She rolled her eyes, and I was ready to declare victory. “You’re the worst,” she said, laughing. “Stop it.”
“You don’t like the way it looks on me?” I continued, deadpan.
“It looks ridiculous on you, Brent,” she said, but she didn’t stop smiling. “And by the way, it’s a wrap. Not a scarf.”
“So . . . you really like this . . . wrap?” I asked, as I removed it from my neck.
“I do. I like it so much I came back for it.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Only for the wrap?”
“Only for the wrap,” she said, enunciating each word, but the hard edge had evaporated. In its place was something . . . almost playful.
“What about a trade, then? Wrap for a drink?” I asked, dangling it in the air, the metallic fabric shimmering under the lights in the bar. Vegas had coasted into nighttime, ushering in all the possibilities of the town, all its risks, all its opportunities. I held up the long scrap of material, my whole body poised on the edge of something. “You’ll notice I used the proper name this time. Wrap.”
I handed it over. Whatever she decided next had to come from her, not from me holding a piece of her wardrobe hostage.
Time slowed to a crawl as she held my gaze, her green eyes giving nothing away. The straight line of her lush red lips revealed no hint of her intent. Perhaps she was toying with me. Torturing me. I probably deserved it.
I definitely deserved it.
She raised a finger. “One drink.”
I could breathe again. I’d been granted a reprieve. And I was taking it.
I guided her to a quiet table near the corner of the SkyBar, with the city spread out far below us. She sat first, and I was torn between trying not to stare, and watching every move she made. But I’d never been good at looking away from her, and now was not the time to learn new tricks. She crossed her legs, one bare-skinned calf sliding against the other. My breath hitched. Those legs. Those gorgeous, sexy legs. They were my downfall, my weakness, and my complete obsession. They were an altar I’d pray at. I’d spent countless hours caressing them, touching them, and tasting them. If I were an artist, I’d have drawn them over and over. I hadn’t been able to keep my hands off them when we were together. I hardly knew how to keep my hands to myself now.
“So,” I said, breaking the silence between us as I tore my gaze back to her eyes. “You’ve done well for yourself.”
I hated that we were talking like any other man and woman without a history, but I sensed she was something of a wary animal around me, and she needed to be coaxed out of the corner.
She nodded. “Thank you. It’s been quite rewarding building the business.”
“It’s very impressive what you’ve done with your company.” I had half a mind to kick myself as soon as I said it. What I wouldn’t give to turn this conversation around to something that mattered. But I was going in cold, navigating without a road map and hoping I wouldn’t crash.
“Can I get you something?”
The waitress had materialized at our side, giving me some breathing room. “We have some fantastic cocktails,” she said, then waxed on about several concoctions. Shannon opted for the house martini and I ordered a whiskey. As the waitress walked away, Shannon folded her hands across her lap, shooting me another closed-mouth smile. “And you’re doing great too. I’m so pleased that Edge is faring well.”
“It is,” I said.
Shit. This was not how I’d wanted to spend time with her. It was so fucking formal. So immensely fake. So not us. But I didn’t know how to steer the conversation out of this pothole.
But she knew how. She did it, veering back to the question she’d slung my way outside the bathroom door. One I knew I’d have to answer. “How did you decide to switch to a whole new business? You were pretty committed to comedy way back when,” she said, a note of restraint in her voice, but her curiosity evident too.
Her keen interest made perfect sense. My job had been a wedge that drove us apart.
“The show was canceled. The show’s creator had a huge falling out with the network, so he pulled the plug when the contract ended.”
“And that was it? You jumped to nightclubs?”
“I was looking for something new, but truth be told, the jobs in comedy weren’t that stable long-term. James came to me with this opportunity, and I saw a chance to mix both comedy and clubs. Some of our clubs host comedy acts in the late afternoon and early evening. Turned out that was a void in the entertainment world, so I filled it. And sometimes I moonlight. Do stand-up once or twice a month at my venues.”
She nodded, like she was taking in all this new intel. “You loved performing. Is that enough to satisfy your comedic thirst?”
“Yes,” I said, smiling. “I had a good run, but this situation works for me now. And the occasional gig is enough. That’s when I did the King Schmuck bit. I don’t know if you saw that one online,” I said, because it was better to get that out in the open.
“Hmm.” She looked up at the ceiling as if she was trying to recall, then shook her head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. I must have missed it. But I’ve been pretty busy too, and I don’t spend much time on the internet.”
Soon, the waitress returned with our drinks, and Shannon raised her glass in a toast. “To business.”
“To reunions.”
I knocked back half my drink, letting the burn fuel me.
Screw this small talk. I didn’t want to be polite with her. I wanted to know her. To understand why she’d never picked up the phone when I called in those first few weeks, why she’d been so hard to find, and why she’d changed her name. I scooted closer. “Shan, I’m sorry I didn’t try harder.”
She blinked, like I was speaking Portuguese. “What?”
“Try harder,” I repeated, reminding her. “When you sent that email about how we should end things?”
She narrowed her brow. “Why would you have tried harder?”
“Why wouldn’t I? That’s what I should have done,” I said emphatically, owning it.
She shrugged nonchalantly. “You were busy.”
“With work, yes, but that was no excuse,” I said, trying to lay it on the line with her.
But she glared at me, shaking her head like she was annoyed. I had no clue what she was upset about. “Brent, let’s just call a spade a spade. You were busy with the girl with dimples.”
I straightened my spine, shock radiating through me. “What are you talking about?”
“The woman at the show. She was into you. You were into her. It’s fine. Whatever. I don’t care anymore. I can’t care anymore.”
I shook my head. She couldn’t have it more wrong. “I wasn’t involved with her.”
Shan gave me a gold medal–worthy eye roll. “Right.”
I pressed on. “What are you talking about?”
She exhaled sharply. “Brent, fine. You want to talk about fair? You want to say your piece? I’ll say mine. I saw you with her. I came to LA to surprise you. And you were with that woman. She had her hands all over you. Touching your face. Your arms. Everywhere. Then you took her home. Put her on the back of your bike and took her home with you.”
I froze. All the air rushed out of my lungs as the memory of that night flashed before me.
Holly hanging onto me.
Holly drunk.
Holly determined to see her douche of an ex.
“No, no, no,” I repeated, like that would prove my innocence.
She stared at me with eyes full of doubt. “Um, yes, yes, yes.”
“Shannon,” I said, my voice unsteady. “That was . . . oh fuck.” I dropped my head in my hands.
She sighed. “Yeah, that made it clear why you canceled three trips to see me. That made it clear why you didn’t protest when I sent you that email. You were content to get my permission slip to walk away.”
I snapped my gaze up, desperate to clear my name. “That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to explain. She was a cowo
rker who was too drunk to get herself home. Who wanted to go see her douchey ex who’d cheated on her, and I drove her home instead so she wouldn’t do something stupid,” I said, jaw tightening as I gritted out the truth. “I took her to her house so she wouldn’t make a stupid mistake. My God, I was just trying to help a drunk coworker.”
Shannon squeezed her eyes shut, her lips tight, her head shaking, like she was denying, denying, denying. When she finally spoke, her voice was like the edge of a knife. “She was all over you.”
“Yeah, but I was more concerned about her not doing something dumb,” I said, then a new wave of awareness slammed into me. Shannon had been in LA that weekend. Holy shit. “Wait.” I held up a hand, desperate to understand. “You were there? How were you there?”
She clasped her palm to her mouth. Her voice was wobbly when she spoke, low, under her breath, like she was embarrassed. “I flew in to see you. To surprise you.”
My heart lurched toward her. All my regrets multiplied. I should have tried so much harder. Should have vaulted, hurtled, flew to her to set things right. I placed a hand on her leg. She didn’t shirk away, and that emboldened me. “You did that? For me, babe?”
She nodded, her voice catching, twin tears sliding down her cheeks. “Yes. For us.”
My gut tightened, and remorse twisted me up. “Oh shit. I’m so fucking sorry. I did not cheat on you,” I said, grasping for her hand. She let me take it, and I squeezed, trying to impart my truth to her. “I would never cheat on you. You were my world.” I squeezed harder, and she squeezed back, giving me the hope that she believed me. “Never,” I said again emphatically. “I was just trying to help a woman who was about to fuck up royally.”
Shannon pressed her lips tightly together, like she was reining in the rest of her tears. Her head hung low as her voice came out in a barren whisper. “That’s what really happened?”
“Yes! God, yes.” I dragged my free hand through my hair. I had to convince her. Prove my innocence. “Let me show you something.”
I grabbed my phone, searching through years of emails to find one from Holly from ten years ago.
Sent the next morning.
Brent,
Apologies and gratitude are in order. First, I barely remember last night, but I think I might have been hanging all over you. I am so sorry. Also, you saved me from seeing Chad. I don’t know how to thank you for getting me home safely, but I hope this is a start.
I woke up with a huge headache, but at least I didn’t wake up in his bed.
See you at work, and I appreciate your help.
Holly
Shannon heaved the heaviest sigh in the world as she read it, shaking her head. She looked away, swallowing roughly, then drawing in a breath that sounded painful.
“Shannon. Tell me you believe me,” I said, begging for exoneration from something I hadn’t done, but something that explained a whole hell of a lot.
That explained everything.
She met my gaze, her eyes softer now, but full of emotion, full of anguish. “I feel so stupid now, so embarrassed. I was sure you were involved with her. I was sure you were with her. Everything I saw with my eyes said you were. But even if you weren’t, and I do believe you—I swear I believe you—there’s another issue,” she said, swallowing, lifting her chin. “I called you that night. I called you after I sent that email. Maybe an hour later. I wanted to try to talk it out. To talk about what I’d seen, and what I’d said. You never answered, and then your email in the morning said a lot of things about trying again, and meeting in a year, but mostly it said: we can’t have it all. That was it.”
And that, right there, was the crux of the problem.
I didn’t try.
I squeezed her thigh. “I know. And not a day goes by that I don’t regret it.”
“I need to go.” Her voice quavered, but her words cut me like knives.
She walked out.
This time I let her.
Because now was not the time to say any more of my piece.
5
Shannon
I marched into the gym. I was one of only two women in this place, and the only one wearing heels. But there was one person I needed to see. The person I relied on most in the universe.
Ever disciplined, Michael was exactly where he usually was at ten thirty at night—lifting weights, after having logged an hour on the cardio machine. Michael owned a security conglomerate and ran it with our brother Ryan. Michael arrived at the office at eight every morning after his five-mile run, worked a full day, then headed to the gym nearly every night for a second workout. Call him a workaholic. Call him an athlete. Call him a machine. He was all of that, and he was also the moral compass of our foursome.
The eldest of us siblings, he’d been our rock.
And right then, I needed my rock.
He hoisted the barbell high above his chest with a measured exhale. A few feet over, a beefy guy in a muscle tank grunted as he raised his weights then dropped them in a loud clang on the floor. With pinpoint precision, Michael lowered the bar to his chest, inch by inch, then pushed up again, setting it down on the metal holder the second he saw me.
He sat up straight as I parked myself on the end of the bench.
“What’s going on?” His voice was etched with concern.
I shook.
My shoulders quaked.
My breath came fast.
Michael wrapped me in a hug. “What is it, Shan?”
I was choking with memories, with mistakes, with regret. “He never cheated on me.”
Michael cocked his head. “I’m going to need the full story here.”
I told him everything. What Brent said. The email from Holly. How he apologized.
The entire night.
When I was done, Michael scrubbed a hand across his face. “You believe him?”
That was the thing—I did, with my whole heart. I knew. He’d spoken the truth, and upended my understanding of the last ten years. “I do. That’s why I was so shocked when I thought it happened. That’s why I called him back after I sent the email. Cheating never seemed like his style. He wasn’t that type of guy. He was devoted.”
“He seemed that way when I met him.” Michael took a beat, measuring his words. “But here’s the thing. That’s only half of why it ended. Honestly, it’s less than half, Shannon Bean. You two were falling apart,” he said, reminding me with a controlled breath of what had been happening ten years ago.
“I know,” I said in a tiny voice, my head lowered, my hair falling in a curtain around my face. I’d unclipped my French twist on the drive here, gunning the gas and blasting pop music to drown out my thoughts as I sped along the highway, putting distance between Brent and myself.
But really, the space I needed was between my own assumptions and the person I wanted to be. A person who should be in control of her emotions, of her feelings, and of her hasty reactions.
Turned out I’d made assumptions that night ten years ago—highly plausible ones—but assumptions nonetheless. Yes, I’d tried to call, tried to talk to him. But even so, I had assumed—and made some pretty life-altering decisions because of it.
“What if I’d tried harder to talk to him about it then?” I asked Michael, trying to make sense of the past.
“You did try to call him after you sent the note. And what did he do then?”
“He didn’t answer. It went to voicemail,” I said, and the reminder didn’t hurt anymore. It was an old scar now, that was all. “And the next morning he wrote back and was fine with it.”
He squeezed my shoulder. “And that right there was the biggest issue of all. It wasn’t that woman. It wasn’t that night. It wasn’t even about a misunderstanding. The misunderstanding was simply the straw that broke the camel’s back. The camel’s back was breaking. And on top of it, you were pregnant, Shan. You basically get a pass,” he said gently.
“I do?”
“Yes. You were twenty-two and pregnant. Look, I’m g
lad he didn’t cheat. I’m glad he showed you that note because you can let go of that demon. But does it change the score? Does it change what happened during the seven months after college and before that night? Does it change what happened the next morning after you came to my place? Does it change the fact that he didn’t fight to win you back? He’s a man. That was his job. Win his woman. Not ask to see her again in a year.” Michael was emphatic. This was black and white to him.
I drew in a deep breath, trying to make sense of all this new information that had tipped my world upside down, that had changed ancient heartbreak into a fresh new round of remorse. “Was it?”
Michael nodded vigorously. “He never should have let you get away.”
“But what about me? Didn’t I let him get away too?” I asked, needing to hear it from him.
He stroked his chin as if deep in thought. “Let’s see. You were both twenty-two. You were fresh out of college. You were young and in love and living six thousand miles apart. I’d say the cards were not in your favor and the deck was stacked against you.”
“But what about now? I walked out tonight,” I said, my chest tightening. “After Brent and I talked. I just left, and we’re doing business together.”
Michael’s eyes darkened momentarily. “Then you go see him tomorrow.” He pointed at me as he spoke in that gentle but authoritative tone he had. “And you be businesslike. You be a professional. Be a Sloan.”
“A Sloan,” I repeated.
That was who I was.
I’d taken my cues from Michael. We all had. He’d been the first among us to change his last name to Sloan, and had suggested we all do the same. Sloan was an everyman name. It had no history, no notoriety. We could slip easily through this town and live free of all those questions from people who remembered who we had been long ago. With new names, our old life had faded away, receding far into the rearview mirror.
My brothers and I had risen above our roots. As the Paige-Prince kids, we’d grown up lower-class and hadn’t known anything beyond the outskirts of our dangerous Vegas neighborhood. Now, we were better than that. We’d refashioned ourselves into upstanding citizens, business owners, successful adults. We were the restrained, sophisticated, successful Sloans.
My Sinful Nights: Book One in the Sinful Men Series Page 5