“Luf you, Daddy,” Mason chirps, taking us all by surprise.
Vance is so still, I think he might keel over of a heart attack or something. I hear him sniffle, and then wipe a tear from his eye, before scooping Mason up into a hug. Above us, Roberta is most definitely sobbing, and I can’t help the contented few tears I shed.
And, I guess the moral of the story is, don’t complicate things. Children are pretty intuitive. Eventually, I suppose, Mason just figured out on his own that Vance is his father.
Out of all the pain and heartbreak that we’ve had to endure, this moment is worth it.
* * *
“If you don’t get your arse in this water, I’m going to drag you in.”
I take back everything I said before. I like Vacation Vance the best. He’s freer, not so stern and actually laughed at a joke one of the swim-up pool bartenders made today.
“Oh, I’d like to see you try,” I taunt him, running up our private sandy beach.
The villa he booked for us on an exclusive resort in the Canary Islands is … blimey, it’s magnificent. You know those commercials you see, or maybe your wildest dreams, when there is a couple all alone on some white sand beach? And you think, hmm, wouldn’t it be brilliant if they could just run around naked all day?
We could. Vance and I could do that. On our private beach, with our private villa, and private ocean.
The house—yes it’s not a room for vacation, it’s an actual house bigger than my flat in Brighton—is luxurious and gleaming with its ocean-side decor, four-poster king bed and soaking tub that overlooks the vast aquamarine ocean. We can choose to stay in our villa or join the other vacationers on the resort at the four swim-up bars, three Michelin star restaurant, or in the world-renowned spa.
I swear, I’ve died and gone to heaven. Do other people actually live like this? It’s a hell of a long way from frigid Brighton and teaching hormone-crazed secondary school students.
“Woman, don’t test me.”
The next scene is something out of a movie, a very illicit one with an R rating.
Vance emerges from the ocean, water sluicing down every indent of his brawny chest and carved biceps. The dark trail of hair that runs from his navel and disappears down into the black board shorts he wears teases me from the distance. Running one very-talented hand through his midnight black hair as his thighs strain against the fabric of his bathing suit … blimey, I have to audibly swallow my mouth is so dry.
He eats up the distance between us, and in an instant, I’m thrown over his shoulder.
“I wasn’t kidding,” he retorts, smug as I beat against the globes of his arse from my upside-down position.
“Vance! Put me down! This isn’t funny!” Even though I cackle as he swats my bikini-clad arse.
From what I can see in this precarious state, our venue has changed. We were outside, enjoying the endless sunshine and margaritas in the cooler a butler had brought us. Now, I spot the marble tiled floor of our villa, and the chunky beige rug of the bedroom it boasts.
“Oh, I know it’s not funny.” The growl that emits from his throat as he slides me down his body and onto the bed is carnal.
I’ve been under him on this bed more times than I count on this vacation, and we’ve only been here for two days. We’ve shagged standing, sitting, lying, and probably every other position known to man. Like I said, there is just something about Vance and me. This inability to keep our hands off each other for very long when we occupy the same space.
As he lowers his head to my breasts, my nipples are already hard as bullets for him.
But he bypasses them, instead skating his teeth up my collarbone and over to my shoulder, where he grunts as his mouth makes contact with the strap of my bikini. And pulls. The scraps of fabric pool around my breasts.
Bloody hell, the man is a lustful maniac. He’s just untied me with nothing but his teeth.
Lazily, I explore his bare chest with my hands, my movements languid as Vance stokes the fire inside me higher and higher. He’s stripped me by the time my fingers dip beneath the waistband of his trunks, and push until I can feel the warm, smooth flesh of his ass. I sink my nails into it until Vance curses, and my inner she-devil smirks with satisfaction. I love affecting this usually stoic man.
Before I realize what he’s doing, those broad shoulders are halfway down my body, hovering over me until I feel Vance’s breath right between my thighs.
“Oh my …” A wail careens out of me as his tongue dips into my center.
In seconds, I’m bucking like a prize-winning bull as Vance keeps his steely grip on my hips, his tongue doing magical, wonderful things to me. My fists pull at the sheets, at his hair, scratching his arms.
Vance was always very skilled at this particular portion of foreplay, it was like he could read my mind while down between my legs. The familiar pull of my orgasm threatens to consume me, but just as I’m about to tip over the edge, he stops.
Crawling back up the Egyptian-cotton sheets, Vance plants open mouth kisses on my lips as he lines us up.
Vance slides into me, my core already dripping wet, and skims one hand down my right arm until our hands are clasped. I pant as he moves my arm, planting it above my head and pinning my fingers to the pillows beneath. He repeats the motion with my other arm, and then he’s poised above me like some primed tiger looking down at his prey.
With long, deep, slow strokes, he begins to assault my senses, my nerves, and every pore on my body in the best way possible. I can’t take my eyes off him, and when he looks down to see where we’re joined, I look too.
It’s erotic as all hell.
I love him, we both know I do. I just can’t say it. I’m terrified. Terrified that Vance will take those words, and walk away from me with them in his back pocket again.
As much as I can, I try to relay my feelings with my eyes. They’re boring into him right now, each of us nearly breathless as he thrusts in hard, slow motions. One more and I’ll …
My body erupts at the exact moment Vance lets out a shouting growl, and his hands force mine farther down into the mattress. We come together, taking and giving pleasure equally.
Hours later, I wake to the sunset pouring through the windows of the room, basking Vance and me in stripes of butter yellow and coral pink. He’s softly breathing, his head nestled on my chest and one of my legs thrown over his waist.
This is perfection, in the purest form.
There are so many things we have to get back to. Parenting, jobs, frustrations of the real world.
For as long as we can keep those things out, shut the door of our villa and live our lives to make love …
I’ll do it.
31
Vance
Being in my dorm room feels like being in prison.
I’m locked away, alone. Lara and Mason aren’t here. Jude and Kingston aren’t here. It’s bloody cold on this campus, and in here with the draft from the old stained-glass windows that were only ever meant to be used in a church setting.
Just a week ago, I was on a beach with a naked Lara, sinking my cock into her while the ocean wind blew at our backs. I want to be back there, in paradise with the mother of my child.
We’ve shagged more time than I can count in the last month, since that first time on Christmas Eve. Making up for lost time, I say. Lara berates me every day with how sore she is, but I know it’s half-joking complaints. She’s the one who jumps my bones each time I walk through her flat door when I get back to Brighton.
And now I’m here, in this bloody purgatory, awaiting my fate. I do what I’ve always done. Go to training sessions. Hit the weight room. Attend games. Eat in the dining hall. I’m so fucking sick of this life that I question why I’m here every minute of every day.
As if her ears were ringing, my mobile begins to do the same, the screen lighting up with Lara’s name.
“Hi,” I sigh into the phone, needing to hear her voice.
Now that we’re solid ag
ain, or as solid as we can be for now, I find more and more that I need her to feel settled. If I’m not with her, if I go even an hour without communicating with her, something inside my chest goes haywire.
How had I survived those years without her? Perhaps it’s why I’d been so damn moody for the majority of my twenties thus far.
“Hey, love. What are you doing?” I just imagine her cuddled on the couch right now, and I miss her even more than I did before.
“Sitting in this godforsaken dorm room,” I grumble. “How was your day? How is Mason?”
Lara huffs out a breath. “Well, I had two students go to the headmaster’s office for mobile use during class. But I did get that lesson plan passed on The Scarlet Letter, the one I told you about. So a win and a loss. Mason was splendid today, ate dinner in ten minutes flat. It was a rare, but great, night.”
At least he cooperated for her tonight. I feel so much guilt being away from them, not being able to help in my half of the parenting duties.
“Good. I miss you both.”
“I know, we miss you, too. Mason keeps rambling about Daddy. It’s so cute.” Her voice warms.
“I hate being here.” My melancholy continues to deepen, and I feel like a sulking teenager, but I can’t help it.
“You won’t be there much longer.” Lara tries to put a positive note in her voice.
“You don’t know that,” I argue, sounding even more dramatic.
“But you played so well in that match Mason and I went to,” she argues.
“Nothing has happened as a result of it. I’m sick of being here. I’m sick of working my arse off for nothing.”
“So come home to us.” Her words are simple, as if they’re facts and not suggestions.
“It’s not that easy,” I snap.
I knew she wouldn’t understand. She never did like this as my career.
“I know it isn’t.” Her voice is just as strained.
It’s the age-old problem between us.
“I think we’re just both fed up, tired, and missing each other,” Lara admits with a sigh.
She’s not wrong. This back and forth, trying to live our lives long distance and waiting for some kind of decision to be made about my football future, I feel like it’s damaging us. Not so it’s visible, but over time the cracks will appear. Just like they did last time. We have a son to think about, and I want to marry Lara, not that she knows it yet. The woman can’t even utter the three words I’ve already said to her out of the fear I’ll break her heart again. And who am I to convince her I won’t? I’m a child trying to play an adult’s game; I can’t be a father when I live two hours away, chasing a dream that isn’t even at my fingertips.
Hell, being the keeper of RFC isn’t even within an arm’s length.
“I’ll see you this weekend, yeah?” Lara breaks the awkward silence.
I bury my head in my hands, thankful she can’t see how defeated I look. “Yeah.”
This wasn’t how I thought this call would go at all.
“All right.”
“Give Mason my love,” I tell her.
Lara rings off before I can tell her I love her, too. Probably on purpose, so she wouldn’t have to say it back.
And my mood only dips further into gloom. I can’t be there for her. I can’t be there for Mason. I’m stuck here, trading my loyalty to a club that wants to do nothing but stick me on a shelf.
I’m almost at my breaking point. When I do, I wonder if I’ll abandon the dream I’ve worked my entire life to achieve.
32
Lara
“Mum! Mum!”
I rush into the emergency room of the Brighton Hospital, my eyes full of tears and my head spinning like I’ve been on a carnival ride for hours.
That’s how I feel, actually. Sick to my stomach, disoriented, and not sure which way is up.
“Lara? Over here!” She runs at me, and I catch her as we meet in the middle of the dingy, fluorescent-lit hospital hallway.
“A motorbike, it just hopped the curb, I didn’t even see it, I didn’t …” Mum’s voice is frantic and my heart threatens to burst out of my throat.
“Where is he? Where is he?” I’m frantic.
“Are you Mason Logan’s mother?” Someone in a white coat comes up to me.
I assume he’s a doctor, because why would he be asking and look like that. “Yes. Yes, that’s me.”
“Good, we’ve been waiting to give a guardian his prognosis.”
“Is he okay?” I choke out, not able to stomach that I’m saying these words.
The doctor’s face splits into a small, reassuring smile, and instantly some of the waves of nausea wracking my body dissipate.
“Your son is going to be just fine. He was lucky, or maybe he just has a tough skull. Nothing but a few scrapes and bruises, one that he needed a couple stitches for. Other than a broken arm, that will heal fully in six to eight weeks, he’s healthy as a horse. Good genes this lad has. He’s lucky he doesn’t have a concussion or any other internal injuries. He’s just fine, Ms. Logan.”
A breath, one that’s been caught in my lungs since my mother called me screaming just half an hour ago, whooshes from my chest. I bend over, releasing a few sobs, and then straighten to wipe my eyes.
“Thank you. Thank you.” I can’t seem to say anything else.
When I got the call from Mum, where she stood on the side of Main Street as an ambulance loaded Mason inside, I instantly dropped the paperwork I’d stayed after school to complete. Her voice had been so panicked, I thought the sky was falling. It was, my sky that is. The boy who hangs the moon for me had been mowed down by a reckless motorcyclist.
“Can I see him?” I ask, my voice fraught with need and exhaustion.
“Right this way.” The doctor motions, and I follow.
When I barge into Mason’s room, not bothering to shield my still-present panic before I see my son, I’m shocked to see who is standing beside him.
“Louis, what are you doing here?” My eyes roam over my ex-fiancé before falling to my son.
Mason looks so small and delicate in the bed, the adult mattress swallowing his almost two-year-old frame. He has a bandage around his head, a cast on his arm, but his eyes look clear and he’s smiling at something Louis must have just said.
Rushing to him, I try to gingerly gather him in my arms. “Oh, my baby.”
Silent tears fall down my cheeks, ones my son can’t see because I’ve hugged him so close.
“Look, Mummy, green!” He lifts his right arm, which I now know from his doctor is broken in two places.
The cast they’ve put on him is lime green, and he looks thrilled that he gets to wear it. I hope he keeps that attitude for the next six weeks.
“Wow, buddy, that looks brilliant! Can I sign it?” I ask him, putting on my best Mummy voice.
“Louis, sign!” My son flashes a megawatt smile at the man who used to tuck him into bed.
“They called me as I was the second emergency contact,” Louis explains, looking awkward and uncomfortable.
Shite, I really needed to update the medical information on file for Mason.
“Thank you for coming.” It’s an automatic response, because I’m grateful that he came when some nurse called about a boy who isn’t technically his son.
“I’d do anything for him.” He nods.
We fall silent, and after kissing Mason a few more times, I step back so that he and Louis can briefly chat. It’s clear that my ex can’t stay, but he did come in Mason’s time of need, and for that, I can allow him to say a few words to the boy he raised from infancy.
“It was … good to see you, Lara.” Louis makes a move like he might hug me.
My opinion of him changed that night he showed up drunk to my flat, and though we haven’t spoken, I realize I still am not over what he said about Vance.
So I step back, waving a hand. “Thank you for being here for Mason.”
Louis goes with a regretful g
lance back at us.
I cuddle up in Mason’s bed with my body spooning his. I’m not sure why the universe ever allows children to experience pain or hurt. If I could, I’d take every blow lined up against him and then some. As a mother, I should have the option to sub myself in for the bad things that will happen to him.
We stay this way until he falls asleep, his soft breathing blowing through the material of my sweater.
When my mobile begins to ring in my pocket, I extract myself carefully from my son and move to the opposite side of the room.
Vance doesn’t even bother to say hello when I pick up.
“What the hell is going on, Lara?” Vance demands on the other end of the phone.
After everything I’ve been through today, his berating of me is the last thing I need. I’ve been so wrapped up in getting to the hospital, making sure Mason is okay, and conferring with doctors that I forgot to update Vance.
Immediately, my claws come out. “Why are you asking like that? Piss off, it’s been the worst afternoon over here and I don’t need shite from you.”
What kind of poison was in his tea today? We’ve been on very good terms, splendid terms in fact, and he’s going to come at me guns blazing while our son lies in a hospital bed? Aside from that phone call yesterday. The one where we hung up without saying how much we cared about each other, and another crack splinters in the surface of our relationship we thought was smooth.
“I just got a call from some local Brighton pissant reporter wanting a comment on his story. Said it was about my son being involved in an accident, and me not being there to care for him. Called me a deadbeat dad. What the hell happened? Is Mason all right?”
That motherfucker. That complete and utter bastard, bloody wanker!
I’m going to murder Louis. Clearly, after I politely banished him from Mason’s room, he’d gone to get his bitter rocks off. With the media.
“That git,” I mutter, though Vance has no idea what I’m talking about. “I’ll deal with the papers, I know who it was. I’m sorry, I’m sorry. It all happened so suddenly, he was out on Main Street with my mum when a motorbike jumped the sidewalk and hit him. He’s fine, though, all things considered. Bumps, a couple of stitches, and a broken arm that will heal. He’s so excited about the cast, I think he barely notices the pain.”
The Mighty Anchor: Rogue Academy, Book Three Page 17