Always Love Me: A Standalone Second Chance Romance

by Derrick, Zoey

  I nod. “Yeah, I mean it. But just this once, and so long as you can promise me that no one is going to try to kill me.”

  He laughs, “I can’t think of anyone.”

  The truth is, there are people in the community who blame me for the death of their loved ones, despite the fact I was nothing more than a child at the time of the accident. It’s human nature to want to blame someone.

  I make up for some of the hatred with my foundation. It’s set up to help the families of the crew from the Killer Whale. It came a little too late for some. And no amount of money can bring back your loved ones.

  “I’ll have Dawson send you the itinerary when it’s settled,” I tell Randy.

  “Good. Now, I need your attention for a couple more things…”

  Randy and I talk shop for another 10 minutes before I finally escape. There’s a couple more ships coming available, and he wants to snag them up. I told him to send me the details, and I’ll look over them this weekend before we hang up.

  I step back inside Tiffany’s, this time to several greetings from the sales group, and I head toward the necklaces.

  I pick up my borrowed piece, and I place an order with a salesclerk who is a little too excited to help me. Twenty minutes later, I’m on my way to lunch with Ryleigh.

  When I arrive at Bryant Park, Ryleigh is already waiting for me, despite being almost 10 minutes early.

  “Hey, you!” She smiles at me. Ryleigh’s bright red hair shines in the sun, showing off her long, curly locks. Her beautiful green eyes twinkle, in contrast to her stern looking chin.

  “Hey, you look great,” I beam at her. She looks amazing. I can always tell when she’s not in court; her hair is down, a beautiful curly mess. When she’s in court, it’s usually done in gorgeous waves or pulled back into a severely tight bun on the crown of her head. I asked her once, why she wears it that way for court, and she told me it intimidates witnesses. I laughed. Ryleigh is tall, slender, well-toned and gorgeously built—finding her intimidating is hard. Then again, she’s only ever lost a handful of cases in her entire career.

  “What’s bugging you?” she asks as I sit across from her.

  I give her a ‘what are you talking about?’ smirk. “Whatever do you mean?” I chortle

  “Oh, come on, Rebs, you know you can’t hide anything from me.” She narrows her eyes.

  I laugh, both at her ‘intimidating’ face and her valiant attempt at making me laugh with my old college nickname (given to me because of my middle name, Rebel). “I need a lot of alcohol for that one.” I snort, “We can save it for tomorrow.”

  She shakes her head. “Nice try. You called me, remember?”

  I laugh, “No, I texted you.”

  “Touché,” she smirks as the waitress appears.

  “Chablis,” I order.

  “Chardonnay,” Ryleigh tells the waitress who disappears quickly. Bryant Park Grill at lunchtime is a zoo.

  “Don’t you have to go back to work?” I tease her.

  She laughs, “Yes, but I can do it from home.” She winks and looks down at the menu.

  “I’m going west,” is all I say, and all I have to say.

  She freezes briefly before slowly looking up at me. “Are you insane?”

  I give her a humorless laugh, “Yeah, I think I am.”

  “Why on earth would you do that?” She sets the menu down on the table, looking at me, her lips pressed tightly together. They thin and turn lighter. If I didn’t know Ryleigh as well as I do, I would laugh. I know this is her ‘what the fuck are you thinking’ face

  Ryleigh and I went to college together. Our first year, we met in chem class, and we became nearly inseparable.

  Sophomore year, we became roommates on campus, and by junior year, we were living off campus but together. She knows all my deepest, darkest secrets, including where the bodies are buried. She’s the only one I can talk to about this kind of shit, especially when it surrounds my father, Bearded Bean, or anything related to the West Coast. She’s the one who handled the legal paperwork when we converted Bearded Bean from a single ship to a full-fledged company, despite being a criminal defense attorney for a hotshot firm in Midtown. A damn good one. She’s skilled in all areas. I’ve offered her a job in my office more than a few times, but she likes what she does.

  “Well, I’ve decided to do it.” The waitress returns with our wines, and we both order our usual, despite our failed attempt at considering something else. When the waitress walks away, I continue, “I’d decided to do it before I talked to Randy.”

  “What did he have to say?” Ryleigh asks before taking a sip of her wine.

  “They’re sinking it.”

  “Sinking what?” Her eyebrows knit together in confusion.

  “Bearded Bean, the original.”

  “You’re kidding?” she gasps. “Why on earth would they want to do that?”

  I laugh at her scoff. “It’s not uncommon. Old ships are often sunk for the purpose of helping form new reefs. I guess Randy decided it would be better use of the boat than storing it on land until it falls apart.” I take a sip of my own wine. “Randy thinks it’s important for me to be there. I’m still not sure.”

  “I’m not sure either.” Her lip curls up in a concerned smile.

  “It’s been over 10 years since the last—”

  “Yeah, because time has stopped people before,” she counters. “I don’t like it,” she admonishes me.

  I shrug, “Diem and Scott will be there.”

  “When?” she nods toward me.

  “March second.”

  “Shit,” she frowns, “I’m in court.”

  I shake my head before taking another sip of my wine. “You don’t need to come.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “No, Rebs, I don’t need to come, but I’d like to. Let me see if I have any wiggle room in my…”

  “Don’t, it’s all right. I’m flying in the morning of and back out first thing the morning after. I’m going to drop down to Seattle, check in on Bearded Bean, and then I’ll be home the following morning.”

  “What’s the point then?”

  “Excuse me?” I ask, a little more harshly than I mean to.

  She shakes her head. “Forty-eight hours, why bother?”

  “Because, I guess, I don’t know, maybe I’ve finally realized it’s time to put it to rest. Maybe if I do this, then I can finally feel like I’ve let it go. Down with the ship, more or less.” I take a large gulp of wine and set the glass down.

  Ryleigh shakes her head again.

  “You don’t approve?” I ask.

  “Honestly?” I nod at her, encouraging her to continue. “I don’t see why you’re torturing yourself. You’ve said it yourself countless times. You owe him nothing, and they owe you nothing. So, why bring it all back up, again?” Her eyes widen briefly in a very pointed look.

  “It’s never really left me. I think I just buried it, and the reality of the fact it’s been 20 years is just…it’s hitting me pretty hard,” I tell her. I knew the email was coming, it always does, and most years I can ignore it. I can delete it, bury it away, but I couldn’t do that this year, and I don’t understand why.

  “Then you should go.” Her tone is a little lighter, less agitated. It makes me smile a little.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t change the dates, but if you can, you’re welcome to come.”

  She smiles genuinely. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good,” I smile back at her.

  Our food gets delivered, and we both order another glass of wine before we depart. We spend the rest of our lunch talking about anything and everything. She’s been really busy at work, and she just had another case land on her desk. She doesn’t say much about it—she never does. All I get is it has to do with a gang rape and murder by someone of a rival gang.

  I scold her. I don’t like it when she takes on those kinds of cases, and yet again, I offer her a job in my office. It’s not criminal law, but it
would keep her safe. I could throw all the money I have at the woman and she’d still turn me down. It’s never been about money for her, though she does live on the West Side, a few blocks from me. Her passion is driven by innocence. She has a knack for investigating and for being able to read and see right through people, which is very helpful in her line of work. She read me like an open book when we first met. It’s why we became fast, lifelong friends. I didn’t have to explain anything to her, she just knew.

  We part with the promise of drinks, versus dinner, tomorrow night because she has a meeting that will keep her later than originally planned. That’s not unusual with Ryleigh. We have a standing weekly dinner date on Thursdays, though one of us cancels frequently. Her lateness tomorrow makes me happy we got to have lunch today. I take what I can get with her. Our schedules conflict way too often.

  I return to the office, and as promised, Dawson has everything worked out for my Alaska trip. He was able to find a different house that appears to be a little more secluded and overlooks the harbor.

  The rest of the afternoon goes quickly with meetings and one very exciting conference call. During the call and in between two meetings, I somehow manage to clean out my email. Not bad for a Wednesday. Usually by now, my email is overrunning with more than I can handle, and it usually takes me until Friday to weed through the shitshow.

  “Kara?” I call out as I enter my penthouse.

  “Here, Ms. McKay, in the kitchen.”

  I go to the kitchen and find Kara working on a plate of small things—fruits, cheeses, and some sausages. “Did my Tiffany’s order get delivered?” I ask.

  “It did. I put it up in your closet, along with your dress for tonight. I wasn’t sure what shoes you wanted to wear, so I laid out a couple different options.” I smile at her. “There’s three messages for you, nothing too urgent. I placed them on your credenza, and I’ve started a cheese plate for you.”

  “What would I do without you, Kara?” I laugh. “Thank you,” I tell her before snagging a chunk of cheese off the plate. “Bring it up when you’re done. I’m going to jump in the shower.”

  “Will do, Ms. McKay.”

  I kick off my pumps and pick them up as I remember the apartment this morning. I turn back to her and watch her pop a grape in her mouth. When she seems to be done chewing, I ask, “What time did she leave this morning?”

  “Around 6:30. She made some coffee and took a shower, but beyond that, she didn’t do anything else.”

  Six-thirty, good. “Thanks again,” I tell Kara.

  “She left you a note,” she tells me as an after-thought. “I nearly threw it away, but…” she drops off.

  “Toss it,” I say as I ascend the stairs toward my bedroom suite.

  “Yes, Ms. McKay.”

  One of the many reasons I love having Diem and Kara around—they don’t ask questions, they just do. They don’t judge, at least not verbally, and they are discreet. Had last night’s companion not left the apartment, Kara would have shown up pretending to be my roommate and made her feel uncomfortable enough to leave. But that wasn’t the case, today.

  Chapter 3

  Skylar

  An hour later, I’m showered, make-up done, hair braided down my back. I keep my roots a little long when I have my dreads done. It gives me the flexibility of mobility, allowing me to braid it, pull it back, or leave it down, depending on the occasion. Dawson asked me once why I dread my hair, and I told him I do it because I can.

  Truth is, it makes me the badass CEO. It turns heads when I walk into a conference room. I needed an edge over the men who surrounded the conference tables. Though, my tall, curves in all the right places, frame helps, but I needed something that didn’t spell S-E-X every time I walked in a room. I have to admit, I feel sexier this way. It also sets off an ‘I don’t give a fuck’ vibe, and that’s what I needed. It was my edge. It took me a few years to build my reputation, but now it proceeds me. I offset the punk look with well put-together suits in the office and accentuate it for a night on the town.

  Tonight’s an exception.

  Tonight, the annual We Are One Annual New York Gala will be filled with the elite of New York Society and Hollywood’s, too. I’m going because this is one charity I truly support, and I’m honored to be there. It’s run by husband and wife duo, Cameron and Tristan Michaels, and 97 cents out of every dollar earned goes to the charity’s purposes. All volunteer run, and neither Cami nor Tristan draw a salary from it. Not that either one of them needs to. She’s the CEO of Bold International, Inc., a major public relations firm in Los Angeles. Tristan Michaels is one of Hollywood’s A-List celebrities and has graced the sexiest man covers more times than I can count.

  My support of We Are One is a private matter. The money I donate, a couple million dollars a year, comes strictly from my pocket. The only person (besides Diem and Kara, for obvious reasons) that knows of my affiliation with this charity is Ryleigh.

  Sometimes keeping philanthropic gestures to yourself can be a good thing.

  Yes, I have money, a lot of it, but I also don’t go throwing it around willy-nilly without a good cause.

  Tonight’s a good cause.

  I slip into my Louboutin Choca Sandals, black to match the dress. They have a thick band around the ankle and dainty straps coming off it. Then a wide strap over the toes.

  Any other event, I would accent black with some outrageous color, either in my hair or on my head. I especially love crazy colored shoes. My eyes roam my closet, seeing my bright reds, greens, blues, and even a couple pairs of school bus yellow pumps. Then my favorite night out accessory, my studded Louboutins, but tonight is about elegance. I was originally wearing a necklace, but the high neckline of tonight’s dress is enough. Instead, I’ve gone with a pair of Diamond by the Yard drop earrings, which were delivered this afternoon. I leave my other earrings in my ears. I have platinum cuffs that line the tops of both my ears and a few diamond Tiffany earrings along my lobes.

  I slip into my panties, no thigh highs tonight, and then into the Pronovias Gerdie long sleeved, full length evening gown. The front rides high and settles at the base of my neck. The back dips into a deep V that lands just at the small of my back with an almost hip high slit over my left, highly tattooed leg.

  I admire myself for a moment in the mirror and smile.

  Tonight’s going to be great.

  Diem, Scott, and Kara are waiting for me when I arrive downstairs. They’re discussing whatever it is they talk about, and I clear my throat.

  “Ms. McKay, you look stunning,” Kara says with a huge smile on her lips.

  “Thank you,” I smile back at her. “Are we ready to go?”

  “Let me grab your coat,” Kara says and she disappears.

  “The black cape,” I holler after her.

  Diem turns to Scott and directs him to get the car before he turns toward me. “I’ll be accompanying you inside. Tonight’s got a red carpet.”

  I nod in understanding. Though, I’ve not had any death threats in several years, Diem won’t take any chances when it comes to my safety, despite the fact that I constantly rebel against him at any possible turn.

  Tonight, I don’t argue. He knows once I’m inside, there’s nothing to worry about, and he’ll be just one of more than a few hundred security detail standing around the room.

  I always used to joke that the President was the most protected man, but then again, he’s never been to a black-tie celebrity gala before. Granted, if the shit hits the fan, every one of them will scramble for their own charges.

  Kara appears with my coat, and Diem takes it from her, holding it out for me. I’m five-nine, and Kara is all of maybe five-three. Diem is six-five. I slip my hands into the sleeves of the cape, and Diem settles it on my shoulders. I clasp the neck and then the second clasp below my bust.

  “Perfect,” Kara smiles again.

  I nod my thanks to her and follow Diem to the door and the elevator.

  Forty-five minut
es later, Diem opens the car door to a cacophony of flashing lights and cameras. I take a deep breath. Outside of New York City, I’m nothing. But on Manhattan, I’m a celebrity, and I hear my name being called from all different directions. Questions being flung at me. I hear questions like, where’s your date, no date tonight Ms. McKay, and so on. Society is no place for my so-called dates, and while the men who arrive solo are believed to be gay, woman arriving solo are believed to be a bitch.

  A reputation I don’t mind.

  It takes more than 20 minutes to make it through the line of magazines, newspapers, and online publication reporters, and so many smiles my cheeks hurt before I finally step inside the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  As I do, my eyes roam around the room and someone takes my coat and hands me a ticket. As I walk into the room, I’m met with rows of servers, different drinks on their trays. I grab a champagne flute. I down half of it before tasting the delicious champagne, and I’m immediately accosted by partygoers greeting me, welcoming me, complimenting me, and conversing with me.

  It’s hard to believe the daughter of a fisherman can garner so much respect and attention in the middle of New York’s high society.

  Chapter 4

  Xavier

  “Mr. Tyler.” Someone calls my name, and I turn to see Carl, one of the partners I work with, coming toward me.

  “Good evening, Carl.” I plaster my fake smile and take his outstretched hand. “It’s good to see you,” I lie.

  “Likewise, are you enjoying yourself?”

  “Not particularly,” I deadpan.

  I hate these things. The monkey suits, the snobby, stuck-up, high society types. I may be one of them, but that doesn’t mean I have to like them. I came here tonight for one reason and one reason only.

  “Ms. McKay, how lovely to see you again,” I hear a woman greet her, and I turn. The moment my eyes land on her, my cock grows hard in my slacks, and I completely tune out the entire room. Not paying attention to a thing Carl says.