Anja's eyes narrow as she looks at me. "You leave her now, or you're out of my will."
"Is there anything left?" I ask. "I'd always just assumed you spent it all on vodka and cigarettes."
"You smoke?" Orange guy, formerly silent, speaks, looking at her in shock.
"No," she says, her voice terse.
"Oh, she does a lot of things I'm sure you're not aware of," I say. "Yoga is only the newest fad. Mother, I'd appreciate it if you would write me out of the will. That way I can trust that I'll never have one of these little visits from you again."
"You've always been an ungrateful little shit," she says. "You're nothing without me. I raised you."
"Yes," I say. "Despite your best efforts to the contrary, you raised a son who through some twist of fate was able to land a girl like Delaney. And I don't mind telling you to just go fuck yourself."
"You don't talk to me that way," she says, but I turn to head back to the pool.
"I'm calling up to the housekeeping staff now," I say. "I'm sure it would be best if one of the security guards escorted you while you pack up your things."
She unleashes a barrage of curses at me, but I'm not listening as I return to the lounge chair beside Daniel.
"Well, that was dramatic," he says.
I settle back against the chair and close my eyes. "I'm Gaige O'Neal," I say. "Would you really fucking expect anything less?"
Later, I sit in the oversized chair in the guesthouse living room. Delaney sits on my lap, snuggled up with her face buried in my neck. A year ago, if you'd have told me that I'd be happily cuddling with a girl, much less Delaney Marlowe, I'd have told you to go fuck yourself. Yet, here we are. And it feels good.
"Daniel said he conned you into laying out by the pool with him today," she says. "He was totally scoping you out."
"Well, I'm a hot piece of ass," I tell her. "Make sure you don't forget it."
Delaney giggles. "I'll try not to," she says. "So Anja showed up, huh?"
"With the yoga instructor she's seeing, Paul or something," he says. "Your poor father."
She's silent for a minute. "I think he might be more relieved than anything, honestly."
I pull her away from me and look at her carefully. "You think there's actually hope for us, then?"
"Like, happily ever after and all that?" she asks. "I don't know if it'll work, Gaige."
"Well, shit, at least no one can say you're not honest." I bristle at her words.
"No," she says. "Let me finish. I don't know what the future holds or anything like that. I don't know if it'll work. But I know that when you find someone that makes you think about the future that way, you have to jump with both feet, and give it a shot."
"You're such a fucking romantic," I say.
Delaney slaps me. "It's not going to be all rainbows and sunshine, you know," she says.
"God, I fucking hope not," I tell her.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Delaney
Two years later
"Oh my God, Gaige, hurry up!" I yell upstairs. "We're late for the wedding! The limo driver is literally standing outside the front door!"
Gaige walks down the stairs dressed in a tuxedo, looking so hot I swear my panties should be melting off. If I were wearing any panties under this dress. But I'm not, at Gaige's request. It's totally inappropriate, but then Gaige and I were never really all that appropriate, I guess. He gives me that cocky grin of his, and wolf whistles. "Whoa. Look at you."
"Good?" I spin around in the dress, a wine-colored floor length gown with an off the shoulder neckline.
"Great," Gaige says, sliding his hand around my back and dipping me back as he kisses me. I slap him on the arm, and he pulls me back up.
"Don't mess up my hair," I tell him.
"I'm thinking of taking you back upstairs so I can mess up a lot more than your hair," he says. He flicks his tongue over my earlobe and I swat him away.
"You're going to have lipstick all over you, and you know Robyn will kill you," I tell him. "And my father will kill you if you make us late for their wedding because you're debauching me."
In the car, I swat Gaige's hand away again as it roams my dress. "You're terrible."
"Are you naked under that dress?" he asks, his voice low in my ear.
"Yes," I say. "But you have to keep your hands off me until after the wedding." My father is getting remarried. His fiancé is wonderful – she's smart and successful, a corporate litigator. She doesn't take shit from my father – and he's never been happier. And we're late for their wedding, which is in precisely thirty-three minutes.
"Cruel and unusual punishment," he says.
The wedding is beautiful, small and appropriate for my father's third marriage, just family and friends in a church in downtown Dallas. Anja is not invited, obviously, and my mother isn't there. My mother hasn't spoken to any of us since the scandal when Gaige and I first were discovered, even thought the scandal itself faded away pretty quickly. Gaige was able to get back into racing a month later. His string of victories on the track brought him an even larger public following. The scandal still loomed over him somewhat, and even though it was brought up every so often by an over-zealous reporter, Beau and Anja's divorce made it pretty much a moot point.
I hug my father and Robyn before we leave the reception. "I'm so happy for you both," I say, and before I know it, I'm tearing up. "I'm sorry," I sniffle, cursing my hormones for making me cry. "It's just such a beautiful day."
In the limo, Gaige slides his arm around me. "It's nice to see your father so happy."
"The wedding was beautiful," I say. And I feel myself tearing up again.
Gaige cups my chin and studies my face. I flush under his gaze, and I know I need to tell him. I've just been waiting for the right time. "I don't think I've ever seen you tear up so much in one day," he says.
"Gaige, I –" I start, but he interrupts me, kissing me lightly on the lips.
"Wait. I have something to show you."
"I have something I need…" To tell you, I want to finish, but before I can, he's pulling me out of the limo. I almost drop my purse as I walk, but Gaige picks it up and I want to show him what's inside it, but I don't. "Why are we at my father's house?"
"You have to come with me," he says. "No questions."
He holds my hand, and one of the staff nods at us as we walk through the hallway. "Everything is set, Mr. O'Neal."
"What?" I ask. "What's set? What are we doing here?"
"No questions," Gaige says softly. "Just come with me."
He leads me up to the sunroom on the roof, and opens the glass door. The setting sun bathes the entire room in warm pinks and reds. Strings of little white lights hang from the roof and down the sides of the glass walls. The furniture has been cleared away from the middle of the room, everything except for a small table with a white cloth. And a little eggshell blue box in the middle.
Before I can say anything, Gaige has the box in his hand and he's down on one knee in front of me. Tears stream down my face as he opens it. "I loved you before I knew what it even meant to love someone," he says. "I want you, forever. Marry me."
I'm saying yes over and over, and Gaige laughs as I pull him to his feet to kiss him. "Those are good tears, right?"
"Yes, yes, yes," I say. "They're very good tears." Then I'm laughing hysterically, and Gaige is looking at me like I'm crazy.
"What did I say?" he asks.
I shake my head. "It's the hormones," I say. "I'm a mess. I was about to tell you in the car, but you had all of – this planned and –"
"Tell me what?" he asks.
I open my purse and hand him my own eggshell blue box, watching his brow furrow. "Here," I say. "Open it."
"You got me a ring, too?" he asks.
"No," I say. "Just open it up."
He slides off the lid and holds the tiny spoon in his hand. "A silver spoon?"
"They didn't have any rattles," I say.
I watc
h as his expression changes and a look of realization passes over his face. "Really?"
"Really."
"You're fucking serious," he says. "You're pregnant?"
I nod. "You're happy?" I ask. "I can't tell. Are you happy?"
He scoops me up in his arms, spinning me around until I'm dizzy, before he puts me back down. "Are you kidding?" he asks. "I can't believe you're even asking me that. Am I happy? We're going to have a baby? I'm going to be a father? I'm going to be a dad!"
He yells, and one of the housekeepers pokes her head into the sunroom. "Is everything okay?"
Gaige walks over to her and hugs her, spinning her around before he kisses her cheek. "I'm going to be a dad, Marta!"
Then Gaige bounces back to me. I don't think I've ever seen him so crazy-happy. I didn't think Gaige got crazy-happy.
Gaige kisses me full on the mouth. "I love you, you know."
There are few things in life I know with certainty, but that much, I definitely know.
THE END
Continue on for the last novel in this collection, Cannon, which has an added bonus epilogue!
CANNON
Sabrina Paige
Hendrix "Cannon" Cole is a major prick. That’s prick with a capital P.
He's nicknamed "Cannon" because of the weapon between his legs.
He's damaged, dirty, and demanding. A sexy-as-hell ex-Marine.
My stepbrother.
I used to hate him. Then I loved him. Then I hated him again.
Our history is complicated. But my family thinks he's the perfect solution to my problem. A scandal has thrown me into the limelight, and I'll be screwed if I don't stay on the straight and narrow. Now, Hendrix's new job is making sure I behave.
What I didn't count on was being stuck spending every waking moment with him.
The heat between us is explosive. But if he fires that cannon, we'll both get burned.
DEDICATION
For my husband and my daughter, who put up with me writing all the time, and only complain about it part of the time.
For the other writers and so many readers who have supported me so much and spread word along the way about my work. There are too many of you to thank, and I owe you a debt of gratitude.
CANNON TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Bonus Epilogue
Mailing List
Other Books
Contact Me
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
ADDY
"What is this, an intervention?" I look back and forth between their faces, the four of them lined up on the opposite side of the conference table like jury members about to render their verdict. I'm kidding about the intervention part, but the joke falls flat and for a brief second, I think it might actually be true. But it can't be. I rarely drink, and I've never even tried drugs – I mean, sure, a couple of drags on a joint years ago, but that hardly counts -- so there's no way this can be an actual intervention, right? "I don't understand."
My mother looks at me through narrowed eyes, her palm on my stepfather's arm. "There's a morality clause in your contract, Addison," she says, her jaw clenched and her voice tight.
The morality clause. Of course. I hadn't forgotten about that – how could I? Everything in my life is about public perception, after all. That's how things work when you're America's country music sweetheart. "So you're ambushing me?"
A man in a suit clears his throat before sliding a sheaf of paper across the table at me. He's obviously someone from the record label, but I don't recognize him, which doesn't make me feel any better about this meeting. He was clearly sent to do the dirty work of making sure I fall in line with what the label wants. "I'm afraid you're bound by the terms of your contract," he says. "And that includes your public behavior. We signed a wholesome country singer, a role model for young girls. One who represents family values. Not someone who twerks in a club at two in the morning."
"But I haven't been twerking – "
"Drinking and partying," he says. "Do those behaviors ring any bells?"
"Those are hardly illegal." I leave out the glaring fact that I wasn't actually drinking or doing drugs or anything scandalous at all. I was with people in a club who were doing those things and that's apparently all that matters. God forbid I have a little bit of fun at the ripe old age of twenty-two.
"Legal behavior is one thing, illegal drugs are another thing entirely," my mother says. "You should know better. Once any of your so-called friends is high, you're guilty by association."
"And then there's this." My stepfather slides a copy of the newspaper across the table, giving me a look that positively reeks of disapproval. My stepfather is the most buttoned-down person I've ever met, the kind of man who can convey more with a raised eyebrow than most parents can communicate in an entire lecture. He's a retired Army Colonel who runs a private security firm for celebrities, and I'm one of his clients. My mother met him seven years ago on one of my tours -- and the rest, as they say, was history.
I glance down at the page, expecting the headline to have something to do with my boyfriend – my ex-boyfriend, after last night's debacle – and his friends' antics in the club last night. But it doesn't. Instead, it reads Music Star Caught In Compromising Position With Older Married Man: Relationship with Boyfriend on the Rocks!
At least they got the relationship with the boyfriend part right. That's definitely on the rocks; hell, it's already shipwrecked. This headline concerns a completely different scandal. Of course, it doesn't tell you the rest of the story, which is that I had to shove the guy away from me at the party three nights ago. The article really should read Hollywood Mogul Photographed While Attempting to Grope Music Star. Cameras didn't capture that part of the evening.
I don't even try to explain, because my parents would never believe me. My mother thinks I'm a brat, spoiled by money and fame. I may be a bit of a brat, but I'm not spoiled by this life. It's exactly the opposite, actually. I'm exhausted by it. I should be on-top-of-the-world happy, with three platinum records and a Grammy award under my belt. But at twenty-two, I shouldn't feel this damn old -- this damn tired. I should have some fire in my belly.
So I guess fatigue is the reason I don't say anything. Instead, I sit there glaring at them, waiting for their verdict. I tick off the options in my head. Rehab? A trip somewhere? I'll issue a mea culpa for my terrible behavior and promise the record label they won't have to worry about their lily-white singer being tarnished by her no-good friends.
My stepfather finally breaks the silence. "The label has agreed to a solution we think will be amenable to everyone," he says. "With all that's happened, we believe you need someone to look out for your interests." He says it like we're talking about hiring someone to manage my stock portfolio. But what they're really suggesting – what they're really ordering – is someone to manage me.
"A new manager," I say flatly, looking at my existing manager – my mother.
"Don't be ridiculous," she sputters, shaking her head.
"What then?" I ask. "Desi
gner treatment center? Press statement saying I've collapsed of exhaustion?" The words come out more bitter than I intend them to sound, but I'm frustrated by the ambush.
Of course, a break might be exactly what I need. In my head, I imagine standing up right now and walking out of the room, packing everything I own and just heading back to Savannah, me and my guitar. Hell, I could play on a sidewalk, no backup singers and dancers and costume changes and a different city every night until I'm so turned around I can't see straight.
The guy in the suit is right, though – the record label would play hardball. They would sue me for breach of contract and take everything I've worked for.
It's funny what happens when you come from nothing. Nothing is the last place you ever want to return.
I'm so preoccupied with my thoughts I don't even hear my stepfather's voice until he waves his hand directly in my field of vision. "Addison."
"Yes."
"The label agreed to this plan. Hendrix will be your new bodyguard," he says, his voice picking up momentum. "Your old one has been removed."
"Dan is fired?" I ask. "It's not his fault I went to the club last night."
"He knows better," the Colonel says, his voice sharp. "There are protocols in place for a reason. He should have pulled you out of there more quickly."
"That's not fair to Dan --" I start, but my stepfather brings his fist down on the table, hard, and the sound makes me jump.
"It's not fair to me, to employ a bodyguard who is so remiss in his duties," he says. "This is done. You need a bodyguard who will not be lax. Especially after the issue with the stalker. I trust Hendrix to not be lax."
"The stalker," I repeat numbly. There was hardly a stalker, merely an obsessed fan who sent me a few overzealous letters. There are always obsessed fans. That's not new. I'm so preoccupied with that piece of what he says that it takes my brain a minute to catch up to the more important part.
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