Mr. Misunderstood

by Sara Jane Stone

  “What time is it?” she murmurs, sitting up and pushing her long, dark braid over her shoulder.

  I glance at the digital alarm clock on her bedside table, grateful to have someplace else to look. “Five past five.”

  “In the morning?” She stretches her arms overheard. “Which dog gave you this idea?”

  “It wasn’t the dogs. Well, the walk was their idea, or demand. But I’ve been up for an hour reading the news online.”

  Her eyes are open and she’s fully alert now. “Leave my pants on the bed and give me a few minutes to wash my face. Then we’ll take a sunrise walk.”

  “It’s almost November. The sun won’t be up for another hour or two.”

  “They need a lot of exercise this morning.” She points to the door. “Now get out and start the coffee. If you want to have a coherent conversation about what you read, I need caffeine.”

  By five thirty, I’m being pulled in four different directions down Park Drive. Street lights illuminate the walk. Thankfully cars are no longer allowed on this former Central Park roadway. And there are very few cyclists on the path at this hour.

  While I herd the dogs, Kayla sips her coffee and reads the articles Margaret forwarded to us. She looks up from the screen as two of the dogs stop to sniff a bush. “I can’t believe legitimate media outlets are covering a story about your ex-girlfriend’s Twitter feed. That’s not even news.”

  “It’s human interest,” I point out. “It’s the same reason I endorse products. People will read about my latest ad campaign for an expensive watch before they will dive into an article about my software. If I can get my company’s work mentioned in the piece about the watch, then I’ve expanded my advertising reach.”

  The dogs drag me farther down the path. And Kayla follows, her attention still fixed on her phone.

  “I haven’t seen a single article linking Alexandra’s accusations to the news of our engagement yet.” She looks up. “I think they need another day to put the pieces together. Especially the site that ran the picture from the Twitter rant below an article about aliens.”

  “Yeah, but they better make the connection soon,” I mutter. “I hate that Alexandra claims she dumped me.”

  “Like you would ever give her that much control over your relationship,” Kayla says.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” I admit.

  She takes Luna’s leash from my left hand and pulls the cone-headed dog away from Rocky, who was starting to look annoyed by the circumference of his walking partner’s head.

  “The coverage of the gala isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty close,” she says.

  “I want perfection.”

  “Hmm, this writer makes your proposal sound like a fairy tale,” she continues. “Especially this bit about how you dropped to one knee the instant you realized that you couldn’t live without me.”

  “I can’t live without you. The reporter is right about that.”

  “And the picture really sells the happy-ever-after.” She stops by the side of the path and stares at the screen. “That kiss …” She glances up at me. “Combine this picture with the rumors that we skipped the salad course for some ‘private’ time together, and the story of our relationship will drown out Alexandra’s attempt to cause a scandal.”

  “Yeah,” I say, my tone low and serious. I owe her an apology. “About last night, in the bathroom—”

  “I’m sorry,” Kayla interjects, stealing my line as she walks ahead of me. “I shouldn’t have pulled you into that bathroom. I knew it would excite you.”

  “Kayla.” I stop in the middle of the path even though the three dogs are pulling in different directions, eager to reach the grass. She turns and looks back at me, her charge sitting quietly by her side despite the cone of shame. “My excitement doesn’t suddenly take over and dictate my actions. I kissed you because I’m attracted to you, not the situation.”

  “The why doesn’t matter—”

  “It sure as hell does,” I interrupt her, needing to drive this point home. Kayla’s fallen for the “I couldn’t help myself” line before. Mr. Mistake used it the mornings after he unleashed verbal tirades on her, criticizing her looks, or her behavior at a particular event. Sometimes Kayla would sneak away to call me, crying over the phone. I could tell that Mr. Mistake’s words were breaking her. Hell, I heard versions of it when I was a kid too, the few times I went to adults about the bullies who attacked me at school.

  They are just boys being boys.

  “Last night, I was desperate to taste you, but I will always ask first. I will never take from you. Do you understand?”

  She nods, but shit, I’m not sure if she believes me. Maybe looking at this situation, at the lengths I’ll go to hold my image—hell, hold my entire identity together—leaves her wondering if one day I might take something she can’t give.

  Like her independence.

  “But I won’t ask again, even if a kiss would convince every naysayer in Alexandra’s twitter feed, if it means losing this,” I continue.

  “The chance to walk four dogs before sunrise?” she quips.

  “Someone to talk to when I’m trying to make sense of the whole damn world,” I admit.

  She closes the space between us, dragging a reluctant Luna along. Then she takes my hand, the one not bound with leashes. “I need that too,” she says. “More than sex and all the other things that might take us down that path.”

  But what if we did travel down the road marked sex? Would we find our way back here? I wonder briefly. A few days ago the idea seemed insane. But maybe our friendship is unbreakable.

  I push the questions aside. Now, in the middle of Central Park, surrounded by impatient pups, is not the place to ask my best friend if she wants to fuck me, just to see how it goes, with the understanding that everything will return to normal the next morning. Yeah, I’m going to put that conversation on hold indefinitely.

  “What do you want to do for dinner tonight?” I ask, turning the subject to one of Kayla’s favorite topics.

  “We don’t have a fancy party or gala?”

  “Not tonight,” I say. “My assistant canceled my work event for this evening.”

  “What did you have planned?”

  “I was taking a client to see a concert from my box at the new stadium in Brooklyn. But the clients can wait until we’re actually ready to release the software I want them to buy.”

  Kayla starts typing on her phone. Then she looks up. “You were planning to see the Adam Bates Band without me!” she shrieks. “I just Googled concert in Brooklyn and what do I find? One of my favorite country stars is performing. And you happen to have an entire box of seats?”

  “I take it you want to go?” I accept the fact that I’ll be spending the night listening to my least favorite style of music. But I’ll be with Kayla, not clients. “I have sixteen seats and a selection of cheesecakes ordered from catering. We could invite friends, go to dinner nearby the stadium first.”

  “No friends,” she says shaking her head. “Just us. This will be our second high-profile date. Hopefully some photographers will follow and see us slip in the box alone.”

  “Where we’ll pretend to have sex over cheesecake?” I ask dryly.

  “Maybe.” She gives a small shrug and then heads down the path with an obedient Luna at her side.

  My three K-9 charges pull me off to the right. For a second, I wonder if the dogs coordinated their efforts to keep me from asking Kayla what she means by “maybe.” Does she plan to tease me all night with her soft moans that no one will be able to hear over the music? Or does she actually want to …

  The dogs halt on the grass and put their noses to the ground. I practically trip over Ava I’m so damn lost in the mental “what-if” of Kayla and I alone in the box.

  No, I am not having sex with her at the concert.

  But I’m still transfixed by the possibility. Everything else—the news coverage, the blackmail, my shitty past—it all fades into the backg
round.

  Kayla … country music … sex … maybe …

  I can’t even form a coherent thought. I glance over to where my best friend stands under a lamplight, waiting for me to drag the dogs away from this particular patch of dirt. Maybe Kayla wanted to distract me from the mess I’ve been wading through since Friday night. And maybe she realized the possibility of sex with her would do exactly that.

  “What am I supposed to make of that?” I mutter. Three dogs lift their noses from the ground and look at me. Shit, they don’t have a clue either.

  CHAPTER 14

  GAVIN

  “Mr. Black?”

  Standing outside an Italian bistro near the concert venue with my cell pressed against my ear, I offer a curt affirmation to the woman on the line. I’ve been dodging reporters’ calls all day. First they plagued my office line. My assistant repeated her scripted response so many times I’m willing to bet she’ll recite the instructions to call Margaret in her sleep.

  But I took this call because the number has an upstate area code.

  “This is Lucie, the deputy chief of police handling the Greene shooting,” the woman continues. “We met Saturday morning in Kayla’s kitchen.”

  “I remember,” I say.

  “I have additional information about the shooting.”

  Shooting?

  I’ve been so damn focused on reading celebrity websites and gossip blogs I forgot about the finding the bastard who tried to kill Kayla.

  “You have a suspect?” I demand. Standing outside the restaurant’s glass windows, I spot Kayla at a corner table. The fear rises up, churning my empty stomach. Shit, I forgot to eat today. And I try to never let that happen. I skipped too many meals as a kid. The feel of an empty stomach threatens to bring back those memories.

  “Not a suspect, Mr. Black,” the deputy says.

  I growl with frustration. But I knew finding the culprit was a long shot. Without witnesses and forensics. “Do you need support? A K-9 unit?”

  “No, sir.” Lucie keeps her voice even, but I swear there’s a hint of amusement in her tone.

  “Because I take Kayla’s safety seriously.”

  “Mr. Black.” The police deputy speaks in a no-nonsense tone.

  About damn time.

  “We have the shooter,” she continues. “He came forward this morning after reading an article in the local paper about Kayla’s dog.”

  I stop pacing and stare into the restaurant. She’s safe. I’m watching her devour breadsticks from basket at a table designed for two—proof she’s alive and breathing. “He turned himself in? He’s under arrest?”

  “Mr. Lewis came forward and admitted to hunting after dark,” she says. “He’s your neighbor, about three homes down.”

  “I’ve never met the man.” This holds true for most of my neighbors in the country. I go there to escape, not make friends with the locals.

  “And Mr. Lewis also admitted to attempted murder,” I add.

  “The prosecutor declined to press those charges.”

  “Who is the prosecutor? I want to call this lawyer and demand that he add attempted murder.”

  “The shooter is eighty-eight and shouldn’t be hunting at all,” the deputy explains. “He realizes that now, and has offered to turn his guns over to his grandson. He will plead guilty to the hunting violation. For that, he will face a potential fine and up to a year in jail.”

  “He could have killed Kayla. And he’ll only receive a year in jail?”

  “I’m going to be honest with you, I don’t know if he’ll serve any time. You can speak with your own counsel about a potential civil lawsuit, but I’m not sure it is worth your time and energy. Mr. Lewis has offered to pay the vet bills.”

  Vet bills and a fine?

  “He could have shot her,” I repeat. “If he missed Luna, that bullet would have—”

  “But he didn’t shoot her, or anyone else,” Lucie says in a calm voice. “He didn’t set out to harm her, or anyone else that night. What he did was stupid and against the law, but it wasn’t a premeditated attempt to kill. Frankly, I think he’s an old man who might have a touch of dementia.”

  “And he still has a gun?”

  “Not anymore. Now I tried to speak with your fiancée, but her cell went directly to voicemail today.”

  I told Kayla to keep her phone off to avoid reporters. Then I suggested she use the day to write a business plan for Kayla’s Home for Wayward Dogs. And yeah, I know that’s not the name. But I wanted to make her laugh before I left for the office. I’ve dragged her into my attempt to foil my blackmailer. I know I owe her a lot more than funding. Especially after someone shot at her …

  “I’ll have Kayla call you tomorrow.” I lower my cell and end the call without waiting for a response.

  How the hell do I walk into the restaurant and tell my best friend that the shooting, which nearly killed her dog, and could have hurt her, was an accident? It was a random act of stupidity. And the idiot responsible says he is sorry.

  But an apology wouldn’t have brought Kayla back if he’d hit her. If she’d fallen in the field behind her house, an old man’s regret wouldn’t change a damn thing. The bastard didn’t even call 911 when he heard Kayla scream. And I know she let out some gut-wrenching sounds. The sight of blood on her dog must have sent her into a panic. She was still wild with worry and rage when I drove up that night.

  I stare through the glass wall that separates the restaurant from the sidewalk. As if she feels my gaze on her, Kayla glances over at me. She waves and raises her glass of red wine in salute. Then she points to the appetizer, a plate of sliced meats, cheeses, and olives. Then she places her hand over her heart and tips her head back. Her eyelids fall shut. She looks as if she’s fallen head over heels for her first coarse.

  The thought of losing her …

  I turn away from the window and look out at the busy street behind me. The idea that I could wake up one day without her because of something so far beyond my control … Fuck.

  I try to swallow, but my mouth is dry. I’m close to shaking. I know what fear tastes like, how it smells, and how it wraps itself around me until I can’t escape.

  But this is different. I’m not afraid for myself. I’m terrified of the ways Kayla could get hurt. She was shot in her own back yard.

  “Gavin?”

  A hand touches my shoulder, and I turn to find Kayla standing behind me. Her long mane flows over her shoulders. She looks smaller, more delicate than she did this morning. The over-sized, long sleeve gray shirt might have something to do with that. Add the jeans and cowboy boots and she looks about as out of place in Brooklyn as a country music concert in New York City.

  “Oh, God,” she murmurs. Her eyes widen as she studies me. “What happened? Did Alexandra—”

  “No.” I reach out and pull her close. “My crazy ex stayed quiet today. Maybe our plan worked and she gave up.”

  “I doubt that.” Kayla loops her arms around my waist. “But if it wasn’t Alexandra, what happened? You looked so lost for a second.”

  “They found the man who shot at you. I was on the phone with Lucie, the police deputy in your crazy town.”

  “Hey, that’s your town too.” She steps back, breaking my hold on her. “Come inside. You can tell me what Lucie said over pasta.”

  “Kayla.” I take her hand, needing to touch her. I want to cling to her. But I allow her to lead me into the restaurant.

  “I ordered for us.” She stops beside her table and reclaims her seat. “I’m sure there will be something you’ll like.”

  I shake my head and let out a brief laugh. I can’t imagine another woman—hell another person—with such an appetite for life. She’s beautiful, even in her oversized shirt that reads I Love Cowboys in big block letters. And to think an old man with a gun came close to stealing her away from me forever.

  Screw the rest of the world. I want this night with her. Fake or real, I don’t give a damn.

  “Tell
me what you ordered.” I claim the chair opposite hers and reach for her red wine glass, hoping to steal a sip. “And what you’re willing to share.”

  “Everything. I’ll let you try all of the dishes as long as I get half.”

  An hour and a half later, we’ve made it through security, ridden the escalator to the suite level, and found our box. Music booms through the stadium, filling every inch with the strum of guitars and a deep, gritty baritone. I glance at the television monitor in the corner of the box. The camera offers a close up of the stage below our private viewing area.

  Yeah, I can see why women wear their I Love Cowboy shirts to Adam McStudMuffin’s shows. He looks every inch the buff country boy in his fitted jeans and boots.

  I glance at the bar setup and search for the whiskey. Irish or Tennessee—I don’t care. I just know I’m going to require a glass if Kayla plans to spend the concert drooling over the lead singer. The platter of mini-cheesecakes won’t help one damn bit.

  “Is everything good, Mr. Black?” The server assigned to our suite for the evening hovers in the doorway. “Can I bring you anything else?”

  “Do you have sodas?” Kayla asks as she approaches the dessert spread. She has a plate in her hands before the server responds.

  “The fridge is fully stocked, ma’am.” The waiter opens the full-sized refrigerator with a flourish. The interior shelves are lined with different sodas, microbrew beers, and bottles of water.

  “We’re all set, thank you.” I head for the fridge abandoning my plan for whiskey in favor of beer. Also, Kayla hasn’t glanced at the music star since we walked into the suite.

  “Thank you, Mr. Black. I will check in with you later. If you need anything, I will be in the hall.” The server disappears, pulling the door closed behind him.

  I open my beer and head for the counter-height seating area behind the rows of chairs. My company’s box holds sixteen easily, but tonight we have the space to ourselves.