brock was at the Sheraton. What motive would Devon have had to lie about seeing Brock there?"

Rachel looked very much like she didn't want to accept what he was insinuating. "He might have actually thought he saw him, Frank. Brock has one of those faces."

Frank glared dubiously at Rachel. The man's face was about as distinctive as Arnold Schwarzenegger's and they both knew it. Conveniently, Rachel changed the subject.

"Oh, that reminds me. We were invited to Tina and Devon's wedding. I wanted Crystal to put it on my calendar. You have the invitation, right?"

Frank froze. "Tina gave it to you back at the hotel."

"I didn't have any pockets," Rachel reminded him. "I handed it to you, and then . . ."

Frank squeezed his eyes shut and remembered. "I put it in my jacket."

Reluctantly, he lifted himself out of bed and walked to the closet. He felt Rachel's gaze on his naked body as he extricated the suit he'd been wearing the night of her concert in New York. He reached into the pocket and found the invitation. Rachel accepted it from him and laid back down in the bed.

Her brow furrowed as she inspected the back of the invitation. "Why did you write a phone number on this?" she asked.

"I didn't write anything on it," he said, reaching out for the card so that he could read it himself. "Is this Tina's handwriting?" he asked.

Rachel shook her head.

"Then Devon wrote it," Frank supplied, tossing the invitation down on the bed beside her.

Her dark eyes looked wearily up at him. "Frank, relax. It's just a phone number." Her voice was careful, soft. "People use invitations as scrap paper all the time."

"Maybe I should call it."

"And do what?" she challenged, raising her voice slightly.

Frank fell silent. They stared at one another for a minute, circling the precipice. He was about to fall down a rabbit hole again and they both knew it.

"Maybe it's time you see Dr. Evers again," Rachel quietly suggested.

Frank sat on the edge of the bed with a rough sigh, "I'm mad at him right now."

Rachel scooted closer to him. "How come?"

He paused, thinking over whether to lie by omission again or to tell her the real reason. He didn't have to think very long.

"He wants to medicate me."

Frank turned his head to see her face. She looked very uncomfortable. "Oh."

The words slipped out before he could control them. "What should I do?"

Frank Farmer never asked Rachel Marron for advice. It was like a twisted alternate universe that he could not escape from.

He flinched slightly when her fingers rested on the scar of his left arm. "You need to do what's best for you," she whispered, and pulled his head down for a resolute kiss. "I'll live with you either way," she added with a wry smile.

Maybe they were both 'the crazy one.'