The Rebound

by Winter Renshaw

  Her breasts are swollen, her nipples peaked, and I circle my tongue around a pointed bud before running my fingertips down her center. Pressing her thighs apart, I slide a finger inside her wet pussy before bringing it to my lips and tasting it.

  God, I’ve missed this.

  I didn’t exactly enjoy her the last time…

  Not like this, anyway.

  Ayla pulls me against her, until her body is pinned beneath mine and her legs anchor my sides. My cock is full and throbbing, rubbing against her seam as she writhes beneath me.

  I kiss her full lips again and again, taking my time, and she reaches below, sliding her hand between us until her hand wraps around my shaft, pumping the length in her hand before teasing her clit.

  “Tell me,” she pleads, breathless and running her hands up my sides, “have you been with anyone else?”

  I shake my head. “No. Have you?”

  “No, of course not.” Her nails dig into my ass as she presses me into her. “I’m still on the pill.” Ayla’s lips pull into a smile. “I want to feel you inside me again. All of you…”

  Gripping the base of my cock, I guide myself in, thrusting hard and deep, finding the perfect rhythm. Not too fast, not too slow.

  “Oh, yes,” she says, slipping her hands around my neck and bucking her hips beneath me. “That’s it, Rhett. Don’t stop…”

  I slide my hands beneath her ass, pulling her deeper against me with each thrust, filling her with every inch as she sighs, begging for more with each breathless gasp.

  This woman…

  …is everything.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Ayla

  “What the hell is this?”

  I emerge from the hotel shower to see Rhett sitting on my bed, holding up my proof copy of Cold Hearted ... and judging by the frown on his mouth and the lines across his forehead, he’s not exactly pleased.

  “That’s my next book.” I yank the towel off my head and finger comb my damp hair into place.

  “Reed and Ariana?” he says, flipping through the pages. “Ayla, this is us.”

  I offer a hesitant smile. “Yeah. Kind of.”

  “This isn’t cool. You can’t do that. You can’t just write about people without their permission.”

  “I changed all the details,” I say. “We met after a wedding. You’re a baseball player. I’m a singer/songwriter.”

  He doesn’t seem amused.

  “No one will ever know,” I say.

  “Bullshit they won’t. Anyone with half a brain who sees us together and reads your book will put it together.”

  “Who’s going to see us together and read my book?” I roll my eyes.

  “If you’re with me, you’re going to get photographed. The tabloids will figure out who you are and—”

  “—and what?” I go to the bed, bend down, and kiss his forehead. He’s overreacting.

  “Ayla, meeting you so soon after Damiana died ... that’s not something people are going to understand,” he says, voice despondent. “You won’t be judged for that, but I will be.”

  “I didn’t write about her in this book.”

  “Yeah, but if anyone puts it together? Trust me, it’s going to be made into a big deal. These places will write about anything if it makes a buck.” He closes my book, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and middle finger as he exhales. “And I don’t want to commercialize our relationship. The second you exploit it ... it’s not the same. You can’t go back.”

  “Do you speak from experience?”

  “Yeah. I do.” He rises, pacing the room before gathering his things. I’ve never seen him like this. Is he afraid he’s going to lose me? Or is he afraid of his “shameful secret” getting out into the media? I’d tell him not to worry about what anyone else thinks, but he doesn’t appear to be in a listening frame of mind.

  “I didn’t want to write about us,” I say. “I tried. I tried so many times to write about anyone else but us. I made up all these fictional characters but in the end, their emotions were too real, too familiar, and I kept coming back to our story. But since our story was unfinished ... I gave it the ending it deserved. I guess it was my way of dealing with everything and finding closure.”

  “When does this publish?” he asks, tugging his bottom lip between his fingers.

  “In May.”

  “Jesus, that soon? You can’t cancel it or whatever?”

  I laugh. “No, I cannot cancel it.”

  He’s pacing again.

  “It’s a really beautiful story if you’d just give it a chance,” I say. “And the second half of the book is pure fiction. You should see the way you propose to me.”

  He says nothing.

  “And the cover,” I say, pointing to the book he’s still clutching. “We made the title pink because pink is a warm color, and in the end, I unfreeze your ice-cold heart with my love.”

  Rhett doesn’t seem to care about metaphors or all the planning and forethought that went into this fictional story of us.

  “This isn’t okay, Ayla.” His voice booms across the room, startling me into silence.

  Before I have a chance to stop him, he’s dressed and on his way out the door, my book still clutched in his hand.

  He stops, his hand on the knob, and turns to me, but he doesn’t meet my careful gaze. “I have a flight in two hours. I need to ... wrap my head around this.”

  And then he’s gone.

  I changed him in my story, but maybe I was a fool to think I could change him in real life.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Rhett

  “I want to find a mom for Joa,” Locke says. We’re seated on a park bench just outside my neighborhood in Philly. Our mom is pushing her in the baby swings and our dad is taking pictures.

  They’ve been forcing these “family days” on me lately because they’re convinced I’m depressed or there’s something wrong with me, but I guess I don’t mind.

  It takes my mind off things for a while.

  “How could anyone not want to be her mom?” Locke asks. “I mean, look at her. She’s fucking perfect.”

  I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Alexi’s really missing out,” he says. “It’s really sad.”

  I think about the day that’ll come, many years from now, when Locke has to sit Joa down and tell her about her mother, who goes by the stage name Alexi Elektra. I can only hope by then she’ll have a mom who loves her so hard it cushions the blow. And then I hope she’ll understand that everything happened exactly the way it should.

  She changed Locke’s life for the better.

  She’s kind of changed all our lives.

  I see the way my parents fawn over her, the way she lights the room and makes everything else seem insignificant. It isn’t easy being a parent, at least not from what I’ve observed with Locke. Maybe our parents were a little overboard in the overprotective area when we were growing up, but I kind of get it now.

  Sometimes you love something so much, you want to protect it with everything you have. They didn’t have much back then except curfews and jurisdiction over our comings and goings.

  But all of this makes me think of Ayla ... and I realize now what I’ve done. My initial reaction when I’m feeling powerless is to push her away. If I can’t control the direction of the relationship, I shut down.

  Locke waves at Joa from across the park, and she waves back, kicking her legs like she’s ridiculously excited to see her father all over again.

  Crazy how something so small knows how to love, and she doesn’t even talk yet.

  “Hey, Locke. You remember Ayla, right?” I ask. I’ve still yet to mention anything to him about our impromptu meet ups.

  He squints. “Uh, yeah. Why?”

  “Ran into her recently. She wrote a book about me.”

  “No shit?”

  I nod, stretching my arm across the back of the bench and crossing my legs wide. “I kind of went off on her.”

  Locke whips his
gaze in my direction. “What? Why? You should be honored she wrote you into a book. That’s like a rock star writing a song about you.”

  “I don’t fucking know.” I exhale. “I just ... I felt like I lost all control, like she did this thing, this big thing, without my permission, and I just ... lost it.”

  “If you fucked her, she doesn’t need your permission to write about you,” he says. “Just ask Alanis Morrissett and Dave Coulier. They oughta know.”

  “You’re a moron.”

  “Have you read the book?”

  “Some of it.” I scratch at my temple, watching my dad take Joa down the kiddie slide.

  “Is it good?” he asks.

  “That’s irrelevant,” I say. I didn’t realize I’d walked out with her copy in my hand until I was halfway across town, headed back to my hotel. Now the book rests on my nightstand at home. I can’t bring myself to finish it just yet, but I will. Truth be told, I want to know what happens in her version of our story. “Anyway, I’m going to call her tonight. I owe her an apology. I overreacted.”

  Hopefully I can undo two days’ worth of radio silence with a single phone call and heartfelt regrets.

  God, I’m an asshole.

  I really am a prick.

  Locke thumbs through his phone, and I ask what he’s doing.

  “Deleting a bunch of women’s numbers,” he says.

  “No shit?”

  “I’m serious. I want to start dating. I want to find the one,” he says, turning to me. “And don’t fucking make fun of me either. I’m turning over a new leaf for my daughter. I want her to have everything she could ever possibly need, starting with a mom. And a dad who loves her mom like crazy.”

  “Isn’t that sweet,” I say with a chuckle.

  “Maybe you should think about doing the same?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe I should.”

  “I don’t care what I said way back when,” Locke says. “I take it all back. It sucks to be alone. Love is where it’s at. That’s the secret to happiness.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Ayla

  I leave the cell phone store with an upgraded phone, a new number, and an entirely different lease on life.

  I’ve decided to cut ties once again—and for the last time.

  It feels a bit foolish, removing my heart from Rhett’s teeth over and over again, only to run right back to him the second he says my name, but I’m done this time.

  I mean it.

  I can’t do this anymore.

  The ups and downs, the joy and heartache, it’s too much.

  It’s time to move on and focus on my career and my friends and my life—all the things that have taken a backseat this last year and a half.

  The second I get home, I check my mail. The publisher overnighted me a new proof as soon as I told them I spilled coffee on my original, and they gave me an extra two days for approvals.

  Fixing myself a cup of hot tea and finding a warm place in the sun at the end of my sofa, I settle in to read the story of us, to get my heart ripped clean from my chest one final time.

  I’m halfway into chapter four when there’s a knock at my door. Placing my book aside, I tiptoe across the carpet, peering through the peephole, my body turning to ice when I see who’s standing on the other side.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I pull the door wide, but I don’t invite him in.

  “Seth,” I say. “What are you doing here?”

  “I tried calling this morning,” he says. “You changed your number?”

  Biting my lip, I nod. “Yeah.”

  “Mind if I come in for a sec?” He pushes his thick glasses up his straight nose and glances over my shoulder. “You don’t have anyone over, do you?”

  I shake my head. “No, but I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  Seth drinks me in, and I see it in his eyes—the love he still has for me. Something tells me this conversation isn’t going to be quick or simple or easy.

  “Fine. I’ll just say it. I’m sorry for ditching you at Viv’s wedding,” he says, hooking his hands on his hips. “I shouldn’t have left you. Not like that. And I shouldn’t have said those things to you then. I should’ve said them in private, when we could’ve discussed everything.”

  Exhaling, I say, “Thank you.”

  “But that’s why I was coming here today,” he says. “I wanted to know if we could talk?”

  “About what?”

  He releases a frustrated laugh, like I should be able to read his mind. “About what? About this. About us.”

  “Seth.” My head tilts. “There is no us.”

  “You won’t even consider it?” He cups his hand over his mouth, hiding his incredulous smirk. “Seriously, Ayla?”

  My hand grips the door in case I need to slam it in his face. He was my best friend for well over a year, but he doesn’t get to darken my doorstep because I won’t date him.

  “Why are you doing this?” I ask. “We had a perfectly wonderful friendship. And you want to throw it away because I won’t date you?”

  He holds a finger up, reaching into his back pocket to retrieve a folded piece of paper.

  “What is that?” I ask.

  “Look,” he says, unfolding it. “I made a list of all the reasons we’re perfect for each other. Number one, we’re comfortable together. Number two, we’re avid readers and intellectuals. Number three, we’re—”

  “—stop,” I say, cringing. This is awkward, and I care for him too much to let him make a fool of himself. “It’s not going to change my mind.”

  Seth crumples the paper and tosses it on the ground. “Fine. Fuck it. Someday you’re going to realize you wasted all your time pining after some jackass who doesn’t deserve you. You’re going to realize you could’ve been happy. With me. And by the time you figure that out, it’s going to be too late.”

  He’s red faced, eyes glassy. I’ve never seen him this worked up. I’m startled into wordlessness. All I can do is watch him walk away.

  “You’re so not worth it,” he shouts from the sidewalk as he turns to face me. Lifting a finger, he points in my direction. “And I guarantee that guy, the one you’re so hung up on? He probably figured that out a long time ago.”

  Yeah. Maybe he did.

  But it doesn’t matter now.

  I’m moving on.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Rhett

  I read the final page of Cold Hearted and let the book fall to my lap, letting Ayla’s words settle before I call her, and then I flip back to a dog-eared page toward the middle.

  “Maybe it was my fault. Maybe I didn’t love him enough to make him stay. Maybe he thinks I’ll leave, like the ones he loved before me.” Ariana blamed herself. She blamed herself until it hurt, until she felt the crushing squeeze around her soul and knew it would never return to its original condition. “So I’ll love him harder. I’ll love him until he comes back to me, whenever that will be. Because I know. I know he’ll come back because he loves me. I feel it even when he can’t say it.”

  There’s a weightlessness in my shoulders and a fullness in my chest that I haven’t felt in ages.

  She’s right.

  I love her, even if I can’t say it.

  But I will say it—next time I see her, I’ll tell her. She needs to hear it. She’s said it to me countless times, and I’ve never once said it back because I didn’t want to.

  I didn’t want to believe that I could fall for someone after such a short amount of time, so soon after a tragic loss.

  That’s not supposed to happen. People don’t do that. They mourn and they wait and they sure as hell don’t fall for the sister of the man who betrayed them in the worst way.

  The second half of Ayla’s book paints a portrait of the two of us settled into a cozy little love nest back in Manhattan. Maybe in her mind, we never left the city. We stayed in the same place where we first began, trading wings for roots. In her version of our story, we weren’t without
our ups and downs, but we persevered. When things got hard, we fought harder. When things were good, they were heaven. But the real beauty was in between the ups and downs. The raw, unfiltered, unrelenting love the fictitious versions of ourselves is one I hope to know with Ayla someday.

  I admit it.

  I really fucked up this time.

  While I’m not in love with the fact that she wrote a book about me without asking ... I’m in love with her. And that means forgiving her. And fighting for her when things get hard. I’m not walking away this time.

  Exchanging the book for my phone, I pull up her number and press the call button.

  It doesn’t ring. Instead I get a tone and a recorded message. “The number you have dialed is no longer in service.”

  I hang up.

  Surely there’s been a mistake or signals are jammed or something.

  Trying again, I get the same message.

  Chapter Fifty

  Rhett

  The final leg of Ayla’s book tour is tonight, in Washington, DC, at a shop in Georgetown. We had a home game earlier today, and when it was finished, I threw my things in my car, hit I-95, and drove three hours nonstop.

  I stood in a line that was wrapped around the building for hours, and when we finally moved inside, I found a seat in the middle of the room amongst hundreds upon hundreds of overly excited, chatty women.

  The bookshop owner introduced Ayla right on schedule, and the ladies around me went nuts, just like the last time. And just like the last time, the lights went low, Ayla read a passage from her book, Hard Hearted, and they opened the floor for questions.

  A bookstore worker with a green button down shirt, thick black glasses, and a microphone walks around the room, nervously hopping between people with urgent, raised hands.