by J. Saman
“She’s in labor,” he bursts out, his tone slightly hysterical. “Greta’s water broke all over the damn couch, and before you ask, no she didn’t pee on the thing, I asked. She’s already in full-blown labor and it’s too soon, dude. She’s only thirty-six weeks. I’m freaking the motherfuck out, and she’s all Zen and shit, and I can’t do this. I cannot have a baby tonight. What if something is wrong with it? What if it’s sick and that’s why it’s coming out early?”
Lyric grabs the phone from me, bringing it to her ear as she points to the driver with a look that indicates I should tell him to head directly to the hospital. “Hey asshole,” she says into the phone and I can’t stop my small laugh. “We’re on our way. And don’t worry, thirty-six weeks isn’t all that early. My sister Melody had her son at thirty-five and he’s the healthiest, sweetest boy in the world.”
“I’m scared,” I hear him admit and I think he’s only saying that because it’s Lyric talking to him and not me.
“I know,” she says with the most empathetic, nurturing tone ever. “But we’re on our way. You’re not alone, Cane. I swear. Whatever happens with you and Greta and this baby, you’re not alone.”
He blows out a breath, like he’s relieved and believes everything Lyric is telling him. I can hear it from here even though she has the phone and I don’t. “For the record, he hasn’t been the same since you two split. He’s been the mopiest of bastards, actually. And truth, I’ve always loved you with him. I’m really glad you finally realized you two belong together. Even if he was a total twat for letting you go.”
Lyric grins, laughs a little, her eyes flashing up to mine. “Me too,” she says and I lean in and kiss her because I absolutely have to. The call disconnects, and the driver takes us to the hospital.
We hop out of the car and I tip the man like I’m God and money is eternal and no object. He deserves it and I don’t care, because Greta is in early labor and Cane is freaking out and Lyric is with me and this suddenly becomes one of those life moments. The ones that you hopefully look back on with smiles over drinks.
Travers comes bursting through the doors of the ED almost immediately after Lyric and I get there, and he enfolds Lyric in a hug that seems to last forever. Those two always had an easy friendship and I know he’s missed her. I accept it, even if I want to beat my friend’s ass for so much as touching her. They hug, but it’s more than that. They hold each other. And I let them because I know what this moment means to each of them.
We go upstairs to the labor and delivery floor. Jesus. I’m scared out of my goddamn mind. What if this baby is not okay, like Cane said? What if something goes wrong? Lyric takes my hand like she’s reading my secret thoughts and I glance over at her, suddenly choked up with emotion. I feel like a pussy for being this easily overcome, but I don’t care enough to stop it or hold it at bay.
“This will be us one day,” I say out of nowhere. “I’m going to marry you and get you so very pregnant. And then we’ll make phone calls to all the people we love in a panic. But really, I cannot wait to see your big, beautiful belly with my child in it.”
She blinks at me, her hazel eyes swirling more green than brown or gray. They do that when she’s crying or they grow glassy. Which is exactly what they’re doing this very minute. “Not yet,” she says and I agree. I need to get through Cane having a baby first. Which brings me back to this waiting room. And the fact that our friends are somewhere else, delivering a slightly premature baby.
“Not yet,” I echo, but now it’s all I can think about. I cannot begin to fathom how drop-dead gorgeous Lyric will look with my baby growing in her body. I smile because it’s going to happen. I’m going to marry Lyric one day and she’s going to carry my children. I’m going to buy her a house and we’re going to live somewhere awesome, and shit is going to be fucking perfect. Because that’s how you always envision life—perfect.
Travers is pacing and Lee is wandering around the on-floor baby giftshop and I can’t move. I’m just sitting here, my ass glued to this seat. An hour—a motherfucking hour—later, a woman with black hair and aqua eyes walks out. She’s wearing scrubs and an exhausted, but satisfied smile. “Are you part of the Vandelay party?” she asks and all of us freeze, turning our rapt attention to her. “My name is Gia Bianchi. I’m a midwife here at the hospital. Greta and Cane Vandelay wanted me to come out and inform you that they delivered a healthy baby girl. They’re all doing very well, and dad will be out to update you more in a few minutes.”
I blink. And then I blow out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. Travers and I exchange looks and then Lyric breaks down into tears, thanking this Gia woman like they’ve known each other for years—complete with hugs and laughs and more tears. A baby girl. Holy God, Cane has a baby girl. He’s going to be permanently strapped with a shotgun on his back once that poor thing hits twelve.
“A girl,” Travers says, slightly in awe. I’m in awe as well. What the hell are we going to do with a baby girl? We are not men equipped to handle that. “I’m an uncle.”
And now I laugh, because yeah, we’re uncles. And this is one of those incredible moments that I spoke of earlier. And yeah, we’re going to share this over drinks one day when we’re all old as hell and life is good and our kids are running around a backyard together.
Twenty minutes later, a glowing and bewildered-looking Cane comes out to greet us. He brings us back after hugging Lyric a bit longer than I would like and whispering shit into her ear which cannot be good. But man, this baby. She’s small. And so goddamn beautiful. Like holy shit beautiful. She has this soft-knit pink hat on her bald head and her eyes are this dark gray-blue and her skin is red and sort of irritated, and she’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Lyric and Greta hit it off instantly, talking about things that only women know and I hold my new niece by friendship in my arms. She weighs nothing but smells incredible and when she peers up at me with those big eyes, I realize I’m done.
“I want one,” I say aloud, though I’m really only talking to Lyric. Even if we just got back together tonight.
“No,” she says again and I relent, because like I said, it’s only been a few hours. “What’s her name?”
“Elena Julia.”
“Welcome to the world, Elena Julia.” Lyric joins me on the couch and quickly steals the little bundle from me, holding her close in a way I wouldn’t understand. We don’t linger. Greta, Cane and Elena need time to themselves. On our way out, I ask Lyric once again, “Spend the night with me?”
“Yes,” she says with a caveat. “I have to be at work by eight tomorrow, which means I need to go home first to change.”
“That’s fine. I’m planning on heading to see my dad early. I have some meetings in the afternoon.”
She opens her mouth to say something else when we’re bombarded by bright, flashing lights. Cameras and press are everywhere, and for a moment, I think there must be a celebrity behind us. Or that they have the wrong people. But then I hear them yell Lyric’s name. They’re asking her about Harry. About me. About a million different things all in rapid succession.
“How did they know I was here?” she asks, drawing into my side nervously. I shake my head, at a total loss until I spot our driver from earlier today off to the side, standing by the building. That motherfucker! He must have recognized Lyric and thought he could make some fast cash. I always forget who Lyric is. What world she grew up in. Mostly because we grew up in the same town and I’ve never thought of her as a rock star’s daughter. As a celebrity in her own right. After the bullshit picture with Harry that’s been spreading like wildfire, that status has only grown.
I had ordered us an Uber from inside the hospital and as I check my phone, I see that it’s here. But there is no way I can find it with all these people around us, clamoring for a photo and a soundbite. Wrapping my arm around Lyric, I tuck her tighter into my side and begin to push through, anxious to get my girl out of here. The questions keep coming. The flashe
s of light relentless. Lyric stays quiet and finally, I find the car I ordered.
After slipping inside—with some difficulty because these assholes are no joke—I tell the driver to go and we speed off into the city. “Jesus,” I whisper, running a hand through my hair and twisting my head to peer out the back window.
“It was one picture,” she says softly, shaking her head like none of this makes sense. “They’ve photographed me with Ethan a million times. I’ve been seen walking through the streets of LA with other male artists. And yeah, some of those pics end up in magazines or on the internet, but it’s never been like this before. I don’t understand.” She looks to me, her eyes wide. “Why are they suddenly so nuts over this Harry crap?”
“I don’t know, baby.” I take her hand in mine, give it a squeeze of reassurance. “But now that they’ve got pictures of us, maybe it will die down.”
“God, I hope so. It’s going to make tomorrow at work very awkward. I’m also going to have to speak to Harry about this, but I don’t want him to try and pull his album away.”
“I doubt he will. He’s worked with you before and you’ve earned him a lot of money and awards.”
Lyric just shakes her head and falls silent, still out of sorts from everything that just transpired. We reach my apartment, and mercifully, it’s camera free. The moment the door shuts and locks behind us, she spins around to face me with an unreadable expression.
“I never thought we’d be back here,” she says, waving her finger back and forth between us. “I’m nervous, Jameson. I’m scared that tomorrow when I wake up, something is going to happen that will pull us back apart. That I’ll have to go back to California or your work demands will change or—”
I silence her with a kiss, before I cup her face in my hands. “If you go back to California, I go with you.” She blinks, surprised by how quickly and effortlessly I said it. “My work is my work and whatever it demands, it will always come second to you. To us. I was stupid, Lee. So reckless and stupid. I swear, I’ll never be that again. I just need you to try with me. To place just the smallest amount of faith in me and allow it to grow as I prove myself to you.” I search her eyes. “Can you do that?”
“Yes,” she says. “I love you and I want to take this leap of faith with you.”
“Thank God, because there is no going back for me now. You’re mine and I’m yours and I’m never letting you go.”
I sweep her up into my arms and carry her over to my sofa. I set her down gently, kiss her sweet, delectable mouth, and leave her to turn on the gas fireplace and order her those veggie tacos we never had. I return with a glass of wine for both of us, but the way she looks, sprawled out on my couch, her blonde hair fanned out in every direction, her eyes sexy and sleepy, has my chest tightening as my heart beats wildly against the constraint it’s not held in. God this woman. She’s breathed life back into me. Reawaken my half-dead soul.
Her eyes have been locked on the dancing flame in my hearth, but when she feels me watching her, she turns her head to find me. She smiles and that tightness in my chest turns into a humming electricity that pulses through my entire body. “I’ve been locked on autopilot for so long. Wake up. Work out. Go to work. Sleep. That’s been my life for the last four years, Lee. Automatic. Thoughtless. Dead. But now, here, looking at you?” I shake my head and smile. “I don’t want to sleepwalk through anything ever again.”
Her beautiful hazel eyes light up. Her hand lifting as she crooks a finger at me. Setting the glasses of wine on the coffee table, I get on top of her, propping myself up on my elbows, so I don’t crush her and can simultaneously continue to gaze at her. “We never have to. Because the world has picked us up and spun us around, but we finally managed to get it turned in our favor. And I cannot wait until tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that, because no matter what, I get to spend them with you.”
My lips meet hers and I kiss her. I kiss her because I can. Because Lyric Rose is finally mine. Forever.
EPILOGUE ONE
Lyric
One year later
* * *
The sound of the waves crashing on the beach creates a steady rhythm of background noise as the evening California sun seeps into my skin, warming me from within. In the distance, surfers sit on their boards, waiting for the perfect wave that seem to be coming with stubborn infrequency.
The sun is getting close to setting and in Southern California, it’s a sight that never grows old. An orb of orange fire as it lights up the sky, reflecting off all it touches. This moment would be perfect, but it’s missing one very important element. Jameson. He’s been inside for most of the afternoon, working. Or so he told me. But I think I’ve also heard him making dinner, so I won’t complain too much about that working-while-on-vacation stuff.
The past year together has flown by. Seriously, I cannot fathom where the time went. Last summer was spent in my new office in New York, in my new recording studio making music non-stop. I finished Cyber’s Law’s album in record time, pun intended. Well, record for them. It wasn’t awkward with Harry the way I anticipated. In fact, when I came in that next morning after the whole paparazzi tabloid buzz, he wrapped me up in a friendly hug and laughed the whole thing off. “Media,” he said with a dramatic eye roll like they had run away with themselves without any help from a third party.
In truth, the photographs of Jameson and I leaving the hospital stormed the internet. My PR agent went nuts over it, and when she texted me late that night, I told her to tell the world that Jameson and I were a couple and that Harry Evans was just a close friend. It was left at that and since that time, Harry has been nothing but professional with me.
After I finished the two albums I was working on, I had to fly out to California. I spent two full months out here, and though I was wary about how that time would go with Jameson and I on opposite ends of the country, I didn’t need to be. He was a man of his word. I was his priority. He flew out here three times during those two months, and every single night, he Facetimed me. He even sent me lingerie he wanted me to wear during some of our calls.
It was fun. It was sexy. And it kept the whole absence-makes-the-heart-grow-fonder thing going. I knew that if we could make it through those two months, then we could make it through anything.
Something crashes inside the house, from my kitchen I presume, and I try my best to suppress my grin. Some men can cook, and some can’t, and some are in between. Jameson is the latter, I’m afraid. He can make four or five things really well and the rest is just a disaster. I hear him growl under his breath and seconds later, the back door slides open and shuts, his bare feet slapping against the wood of the deck as he makes his way over to me.
“You break my kitchen?”
“No,” he says, his voice equally weary and irritated. “I was trying to be romantic and make you dinner since I was working all day while you were basking in the California sun.”
Now I smile. “I know.” Rolling my neck against my lounger, I gaze up at him through my sunglasses. Because that’s his thing now. Trying to be romantic. He’s insanely good at it.
His eyes are fixed on the ocean beyond the beach, staring off at the view I was just admiring. We’ve been back at my Malibu house for only a few days. It was his idea to take advantage of it for a little R&R, but he hasn’t done much of that yet. Me? Yeah, I’ve been taking advantage of all that California has to offer me, including seeing Cass, her husband, and my godson Ben. Ethan decided he liked New York better than LA and has made it his permanent residence. No complaints from me.
And even though I miss it out here, this house and this beach and this sunset, my world is now in New York.
“Do you have to be a vegetarian?” he teases without bothering to avert his eyes from the horizon. “It makes everything so much more difficult.”
“I’ve been that way since I was seven. Hard to change now.”
“And since I wouldn’t change a thing about you, I guess I’m stuck wit
h meatless food.”
“I don’t mind you eating meat. It’s sort of cute in a caveman way.”
He chuckles lightly, turning to face me. “Scoot,” he says, climbing onto my lounger without waiting for me to follow his instructions. He wraps his arms around me, kissing his way up my neck to my ear, eliciting delicious tingles in his wake. He’s wearing a pale blue t-shirt, which makes his eyes look almost colorless in the bright sun and khaki shorts. His face has two-days’ worth of black stubble and I decide that I like vacation Jameson as much as Wall Street office Jameson.
My fingers run along the tattoo on his inner forearm. My tattoo. It might be my favorite thing on him, though that is a very difficult call to make as it has some stiff competition. Stiff competition that is pushing into my hip at this very moment. “Why did you put the tattoo here?” I ask. I’ve always been curious.
“Because the flow of blood from the left hand goes directly up to the heart.”
I smile, unable to stop my reaction to his words. He shifts our position, bringing me in front of him, my head resting on his chest as we watch that glowing ball of fire slowly descend into the ocean. The beach on the other side of the deck is private, but it’s still crowded. It always is this time of day, as everyone stops whatever they’re doing to watch the show. “Too bad we can’t bring this back to New York. Maybe we really should move back here.”
I jab him in the stomach, and he laughs, squeezing me tighter against him. “I like our new place in the city.”
“Me too,” he whispers in my ear, kissing along the sensitive skin.
We bought a place in Chelsea a few months ago. We had been living separately but together, and with him being downtown and me being more uptown, it was aggravating. And inconvenient. So, we compromised and got something in between our respective work places. I like the neighborhood and the building we’re in is very nice, and our apartment has a beautiful view and lots of natural light.