More Than Words

by Mia Sheridan

  And why should I be heartbroken? He owed me nothing. I had known him for only a brief span of time so long ago, when we were both children. So he’d grown up to be a conceited, womanizing manwhore—a wildly successful, crazy talented, conceited, womanizing manwhore. Well, good for him. And lucky for me he’d left that night with the French blonde. His ability to step away from his date and kiss a stranger within three minutes told me more than I needed to know about Callen Hayes of the present.

  Whatever was on my face made Frankie offer me a look of sympathy. I downed the final sip of the champagne and held the glass up, requesting more. Frankie grabbed the bottle and refilled my flute. “Have you considered trying to contact him?”

  “God, no. Why would I?”

  She shrugged. “You didn’t even tell him who you were. Don’t you think he might have—”

  “Might have what? Gifted me with one of those one-night stands he seems so famous for?”

  She grinned. “Would it have been so bad?”

  I rolled my eyes, giving her my best look of disgust. Unlike me, Frankie was never without a boyfriend or at least a crush. She flitted from one man to another, constantly falling in and out of love. But love would have had nothing to do with what Callen Hayes offered me that night, if he’d have offered me anything at all. “To be one in a sea of many? No thanks. Plus, I…I didn’t want to tell him who I was. I wanted him to remember.” I wanted to believe he’d know me anywhere…that he treasured the memories of that time, brief though it was. That he had a great reason for never coming back, for never even saying goodbye, and that he’d lived with regret all these years. I groaned. What a bunch of childlike, stupid, romantic drivel.

  Frankie raised a brow. “I’ve seen pictures of you at thirteen, Jess, and no offense, but thank goodness he didn’t recognize you.”

  I laughed, spitting out a tiny bit of the champagne I’d just taken a sip of. I wiped at my lip with my thumb. “Gee, thanks.”

  She laughed along with me, winking. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

  I stuck my tongue out at her and laughed. It ended on a sigh. “No, we’re nothing to each other now, and maybe we never were. Or maybe he meant something to me, but he didn’t feel the same way. In any case, I could have told him who I was, but why? We’re different people, strangers now, and we’ll never cross paths again.”

  She leaned forward and patted my knee. “All right. Speaking of strangers, what do you say we go out dancing tonight and find a few cute ones?”

  I was feeling drowsy and slightly drunk from the two glasses of champagne, and so I groaned and shook my head. “No way. I’m making dinner, and then I’m crawling into bed. I need to start sending out résumés or I won’t be able to pay the rent.”

  “Fine. You’re no fun. I’ll call Amelie.” She stood, and I grabbed the remote, turning on the television and taking a last sip of champagne. It’d already gone flat, and a headache was setting in.

  A talk show of some sort was on, and when Callen’s face suddenly came on the screen, his broody expression both sexy and annoying, I made a disgruntled sound and fumbled for the remote, punching at the off button. “God, really?” I stood and brushed my hands together, determined to say goodbye to Callen Hayes for the second time in my life. Too bad I hadn’t said either one to his face.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Callen

  I woke slowly and groaned, my head aching and my muscles so sore I wasn’t sure I could move. I stretched and felt something warm at my back. Oh no. Fuck. This was the part that was beginning to get tiresome and uncomfortable—confronting my mistakes from the night before. “Good morning,” a familiar voice purred. I froze. Oh God, even worse. Rolling over, I opened one eye cautiously. “I thought I told you this wasn’t happening again.”

  Annette plumped the pillow behind her head and lay back on it, scowling and crossing her arms over her naked breasts. “I knew you didn’t mean it.”

  I sat up and then fell back onto the pillow when a sharp knife sliced through my skull. “Fuck, how much did I drink last night?”

  “From the number of empty bottles in your living room, I’d say a lot.”

  “Well, that explains why you’re here. I was too drunk to realize who you were.”

  She let out an angry snarl and slapped at my shoulder. The jostling caused more pain in my head, but the insult worked to get her out of my bed. She swung her legs over the side and stood, turning slowly and placing her hands on her hips. My eyes ran lazily down her nude body, and for a flash I considered going for another round—despite no memory of the first round—but I knew from experience that Annette liked it rough and rowdy and my head hurt too much for a naked wrestling match. A quick glance at my chest showed that she’d used her fingernails and teeth last night. Disgust, and something that felt like depression, settled in my chest. “Where does Larry think you are?”

  “Maybe I told him I was coming to you.”

  “Doubtful. I can find another agent, but you’d be hard-pressed to find another husband as rich as him and as willing to believe your lies.”

  She thinned her lips. “If he’s so stupid, why do you keep him around?”

  “He’s only stupid when it comes to you.” I yawned.

  “Do you think he doesn’t have his own…interests on the side?”

  I ignored her. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about the details of Larry and Annette’s marriage and less about what Larry’s side interests might be. I knew very well Larry would be less than thrilled to know I had fucked his wife. More than once. Not that I meant it to be an ongoing thing—Annette was just more persistent than most and had a way of catching me at my least resistant.

  She turned toward me and ran her hands over her large, perky breasts, playing with her nipples as she eyed me through half-closed lids. “Mmm,” she purred.

  Her show wasn’t even mildly arousing. I could see a stack of music ledgers on the desk near the window, and they were the only thing that interested me right now. Please, please, please let something good be on that paper. “Go home, Annette. I’m done with you, and I have work to do.”

  She dropped her hands from her breasts and huffed indignantly, picking up a pillow and throwing it at me. I dodged it, and when I looked up she was storming around the room, gathering her clothes. “You weren’t done with me last night!” She began pulling on her clothes violently, and I was surprised she didn’t tear them to pieces in her anger. “You’re a fucking prick and a miserable drunk.”

  “Flattery won’t work this time,” I said easily. She glared at me as I smirked in amusement, and then she turned with a flourish and fast-walked out the bedroom door.

  I got up and stood in the doorway, watching as she grabbed her purse off the couch and headed to the door. “Thanks for the memories,” I called sarcastically.

  She turned around stiffly, anger radiating off her, picked up an empty bottle of whiskey sitting on a table near the entry, and hurled it at me. I ducked, and the bottle barely missed me, sailing over my head and exploding on the wall behind the bed as the outer door slammed. I laughed. Drama, much?

  But my laughter was quick to fade as I returned to my bedroom, picking up the stack of papers on my desk and riffling through them, my heart sinking like a stone when I saw what was on them. Nothing. I hadn’t written a goddamn thing, not one fucking note. I tossed the papers across the room, and they rained down on me. “Fuck!” I yelled as I sank into the chair, putting my elbows on the desk and gripping my head. “Fuck,” I said more softly, despair filling my chest. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

  You’re a worthless idiot. I’m ashamed to call you mine.

  He was right.

  Worthless idiot. Ashamed to call you mine.

  God, who wouldn’t be?

  I sat there for a while, allowing myself to wallow in my own misery, my own self-contempt, before getting up and going to the bathroom. I tossed a couple of Tylenol in my mouth, chewing them as I stepped into the shower, cringing at the bitter, gri
ttiness of the pills as I washed the smell of sex and alcohol from my body. Sadly, nothing could be done to cleanse my soul.

  * * *

  The Gift of Music Charity Ball was already in full swing when I arrived, the smooth sounds of a jazz band drifting across the room from the stage up front. Couples danced, the women’s evening gowns moving at their feet, a swirling river of reds and blues and purples. Chandeliers glittered overhead, and the smell of exotic flowers drifted in the air.

  I stood in the doorway for a moment, looking around idly, catching sight of a sleek brunette ponytail. My heart stuttered for a moment, and then the woman turned, and I released a small huff of air. Why did thoughts of that girl I kissed in Paris still come to mind at the strangest times? It was bizarre. I rarely ever thought of the women I’d slept with, and I’d only kissed that girl. I could barely picture what she’d looked like. Maybe that was it. Maybe it was simply that I’d wanted more and hadn’t gotten it, and the regret of not experiencing her lingered. I sighed. It was as good an explanation as any.

  Or maybe it was about Paris. Some romantic mystique that shrouded the City of Light. Even I wasn’t immune to it apparently.

  A girl carrying a tray of champagne flutes passed by and I grabbed two, downing one quickly and then the other. Fuck, I don’t want to be here. But it was a benefit for childhood cancer research, so I’d forced myself to come—a good reminder that life wasn’t all about me and my stupid problems. I set the empty glasses down on a table behind me and surveyed the room again. I spotted Larry and Annette through the crowd, standing with two men, one of whom was wearing a garish, god-awful suit, and I made my way over to them.

  “Callen,” Larry greeted me, stepping aside and making room for me in the circle. “So glad you’re here.”

  “You know how much I love fancy parties, Larry,” I said sarcastically, taking another glass of champagne offered by a passing server.

  Larry chuckled. “It’s a rough life. You know Anders Hanson, don’t you?” he asked, gesturing to the man standing next to him. Anders was wearing a skinny-fit, off-white suit, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, paired with a bright blue shirt and a multicolored, flowered bow tie. “And this is his assistant, Ralph.” I glanced at Ralph, giving him a nod, and then looked back to Anders. I recognized his name. He was the music critic for one of the most popular classical music magazines. I hadn’t met him in person, but I knew of him by reputation. He was known for his brutal honesty and “edgy” fashion sense.

  Anders gave me a chin tilt that managed to be both arrogant and bored, and looked off over my shoulder as if he were searching for someone more interesting. Pretentious dick.

  I looked at Annette, who raised one eyebrow and gave me a fake smile. Clearly she was still disgruntled over my treatment that morning. Not that it would keep her away from me. I needed to stop getting drunk and answering my damn door.

  I gave her a blank stare as I raised my glass, and her smile slipped into a momentary scowl before she pasted another phony smile on her face. It was all a game. All of it. “I’m surprised to see you here without a date tonight, Callen.”

  “Oh, you know me, Annette; I’m sure I’ll remedy that before the night is through.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but then she looked away, feigning sudden disinterest.

  “So anyway, like I was saying”—Anders chortled—“Brenton Conrad’s composition was so bad, the paper it was written on wasn’t worthy of being used to wipe my ass.” He laughed heartily at his own joke. “It was his first album, and I told him for the good of all humanity, it needed to be his last. I titled my review”—he held his hands up as if his own words were worthy of a marquee—“‘From Hell: Atrocious, Nauseating, and Flagrantly Desperate.’”

  Brenton Conrad was a new composer I personally thought had some promise. His first composition had been mediocre, it was true, but nevertheless, a cold wave of anger slithered slowly down my spine—a feeling of disgust at the fact that this man thought obliterating someone with his words was even remotely entertaining. I leaned forward, feigning a look of confusion. “Flagrantly desperate? I’m sorry, was that a music review or the description of your outfit?” I looked him up and down, my gaze moving past the tapered bottoms of his pants and settling on his bare ankles. He wasn’t wearing socks.

  Enraged disbelief simmered in his eyes before he managed to replace the expression with an overly large grin. “You didn’t tell me he was so amusing, too, Larry.”

  Larry opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “Oh, I wasn’t being funny, Anders. Your outfit is seriously nauseating.”

  “Jesus, Callen,” Larry muttered.

  “So, Callen,” Anders’s assistant interjected quickly, his tone apprehensive, clearly trying to change the subject and head off whatever he imagined was about to happen between me and his dipshit boss, “I heard you’re writing the music score for Discovering Hart.”

  My stomach tightened, but I moved my eyes from Anders’s angry face to his assistant’s nervous one and smiled. “That’s right.”

  He raised his shoulders and made a sound of excitement. “I’m in love with Marlon McDermott.” The star of the movie. “How’s the music coming?”

  I took a drink. “Great. I have about half written already.” The lie rolled off my tongue easily. I wanted it to be true. Maybe lying about it would apply the extra pressure I needed to get something started. As if I didn’t have enough pressure already.

  “That’s great, Callen. Why didn’t you tell me?” Larry asked.

  I gave him a tight smile, downing my champagne and looking around for more. Last time we’d talked, I’d had Larry ask the studio for an extension and told him in confidence that I was experiencing a little writer’s block. Understatement of the fucking year. “I didn’t want to jinx it.” I grabbed another glass off a passing tray.

  Anders laughed. “You artists and your ridiculous superstitions.”

  Ridiculous.

  Ridiculous.

  You can’t do anything right. You’re ridiculous.

  My skin was hot. The room was suddenly stifling. I pulled at my bow tie, needing air, needing to get away from these people. “Not quite as ridiculous as you thinking anyone cares about your worthless opinion.” Before he could even react, I turned and walked away, headed for the bar.

  Twenty minutes and two drinks later, as I was beginning to feel nice and numb, Larry approached me, leaning against the bar. “The moody artist persona is only appealing to a point. You’ve gotta lay off the alcohol. It’s turning you into an asshole.”

  “I was already an asshole before I started drinking, Larry. And I fucking hate critics,” I mumbled. “Especially ones like him.”

  “Everyone hates critics, Callen. But they’re a necessary evil. And you might have been an asshole before, but you knew enough not to insult people who will go out of their way to post scathing reviews of every piece you write from now until kingdom come. You might not like that guy, but people listen to him. You’re going to end up losing us both a lot of money. What’s going on?”

  I shut my eyes, sighing. He was right. The guy was a dick, but I hadn’t done anyone any favors by insulting him. I’d just made an enemy. An enemy in a flowered bow tie and no socks, but an enemy nonetheless. I placed my drink on the bar and turned toward Larry. “The truth is, I haven’t written as much of the Discovering Hart score as I said.”

  Larry frowned. “How much have you written?”

  “Not much. Not as much as I hoped I would by this point.” None.

  Larry pressed his lips together and then sighed before taking a long sip of his drink. “Listen, Callen, why don’t you take a vacation? Go somewhere tropical and sit on a beach and get your head on straight. When you’re feeling relaxed and destressed, that’s when the writer’s block will disappear.”

  I wanted to believe him. I really did. But I was afraid to hope. Still…“Somewhere tropical?” I murmured.

  “Sure. Or better yet, go back to France.
We were only there for three days for the Poirier Award ceremony, and you complained you didn’t get to see anything. Take a trip to the Riviera. It’s beautiful and very luxurious. It’s where all the jet-setters vacation. We could join you for a weekend after you’ve taken a couple of weeks to yourself. Annette and I have been there before, but we never get tired of it.”

  “I’ve never been on vacation alone.”

  Larry sighed. “Then take a friend with you, as long as it’s not a woman and as long as it’s not someone who’ll distract you.”

  A friend. The only person I considered a real friend was Nick, and I hadn’t touched base with him in two months. But maybe he’d forgive me if I invited him on an all-expenses-paid trip to France.

  How long had it been since I’d taken a vacation? I figured most people thought of my life as a constant celebration, a never-ending slew of late-night parties, late sleep-ins, do-whatever-caught-my-fancy days. Problem was, it had lost its allure. What had once felt like fun now brought nothing but emptiness and depression. I fucking hated pretending. Was sick of all of it. And, Jesus. I sure as hell didn’t want Larry and his been-there-won’t-be-going-there-again wife joining me.

  France.

  A starlit deck.

  Innocent eyes and angel kisses.

  Maybe a quick stop in Paris, too.

  It wasn’t a bad idea. I nodded. “I think I’ll take your advice, Larry.”

  “It’s about damn time.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Jessica

  The office was windowless, small, and stuffy, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with books lining three of the walls. Dusty-looking hardbacks littered every available flat surface, including several piles on the floor. I sat in the rickety chair in front of the desk, my knees pressed together and my hands laced in my lap, trying to take up as little room as possible lest I topple one of the many piles.