One Day After Never (The Second Time's the Charm Book 1)

by Whitney Walker

  His lips never move from mine as my fingers find the button of his jeans and eagerly unfasten them. I feel the loss of his warm hands as he pushes his jeans and underwear down just enough to free himself. His hands find their way back to my thighs as I stroke him with both hands, feeling him become erect with my touch. He moans into my mouth then greedy hands cup my ass and pull me forward to the edge of the counter. I clasp my legs more tightly around his body until I am floating in the air, supported by his strength alone.

  Sliding down his long body until my feet feel the cool tile floor beneath, I quickly spin toward the counter and arch my back. His moan is louder and more serious. I grip the counter with one hand and pass the conveniently placed, right next to the cake, condom, over my shoulder with the other. Pushing the string of my underwear aside, he slides into my wetness with one long, smooth motion.

  His hands on my hips pull and push me into him and him into me. Being fully clothed makes me feel less vulnerable and more playful. And, in this position, new and different sensations are controllable by arching my back more deeply and pushing into him. And oh, his hands! Wrapping around my front and cradling my breasts, caressing puckering nipples hidden beneath the lace. I love it! I like the strength of his legs alongside mine, bracing me as I weaken under his power. I also enjoy indulging J.T. with the sensual grinding of my hips, as evidenced by his carnal groans.

  Then. He. Stops. He pulls out of me. Everything clenches. I feel empty. Surely this must not become a habit.

  “Peyton, look at me.”

  I turn slowly in place to face him.

  “That was too much like fucking. You deserve better. Not that I don’t want to do you every which way to Sunday, because I do, but I want you to know how much I respect you first.”

  “Okay, thank you.” I’m too stunned to say more.

  “This is the kindest thing that anyone has ever done for me,” he says reaching behind my back and picking up the knife next to the cake. He cuts a small piece and raises it to my lips. I take the bite, still being held around the waist with his free hand. I face the counter and cut him a bite as well. Lifting it to his mouth, I let him lick the frosting from my second and third fingers. I push my thumb into his mouth, then pull it out and trace his bottom lip.

  “Delicious. Like you. Let me take you to bed and make love to you.”

  Um, okay. “Shall I bring the cake? I can think of a few places I’d like you to lick frosting from.”

  His smile looks wickedly sexy. “I’d be a fool to say no to that.”

  We race each other to the top of the stairs, stopping at the top for a sweet kiss full of vanilla essence. He holds my face between his hands. “Somehow, in your presence, the intolerable is a whole lot easier. My first birthday in ten years might be my new favorite day. Thank you, Peyton.”

  I lift the cake toward him, a toast-like gesture. “To new beginnings.” I mean this as much for us as for myself. I am changing, and this relationship will be different.

  “To new beginnings,” he repeats.

  “Now, about that making-love thing? It’s not nice to keep a lady waiting, you know!”

  He takes the cake, sets it on the floor, and reaches for the hem of my nightgown. He pulls it over my head looking at my body from head to toe then back up again. “You are so beautiful.” He kisses my forehead. “Here,” then kisses my chest, near my heart, “and here.” He presses his knees to the ground and kisses my pubic bone. “And here too.” He picks up the cake and stands. “Lead the way.”

  Haunted pasts, zero. Love, one.

  DECEMBER 27

  CHAPTER 31 | Peyton

  M y grandmother had warned me this day would come. Ignorance and grief had me miss the foreshadowing from the funeral. She said we would be speaking more often.

  It is doubtful my inheritance will offer any comfort to the fact that these people abandoned their daughter, denied me a family, and treated me as the outcast while lavishing the inner circle of children.

  I hope it will, however, afford me the opportunity to make different choices about my future.

  The face of a man in a dark suit with a baby-blue tie and a book-lined wall backdrop flickers into view on the monitor perched atop the desk in front of me. Jack sits by my side. The lawyer who had contacted me to meet with my grandparents about my trust clumsily pivots the screen towards us.

  He had introduced himself as James F. Greenburg. He told us the “F” stood for Franklin and it was a very presidential name considering that six past U.S. presidents were named James.

  He seems as nervous as I feel but I think this might be his usual disposition. I fear he was probably chosen on purpose by my grandparents for their corporate lawyers to abuse his perceived weakness. I hope I am not the one who suffers.

  I can make out the profile of my grandmother on the right side of the screen, and it eerily reminds me of Mrs. Nixon. I look to Jack for reassurance and he seems calm. I’ll take him as my rock today.

  “Are we ready to get started?” comes through a hidden speaker, voice of God like.

  “I believe so,” squeaks James.

  “We are here today to discuss the disposition of a trust to Peyton C. Jennings on the date of her twenty-fifth birthday, on the date of March 24, 2015. Can both parties please acknowledge their understanding of the subject matter?”

  What am I supposed to say? Inappropriately, my inside voice speaks loudly as I see the image in my head, “Show me the money!” I almost laugh out loud but contain it. Barely.

  I hear both of my grandparents’ voices in unison, “That is correct.”

  I jump to attention. “That is correct.”

  The voice of the other lawyer comes through the speaker again, “By the paperwork I have reviewed it appears we have a total sum of $500,000 to distribute to Miss Jennings over the course of ten years.”

  My spine straightens. I work to keep my jaw from dropping. My mouth wants to fall agape but I clench my jaw to avoid it. I force myself to breathe in. Jack’s startled expression exposes he was not expecting this either.

  The lawyer continues, “We are here today to discuss the viability of this disbursement or the potential need for amendment.”

  Is this as I fear? Is there a loophole for them to take it away?

  “I understand that the Rhodes have something they would like to share.”

  The uncertainty of what will come next has my stomach flipping and palms sweating.

  “Peyton, darling—”

  My grandfather’s use of the word darling makes me cringe inside. Could he have been protecting my father because of his own equally disgusting acts? I think of my uncle Gus and how he whistled at me during the funeral, appalling and repulsive. I always suspected him of despicable behavior. What if they were kindred spirits of the vilest nature?

  “We aren’t unreasonable people, but rather, clearly generous. We understand that you may fall on hard times without your mother, and if you need us to provide you with more of your trust now versus later, we want to take that into advisement.

  “We may not have agreed with your mother’s choice to forsake the opportunities we provided to partake in our company, but you are not your mother. You shouldn’t be punished for her mistakes.”

  Now Jack loses control, his jaw dropping to his chest. He quickly realizes and corrects but doesn’t make eye contact with me.

  My grandmother jumps in, “We want you to be a part of our lives, Peyton. Please let us know how we can help you.”

  I knew she resembled Mrs. Nixon! She wants to buy me also. Why do these people think money can buy my love?

  “You don’t have to decide immediately, but please know the offer is there,” my grandfather says, sounding as if this concludes the meeting. The lawyer is probably charging by the minute.

  “Okay, thank you. That’s very generous,” I offer in return.

  We are escorted out of the room by James. Jack and I move swiftly to the car in silence. The moment we are behind c
losed doors he turns to me, “Congratulations. I’m not sure that’s the right sentiment, but I don’t know what else to say. That’s a hefty sum of money you can use. I already knew you had a bright future, but it gives you an awful lot of options. I had no idea. What do you think?”

  “I think I want to come home.” When I say home it just feels right. “I’d like to keep the house, and you can stay any time. It’s your home too. I think I will take classes. I’m not sure where. Dare I say see where things go with J.T. and maybe go from there? I’d also like to go to Africa!”

  “That all sounds great,” he says with a broad, genuine smile.

  “I couldn’t help but notice your reaction when my grandfather mentioned the company. Help me understand,” I inquire, my curiosity palpable.

  “All this time we believed it was about her leaving your father. Now I wonder if it wasn’t more about his pride. Your grandfather wanted her to be his successor. He raised Caroline with the intention of her being the next CEO. I remember she said he told her he chose her name to start with the letter “C” because it sounded good with CEO. After the incident with Michael, she left the business. She felt her father took Michael’s side and she couldn’t work beside him any longer. He lost Caroline and Michael. If you were stuck with only Gus, you’d be pretty pissed off too.”

  He laughs a hearty laugh. “I shouldn’t laugh; it’s unkind. That’s how your mother ended up a teacher. She lost a lot too. Her marriage and her job. But she knew something. You can’t feel sorry for yourself when you are helping others. Every bird with a broken wing she came across, and every person who needed a little extra something, she fixed, and she gave.”

  Every person like J.T. How was this for coming full circle? Because of my scumbag father and the disownment of her own, my mother had helped save J.T. from himself.

  “So yes, Peyton, I think the house and college are a great idea. And Africa? That’s even better. Like mother—”

  I interrupt him to finish his sentence with a smile, feeling deeply grateful to say, “Like daughter.”

  DECEMBER 29

  CHAPTER 32 | Peyton

  T his California girl is going to learn to ski. Oh, brother. I decided to take Jack up on his offer to teach me since it’s something J.T. loves to do. It goes along with my testing country music since he’d mentioned his affinity for it. I am not trying to morph into someone I am not, just expand myself to new possibilities.

  We are leaving at 9:00 a.m. so I am dragging myself to 6:00 a.m. yoga. I need to be New Year’s Eve body-best so a two-workout day it is. The local “mountain” won’t be much exercise, because it’s a small, old garbage dump, but still a movie star in its own right, making an appearance in Aspen Extreme. I’ve been on a high since Christmas anyway, so who needs sleep?

  I enter Exhale still half asleep, but see Liz talking to Alexandra, giving me a good reason to wake up quickly. I hurry toward her and squeeze her in a tight embrace. “Liz! It’s so great to see you! Thank you, thank you, thank you! Yoga has been amazing.”

  I reach for Alexandra’s hand then grab Liz’s as well, holding them up, grace at dinner or Our Father at church-style. “Meeting the two of you was the best present ever. I had such a wonderful holiday, and I know this will be the best New Year—probably even year—I’ve ever had. Seriously, I can’t thank either of you enough!”

  Alexandra laughs. “I see someone is happy. A year’s a long time, but I wish you many happy moments!”

  I throw my head back. “Ugh! Of course, I am getting ahead of myself. Well, hope and love will do that to a girl. Good thing I am here so you can bring me back to reality.”

  Liz doesn’t laugh with the two of us but says sincerely, “You are very welcome, Peyton.”

  Maybe the holiday took its toll on her, and here I am, blabbering and blubbering with happiness. Hopefully, the class will give her what she needs to deal with whatever is on her plate.

  I settle right into quiet breath, content inside the four corners of my mat. The studio is still and hushed despite the large post-holiday crowd. It’s dark and warm, inviting peace and quiet.

  Alexandra enters the studio, closing the door softly behind her. “The holidays are a difficult time to be mindful. Busy begets breathing, and the next thing you know you are wrapped up in knots.”

  Her soothing voice lulls me to a new state of relaxed. I feel such gratitude. My eyes well with tears as it washes over me. Tears of joy. I finally have the family I’ve always dreamed of having, and dare I say, a new boyfriend. If only my mother was still with me, life would be perfect!

  Alexandra continues, “When all else fails, find one little thing to be grateful for.”

  I have gotten to grateful before Alexandra has told me to. Maybe I am getting the hang of yoga, and life!

  “Find one thing, and then another, because there is always something. Build upon it, and it gets better from there. You can’t be in a state of gratitude and anger. You can’t be in a state of gratitude and fear. Let gratitude claim its space as the only space.”

  Yes, live in the space of gratitude. I can do this.

  “Now, rise up from child’s pose, slowly and mindfully, to table pose. And keep breathing. Your breath doesn’t have to be loud, but it does have to be louder than your thoughts.”

  Light laughter from the thinkers, present company included. I push myself up into the pose. The line of the song Alexandra is playing is about remembering a kiss. It makes me think of J.T. and the way he kisses me, sometimes tenderly, sometimes passionately, always awesomely. He tastes and feels so good.

  The songs says he will still be loving her at seventy. I can picture it. Us together, on a swing like on Jack’s porch, holding hands and resting my head on his shoulder. Us, walking on a beach hand in hand. Dare I let my mind wander to the edge of he could be the one? I’m lost in happiness and hope.

  My head spins toward an unwelcome sound that pulls me from my peace. The wooden door to the studio has been forcefully pushed into the wall.

  My heart stops beating.

  The oxygen is sucked from the room, my lungs leaden.

  I am frozen in place, filled with anger. Rage. Terror. It permeates the studio, infiltrating the space that was silently sacred one second before.

  A large form has imposed himself among us, his eerie and familiar shadow dancing on the wall. It reminds me of the last time I saw him.

  “Peyton, where the hell are you?”

  He slurs my name into two long and horrible-to-hear syllables. This is bad. So bad. How can he be here? I forget for a moment where I am. I’m in Detroit, right? Is Kyle really here? Is this my worst nightmare, or reality? I want to wake up. Wake up!

  Bodies move abruptly in sharp angles, scrambling to their feet and scattering left and right. I am swallowed up in the middle of the crowd of thirty-some people moving hurriedly in a protective pack from the room into the hallway amidst a chorus of screams.

  “Everyone out!” rings in the air. I think it’s Alexandra’s roar. It’s large and loud from someone so little.

  “Peyton!”

  Kyle. I’m outside the studio but the sound inside is fiercely hostile.

  “Peyton!”

  Is anyone still inside, unsafe? I don’t know. Or what to do next. I lean against the wall, chest heaving, finally taking a breath away from his toxic presence. Someone yells, “Call 911!” The reality of the situation bears down on me. What will make him stop? If he doesn’t find me here, will he leave and look for me elsewhere? Does he know for certain I am here? Was he stalking me? Had he seen me enter then filled his body with who the hell knew what?

  A million unanswerable questions flood me. How can I know the answer? What should I do? Will he hurt anyone? How can I know what will save the lives of these innocent people if he is out of his mind? He’s proven this won’t end until he gets what he wants, but what does he want? Me? Alive? Or dead? Me to take him back?

  I close my eyes, which heightens my sense of hearing.
Large boot-clad feet staggering overtly.

  “Where the fuck are you, Peyton? You think you can leave me? I don’t think so.” His voice is shriller and more anxious.

  A hoard of screams fills the lobby and my ears, but they are dissipating as people exit through the front door. Cold air envelopes the studio, shoving against the heat of the crackling fire. The draft surrounds me and I shiver from its effect. Or from fear. Others are freeing themselves from Kyle. Free of the fear of dying here at the hands of a jilted lover. My ex-boyfriend. Wreaking havoc in a place of peace in a small town where things like this DO NOT HAPPEN.

  I want to be one of those people who has escaped. A voice inside me screams to run, at war with what I know is right. There are still people inside. There must be or he would have emerged. I can’t leave while others’ lives hang in the balance. I lean forward and put my face in my hands, catching the silent scream I need to release.

  My ears ring! Gunfire! My stomach rolls over and contorts, knowing. Oh God! I have to go back in there. It should be me and no one else. No one else should be a victim here! I force my feet to move. One. Then the other. Forward. Move, Peyton! I can see into the studio, barely, through the front door left open, but can remain hidden from sight. I clamp both hands over my mouth to catch the gasp. Alexandra’s lifeless body is sprawled across the floor in a pool of blood. Kyle is moving towards the side wall I can’t see, towards his next victim, I have to assume. A sound I can’t interpret. A woman’s blood-curdling howl of pain. A dull thud like a body crumpling to the ground. What has he done to her? Is Alexandra dead? Has another woman just been murdered?

  I’m weary by what is happening inside these four hallowed walls. I steady myself, palms pressing into the wall. I may pass out. I know how to breathe. We practice in class. What had Alexandra just said? Your breath has to be louder than your thoughts. I need to replace the short bursts of panic compressing my airway. I am so dizzy. My head is a whirl of images and sounds unfolding before my eyes. I need useful legs to go in there. They are shaking uncontrollably.