Ice Steam (Loving All Wrong #3)

by S. Ann Cole

  Amanda was a fierce but gorgeous, voluptuous, caramel-skinned Brit, who rode or died for Saskia. Since international NBA star, Zane Zekiel, had proposed to her, she’d been scarce. And the house had never been the same without her. So when she told me Saskia and Jacob were asleep, I plopped down beside her and we chatted about the happenings of L.A.

  When our chitchat got curtailed by a phone call from aforementioned fiancé, I gave her privacy and drifted off to Saskia’s floor.

  Saskia forbade people from coming up to her floor and knocking on her bedroom door to bother her, but I didn’t care, and I especially didn’t knock, because she had been an intrusive bitch. A pain in my ass. She was A, for hell’s sake—well technically it was Tex, but she anonymously fed the secrets. It was all her.

  Leaning against her doorjamb, I watched her and Jacob for a moment. Seemed the baby weight was starting to pile on, as her cheeks were now a little cherub-like, her lips were full and plump like she’d been in a kissing match, and her rack was at least a cup size bigger.

  Lying on her side, with Jacob curled around her protruding gut, she was even more beautiful with the weight, peacefully innocent and content in sleep.

  And my son, oh God, just looking at him hurt. He was Davian. From the dark brown hair on his head to the red, pear-shaped birthmark on the sole of left foot. I thought I’d escaped him in L.A. but I hadn’t, because here he was in front of me, screaming, “Choose me! Choose me!”

  This is what was right. My son deserved a family, a mother and a father who loved each other, who would sit at the dinner table and eat together. Who would watch television and play board games together…and I couldn’t imagine denying him that.

  Pushing off from the doorjamb, I kicked off my slippers and walked over to the bed, climbed in and made a C behind Jacob, fingering his hair and peppering dozens of kisses to the top of his head and on his chubby cheek.

  Then I curved an arm over him and splayed my fingers on Saskia’s pregnant stomach, which woke her.

  Her eyes opened, those big gray irises like jewel disks, and registered not an ounce of surprise. After a full two minutes roaming her gaze over my face, she gave me a sleepy, lopsided smile and whispered, “A is for Ally.”

  “You’re a meddling bitch,” I whispered back. “And I wanna kill you.”

  Placing her hand on top of mine which was splayed over her stomach, she closed her eyes and said through a yawn, “You love me.”

  I sighed, resting my chin atop Jacob’s head between us. “That I do.”

  I spent the rest of the week with my family, settling back into what was familiar, getting so comfortably relaxed that I was loath to go back to L.A.

  But, of course, with each day that sailed by, Saskia’s accent was in my ears, reminding me I needed to go back and sort the mess I created.

  “I’m so bloody pissed at you for dragging Xavi into this,” she’d angered. “This could have been so much cleaner, you know? All you had to do was tell Davi he has a son, get your man back and have your HEA. Xavi, he doesn’t deserve this. He’s been through a lot, yeah?”

  I hadn’t told her the truth behind Davian’s exit, because then she would have a ton of questions. For one, she had no idea the kind of man Chad really was, and JK didn’t want her—well, us—to know of Chad’s nature. But I knew my cousin, knew he was a killer. Chad knew I knew. JK didn’t. I merely played oblivious around others. And Saskia was better off not knowing the gore, so I kept most of the truth from her.

  I also didn’t tell her I’d found out Xavier and Jess used to sneak around, or that there was a chance he hadn’t just seen my pictures on the internet and decided he wanted me, but came after me for different reasons, malicious reasons. I didn’t tell her because one, she was Team Xavi and thought he was all innocent and I didn’t want to burst her bubble. And two, because I could care less how Xavier found me. I was only glad he did.

  Jacob was missing the following Tuesday when I was packed and ready to head back to L.A. After frantically searching each room, bellowing out his name, Sylvie tattled: JK had stolen my son and snuck off with him to work. This nettlesome move of his, I did not miss. At all. Some things just never change.

  Putting on some lipstick, I pressed a kiss to a Post-It note, wrote “Mommy Loves You” under the lips print, and placed it in his play pen.

  Then I hugged and kissed Saskia goodbye, promising her I would do the right thing, and boarded the plane back to the toxic city of Los Angeles.

  “Miss O’Hara, it’s so nice to see you again! I trust your trip was relaxing?” the concierge greeted me when I wheeled into my apartment building.

  “It was alright,” I mumbled, heading for the elevator, not in the mood for small talk.

  “Oh, a package was delivered here for you two weeks ago. Please, hold on one minute.”

  He disappeared through the door behind his desk, and returned with a huge rectangular box, and I instantly knew what it was. A custom guitar I’d ordered for Xavier a while back.

  I made to take the package from him but Mel appeared out of nowhere, taking the package and accompanied me up to my big, empty apartment.

  After Mel left, I poured a glass of Chianti, took a sip, savored it, then collapsed on a sofa. There went my alcohol-free diet. Have been cheating on it since France. But let’s be honest, was it even possible for a girl to make such a heartbreaking decision without even a drop of alcohol in her system?

  My heart has been all over the place since the plane landed. My hand trembled each time I picked up the phone, which resulted in me dropping it like it was on fire.

  Mick Xander advised I go with what was in the heart. And Dad advised I do whatever made me smile.

  What if what’s in your heart isn’t what makes you smile? Just because something is in your heart, does it mean you are content with it there?

  Sometimes the heart hurts so excruciatingly bad, like a blazing ball of fire no amount of tears can drown out, so much so, you find yourself wanting to reach inside your chest and rip it clean out to make the pain stop.

  Sometimes you find yourself wishing you didn’t have a heart, so you could smile without feeling, smile without caring. Just smile, with no regard for the heart and what it wants.

  Go with what’s in your heart.

  What if what’s in your heart is no good for you? What if it’s not what you want to settle for? What if you want more than what the heart wants?

  I made another attempt to pick up my phone, and this time, probably due to the liquid fortitude, my hand didn’t shake.

  While Davian called and texted me at least five times a day—“I get it. You need some time to think. But this is driving me crazy.”, “Please, at least pick up so I can hear your voice.”, “Let me know you’re still mine. Let me know I haven’t waited too long and lost you to him”…and many more of that nature—Xavier hadn’t called or texted even once since I left him at Rennes Airport.

  Last week, when I’d messaged them both, letting them know I was taking some time to myself to think things through, Davian had replied with an immediate phone call—which went unanswered—and Xavier had replied with a simple text: “K”.

  Xavier, unlike Davian, didn’t have much confidence in us. He believed there was only so much he could say or do to sway me to his side, so he was waiting in silence with an air-thin hope of me choosing him.

  While Davian knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was his. He had the confidence, the gumption, to have made Xavier walk away, give up, when he’d seen us together. The connection between us was one that, when we were together, could not be denied. The force, the energy, the bond, the history, so strong it was damn near palpable.

  Davian never once deemed Xavier as a threat; his confidence in our bond was that unwavering.

  Yet, he was the one panicking now. He was the one blowing up my phone. He was the one begging for assurance.

  I opened a fresh message, added both their
numbers as the recipients, then typed out, “Where can we meet?”, staring at the words for a long moment before hitting Send.

  Almost immediately, two locations pinged back to me. All I had to do now was pick one.

  I got up and unwrapped the guitar. A blood-red beauty. Back when I was deliriously happy with him, I’d wanted to get Xavier a “just because” gift, and ordered this.

  Now it was up in the air.

  Both Xavier and Davian played guitars, so I would simply bring it with me to whatever destination my decision took me. Whoever won, it was theirs.

  Deciding to leave Mel out of the drama this time around, I went down to the garage and revved up the Mercedes convertible Chad had bought me the first time since I got here. Top down, prize guitar riding shot gun.

  I drove at moderate speed, enjoying the ride, wind combing through my hair.

  And then I was there, decision made.

  Parking the car on the curb with painstaking care—translate delaying—I powered up the convertible top, picked up the guitar, and took not so confident, not so sure steps toward the building. Heart pounding and reverberating like a gong in my chest, I pushed open the metal door and walked inside.

  Kurt Cobain was crooning at a low volume, and my head twisted and turned on my shoulders as I took in the place, absolutely loving how the re-polishing was coming along.

  He was sitting by the bar, back to the door, but had swiveled around upon hearing my entrance. As I approached, he stood up, then promptly sat back down again, clearly anxious.

  Offering him a hesitant smile, one I hoped held the promise of a happy, successful future, I set the guitar down on top of the bar counter, and his curious, hopeful eyes slid to the instrument.

  There was a slight curve to his infamous, well-gushed-about lips when he asked, “That for me?”

  I knew he would love it.

  Throwing him a wider, much more confident smile—okay, a grin—I walked up to him, shimmied myself between his strong legs propped up on the barstool, locked my arms around his neck, touched my nose to his, and breathed against his lips, “You’re the beat I want to keep. It’s you.”

  To be continued….

  Acknowledgements

  I would like to thank my God, first and foremost, for bringing me safely into a new year. For shielding me when I ran to him for refuge, answering me when I cried out to him, and changing me for the better, little by little, day by day. I’m alive because of no other but Jehovah. My Rock.

  To Christopher, for splitting all your small wholes into even smaller halves with me. For putting your problems on hold and listening without judgment to mine. For showing up before the ice-block melted and removing the noose from around my neck. You were placed into my life by God himself; I never would have made it through 2014 without you. You give and you give and you give. Even when you have nothing left to give, you keep on giving. You inspire me. You make me want to be a better person. I love you, friend. You are truly an angel of God.

  To my awesome friend Al, my rock star, for never judging me, never turning your back on me. For being one of the most understanding, kindhearted persons I’ve ever met. For doling out the tight hugs when I most needed them, and being there for me in every way you possibly could. Know that you are loved, cherished, and appreciated. Always.

  To my wifey, K. Wignall, who did not give up on me. Who determinedly kept reminding me of who I was, and why I deserved to live on. Your love was exactly what I needed then, because sometimes, in the hard times, it’s so easy to forget. And I love you for loving me, for being a friend to the end, in the good times and the bad. I can always trust you to keep me sane.

  To Karen, my editor…where do I even begin thanking you? For understanding and helping me out in one of my weakest, hopeless, pride-less moments with this book? There are so few good people left in this world, but you are undoubtedly one of the good ones. God has seen how kind you have been, and your reward will be great. Thank you. So much.

  Vashti and Tirza, do I even need to tell you I adore the crap outta you?

  To my beta readers...whoo boy, what would Ice Steam have been without any of you? Elaine Tyra, TJ, Jennifer Belyeu, Tara M., Kaydeen and Lisa McCarty, THANK YOU all for your hand in making Ice Steam what it is! Nuff luv, zeen!

  And last but, of course, not least, to the readers (especially the ones who hated Chad’s Chase but emailed me to let me know you haven’t given up on me yet) thank you, thank you, thank you all, for reading my books, wanting to read more, leaving reviews and telling your friends about them. Each and every one of you are appreciated! Always

  And to all:

  ONE LOVE

  ONE HEART

  ONE BLOOD

  “Pleeeeeeeeeeeze a beg sumting, my fren.”

  Back when I just started primary school, my relatives and I used to walk a good distance to the bus stop to catch the first bus that would take us to a second bus stop, where we would catch another bus to get to school.

  Sometimes the buses would come packed to the door, passengers hanging out, sweating loads even though the day had just begun, nice suits getting wrinkled. Hardly any space for another passenger let alone a group of us. Which meant we would have to wait for the next bus, or the next after that, or the next after that…

  Better to start walking, right? In order to prevent being late for school, that’s exactly what we would do. We would start treading the mile or so it took to get us to our second bus stop.

  Whenever we had to walk, we would pass by this old, homeless lady with missing teeth and squinted eyes lying on the street side. She would stick her hand out in front of us and say in a rhythmic fashion, “Pleeeeeeeeeeeze a beg sumting, my fren.”

  Of course, we were just kids with naught but chicken feed in our pockets for bus fare and cheap canteen lunch, so we had nothing to give. But we always giggled at how the words bounced off her gums in a ‘teeeeeeeeeee ta tem tam tim ty ten’ rhythm.

  For years to come, we would walk by this woman morning after morning and see her beg in the same fashion, yet unable to help. Soon we started holding out our hands as we approached her and begged with her in the same sing song fashion; not to mock her, but to be friendly.

  By the sixth grade, we saw the old lady no more. Don’t know if she died or if someone helped her off the streets. But we always remembered her. And in our house, whenever we wanted anything from our elders, we would beg in the same rhythmic manner as the old lady.

  Even now, as an adult, I still do it! Whenever I really need something from someone I beg like the old lady while struggling to keep a straight face….and right now I really need something.

  From you.

  A review.

  It won’t cost you a cent. Only a few minutes of your free time.

  I sometimes wonder what happened to that old lady. I wasn’t able to help her. But look at it this way: there are tons of people like her on the streets. You might not be able to help them. But if you help me by writing a review, it may help a reader to purchase my book, and making an income from my book means this time I will actually be able to help a homeless person on the street!

  Do you see how far writing a simple review can go?!

  So if you enjoyed this book, then, “Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeze a beg sumting, my fren.”

  About the Author

  S. Ann Cole is a passionate writer and reader, and a lover of anything that distracts her from the real world. Reader first and second a writer, S. Ann Cole is an exaggerator, a laugher, sometimes overly chatty, sometimes overly shy. She’s afraid of cats, dogs, snakes—heck, she’s only tolerable to gold fishes in a tank. Because if they do jump out and try to attack her, the suckers will surely die…

  She hates chocolate, schmaltz and arrogance.

  She loves carbs, Chris Brown and humility.

  She lives nowhere and everywhere.

  Jokey people are her favorite people, as laughter is the way to her heart.

&
nbsp; Never mind her foul-mouth (she’s working hard on changing that!), she loves GOD. Fiercely. And believes prayer is the essence of all good, great, wonderful and miraculous things, and the most powerful privilege given unto man.

  Ann hopes that one day, the right day, when it’s her time (because nothing happens before its time), her hard work will be noticed and appreciated, and she’ll become a “NYT Bestselling Author”…

  Uh-uh. Yeah. That’s what she said.

  When Ann’s not abusing her computer keyboard, you can find her nosing a novel, watching anything on television that makes her laugh until she breaks into hiccups (loves Disney & TBS!) studying the Bible, or guzzling booze.

  Do Not Hesitate to Contact Me!

  Email me: authoranncole@gmail.com

  Or visit my website: www.AnnCole.net

  Also, sign up for my mailing list: http://eepurl.com/vVvW1