by S. M. West
Hello, crazy, I’m over here.
“About Costa?” Socks now on, Gray stands and turns to face me.
“Yeah.” My eyes drop to the bed before flicking back to him. “She knows him, too, and she was there back then, so she might be able to shed some light on this.”
I don’t believe she’ll know something I don’t, but it will be good to talk to her.
“Hey, I’ve got to go.” He gently pinches my chin. “But call me if you need me…for anything. I don’t care.”
His gaze is laser focused, waiting until I nod, then he smiles, kissing me, gently, almost reverently before releasing my chin.
“I’ll be back tonight, and if you want, I can bring Henry with me.”
“Oh, thanks, but it’s okay. I’ll swing by Pansy’s and get him.”
“K.” He leaves the room.
I lie down and squeeze my eyes shut for a beat or two, holding back the tears. Gray is still at the forefront of my thoughts as Henry springs to mind followed by the bombshell courtesy of Costa.
Everything is so right and also so wrong. My confusion brings anger. I’m angry at Costa, at the situation, and perhaps most of all at myself.
Doubt whispers in my ear, incessantly chipping away at what I once thought to be true. Costa is Henry’s father. Now I don’t know, but isn’t that stupid? How can I not know? Costa has to be the father. Anyone else is inconceivable.
Shaking my head, I jump from the bed, grabbing Gray’s tuxedo shirt, lying on the floor. I slip my arms into the sleeves and wrap the fabric around my naked body. His warm citrus scent surrounds me and spurs me on as I run to the door.
“Gray. Gray.” My frantic tone mirrors my insides, and I can’t get to the front door fast enough.
He’s almost out the door when he glances over his shoulder and pauses at the sight of me. “What’s wrong?”
His gaze sweeps over my bare legs and the haphazard wrapping of his shirt around my body. His crystal-blue eyes darken to cobalt with each second that ticks by as he stares at me.
And as cliché as it sounds, time seems to stand still. The war between doubt and fear, battling it out in my stomach, ceases. Gray is everywhere, dominating all my senses.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just…” I inch closer and he watches my every move like a dangerous predator, raw and electric, ready to strike. “You mentioned getting a DNA test. What about Costa? How are you going to do that?”
“I’m going to talk to him today, and I’ll get his DNA. It doesn’t hurt to get two sets of results.”
“How? I don’t even know where he’s staying?”
“Don’t worry. I’m on it.” He now steps inside, letting the door swing to almost closed.
“I don’t want you to go to the troub—”
“Daze, don’t try to talk me out of this. I’m not doing this to cause you stress, but I need to see him for myself. I think it’s a good idea for me to get a read on him too.”
I nod. It does sound like a good approach, but my stomach knots at Gray and Costa butting heads.
My concern isn’t for Costa but for the man in front of me.
The one who my son looks at like he hung the moon.
The one who has my heart.
19
Daisy
Word vomit
“I’m not trying to stick my nose in where it doesn’t belong.” He rests his hand on my shoulder, fingers gently massaging my muscle and then up to cup my cheek.
“No. No. I don’t think that.”
“Good. Daisy, this is my business.” One thumb sweeps down to my jaw, and I shiver at his raw adoration. “You’re my business and so is Henry. I love you.”
He bends his head, mouth on mine, and his teeth catch my bottom lip. Goosebumps spread, my insides coming alive, and my toes curl.
“I love you too,” I mumble against his mouth as my hand wraps around the back of his head, nails scraping through his hair.
There’s so much I want to tell him, so much more I need to convey, and those three powerful and endearing words are only the beginning.
He pulls away on a groan and one hand rests on my bare thigh, caressing, and I shift the fabric higher up on my leg. I’m giving him better access to where I want him most, and he chuckles, shaking his head and gripping my leg firmly but gently.
“No panties,” he groans, and I almost wince from how painful it sounds. “Why are you deliberately making this hard?”
“What’s hard?” I cup his groin, smiling and widening my eyes like saucers at his growing arousal. “Ooh. Gray.”
“Daze.” His other hand cradles the back of my head, and he tugs me toward him, our foreheads now touching. “I’ve got to go. If I didn’t care about what time I worked till tonight, I’d stay but…fuck…I want to be here with you and Henry later.”
Nodding solemnly, I attempt to pull away. Let him go. He holds on tight. And it’s my turn to moan in frustration. “Gray, how can you leave if you won’t let me go?”
His husky laughter tickles my lips, and one hand slides around my back to bring my chest flush against all his hardness. Then fingers slide down my back and slip under the hem of his shirt until his hot hand rests on my bare ass.
“I’m never letting you go.” He tightens the grip on my head, as the fingers on his other hand sink into the flesh of my bottom.
He kisses me hard, tongue sweeping into my mouth, and I consume the guttural sound he makes. His other hand moves down from my backside, digging possessively into the underside of my thigh as he lifts my leg to curl it around his waist.
The heat and outline of his hard cock presses into my stomach and I growl, not amused with how he’s now playing.
“Gray.” I rip my mouth from his, breathless, chest heaving. “No fair.”
“Now you know how it feels.” One more quick kiss and he’s gone, leaving me slick and bothered, my arousal coating my inner thighs.
My morning is busy and for the most part, my mind doesn’t wade too deep or for too long in the doubt and confusion.
At one point, my phone buzzes and I glance down, frowning at the name on the screen. Jerome. I hit the ‘I can’t talk right now’ reply option, not able to handle his needs and whining on top of everything else.
My phone vibrates, and he’s sent a text, asking for a date for his photo shoot of me. Running on no patience for him, I send back a one-word text—No. I can’t coddle his ego right now. It may be wrong or a mistake, but he doesn’t know how to take a hint.
Then I send a text to Sasha.
Me: Welcome to LA. You’re likely passed out and jet-lagged, but I’m reminding you that I’ll be there at 2. I want margaritas.
I stash my phone in my bag and get back to work, not expecting a reply from Sasha. She most probably took a sleeping pill and passed out. The woman doesn’t handle jet lag very well. I mean, who does? But she gets nasty, so it’s just as well she rests.
By early afternoon, I head over to the hotel where Sasha is staying, feeling more like myself. For the most part, Costa is relegated to the back of my mind, and even when I texted Gray to see how he’s doing, I refrained from asking if he’d spoken to Costa. That can wait until tonight.
I knock on the suite door, and as if waiting eagerly on the other side, Sasha swings the door open immediately, throwing her arms around me.
There’s squealing, laughing, and out of nowhere, I burst into tears. Obviously, my internal words of encouragement didn’t work. On my way to the hotel, I told myself to keep it together until we’d caught up.
Seeing Sasha will be hard in light of my conversation with Costa, but also amazing. I’ve missed her, and after all, she’s the only person that was in my life at that time. We were inseparable and often tried to get work in the same cities or on the same shoot. We were always together, and if anyone can help me make sense of this, it’s Sasha.
Face to face with Sasha, I can barely string two words together. My lips tremble and a fierce burning ruptures at the back of my eyes.
&
nbsp; “Honey, I know it’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other, but don’t cry.”
I can’t stop. Hot, fat tears roll down my cheeks, and Sasha’s once happy face shifts into distress as she wipes at my face.
“No, Daisy, tell me what’s going on.” She pulls me in for another hug, and I sniff and snort into her chest.
“Shoot.” I pull away and gratefully take the tissue she hands me. “I didn’t mean to do this.”
“What’s going on?” She pulls me toward a loveseat in the small sitting area of her suite. “I know this is more than being excited to see me although I understand my mere presence could bring you to tears.”
A harsh, uncontrollable laugh bursts from me, and I’m grateful for Sasha and her attempt to lighten the mood.
“I’m sorry about crying like this.” I wipe under my eyes. “I told myself to keep it together.”
“Honey, it happens to the best of us. Now tell me, what’s wrong?”
All of it rushes out of me like a waterfall tumbling over the side of a mountain. There isn’t any order to what I’m saying, and I’m not even sure if it makes any sense. It’s word vomit, and my desire to get it out supersedes anything else.
For the most part, Sasha is silent, nodding, frowning, and sometimes growling, and only interrupts once or twice to ask questions for clarification.
“Holy shit. That’s a lot of bullshit.”
“What?”
“You don’t believe him, do you?” She squeezes my hand. “He’s screwing with you.”
“Why would he?” I sound defensive almost as if I’m upset on Costa’s behalf that she’s suggesting he’s lying.
“I don’t know, but Daisy, you weren’t with anyone else. Costa is the father.” She pauses, sharp dark eyes studying my face to the point of discomfort. “Was there someone else?”
“What do you mean?” I snatch my hand from hers—call it an automatic reflex or an internal defense. It’s a fair question. Costa asked the same thing, and she doesn’t mean anything by it.
If it were her telling me the same story, I’d ask the same question, but it still stings.
“No. There wasn’t anyone else.”
“Fine. So you weren’t double timing him, not that I would say it was wrong because the asshole would deserve it.” She puckers her brow, likely shoving thoughts of Costa out of her mind. “But honey, did you sleep with someone else? Say a one-night stand.”
I don’t know how to respond without sounding insulted. Again, her question is valid and even plausible, but she knows me. She was there when Costa and I were together. There was no one else.
“Honey,”—she softens her tone and expression—“I mean, is there a possibility that Henry is someone else’s child?”
“No. No, I swear.” Needing distance before I lash out, I leap to my feet and start walking around the room. “This is crazy, I get it, and it feels like Costa is messing with me, but I don’t know why. Gray wondered if maybe it was his wife. Maybe she didn’t like the fact that Costa and I share a child together and was somehow trying to sever that tie.”
“Hmm, that’s a good theory.” She taps her long, beautifully manicured fingernail against her lush red lips. “He’s still a fucking bastard. I never liked him.”
“Sash…not helping.” I roll my eyes, frustrated with her hate-on for Costa. It all started when he got another male model booted off a shoot.
Sasha had been close with the other model, and it had infuriated her that Costa did such a thing. Although it does happen.
“I don’t care.” She waves a hand at me. “I can’t help it. He’s a piece of shit and now look what he’s doing to you. The only way to put a stop to this is to prove him wrong. Get a DNA test.”
I nod, running a hand through my hair. “Yes. We are doing that and should have the results in two days.”
“Daisy.” She’s now on her feet, coming toward me with concern oozing from her every pore. “Darling, if he isn’t the father, then what the hell happened?”
I burst into tears once more, and this time, they are even more out of control. I can’t bring myself to say the words, but that’s where I keep getting tripped up. As I play out how this could go, if Costa isn’t Henry’s father…
“I-I can’t go there.” It’s all I’m able to say, looking away from her.
There’s only one other explanation if I can’t produce another potential…man. It means I was… I could have been…
“Honey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.” She holds both my hands in hers, so tight that it almost hurts. Yet in some strange way, I need it. I need the pain to ground me.
“Okay, let’s back up a bit. We’re going to figure this out together. You know when Henry was conceived, right?”
“Well, give or take.” Immediately, I’m back at that time in my life, and Sasha stares, urging me with her dark gaze to go on. “It was the week after Paris Fashion Week. Costa and I had worked the week before and we then had five days in Paris off.”
“Oh, I remember.” She drags me by the hand back to the couch. “The two of you stayed at a hotel.”
“Yes. The George V.”
Sasha and I lived with a few other models in a beautiful apartment with a spectacular view of the Eiffel Tower. The place was owned by the modeling agency we worked for, and we were the only two there that week. Most of the others had either gone back to work or taken off for Ibiza or some other paradise.
“Why didn’t you stay with me?” She tilts her head to one side, scrunching her nose.
“Mickey was in town, don’t you remember?” That’s all I needed to say for her to understand why I wasn’t at the apartment.
“Ah, yes. Mickey.” She says his name with such nostalgia that I can’t help but smile.
She had been so gone for that guy. It wasn’t love but profound lust. Whenever the two of them were in a room together, I was so turned on that I had to change my panties.
They couldn’t get enough of each other, and as a result, one day I’d had the misfortune of walking in on them having sex at the apartment. That’s why I usually stayed in a hotel or at someone else’s place when he was in town.
“Didn’t we throw a party one night that week?” Sasha’s eyes glitter with mischief, and it’s clear she’s reliving the memory of several unmentionable moments.
“Yes, we did.” I nod. “Costa and I were together for most of those five days. Well…” Some of it is hazy but I recall there being a fight. “I think the night of the party we argued, and Costa left.”
“Why? What happened?”
“He was angry because I was on him about drugs. He was high that night, stumbling around the place, breaking things.”
“Yes. Yes, I remember. I was so pis—”
I cut her off, not wanting to hear how much she dislikes him. I know. “Anyway, so he left.”
“Did he come back?”
“I think so.” I rub at my temple as if that somehow helps with the memories. “Yes, when I woke up that morning, he was beside me in bed.”
“All right. Anything else?”
“I can’t think of anything else. Like I said, we were together all the time. And that week was the last time we’d had sex. Then I found out I was pregnant.”
“Okay, think back to that week. Do you remember feeling off? Like not yourself? Or out of it?”
“What are you trying to say?” My question is futile and dishonest. I know what she’s getting at, and I can’t bring myself to say it, much less dwell on it.
“I don’t know.” She shrugs and looks away. Lies. “I’m just trying to think of something that might have happened to explain this. Did you hit your head? Is there something you could have blocked from your mind?”
As if running through a maze, I go through the week. Some of it is unclear and vague recollection, and with every turn, I come to a dead end. Nothing clicks, nothing makes sense.
“No. There’s nothing.”
“Okay, sweetie.
Give it some more thought. We’ll figure this out.” She wraps her arms around me.
We spend a little more time catching up before I have to leave, promising to talk later and see her soon.
In my car, before I head home, I check my emails, still playing catch-up on the less important things I neglected yesterday. A text pops up from an unknown number with a picture of Gray and me from our date.
It’s a great picture, and I’m immediately drawn to it although a little uneasy. We’re close, intimate, looking intently at one another. There’s also a link to an LA media gossip site with more pictures from our date.
Along with the image is a short article saying we’re an item. It ends with a bit about models and rock stars as well as a list of other famous pairings of that kind.
I don’t know how to feel about it. I don’t feel anything looking at it. I’m not one to shy away from the media. And yet when I study our picture, I remember that night and how good it was. How amazing I felt.
I have this strange feeling. Who sent this to me and why? What are they trying to say with it?
It’s weird, but the first person that comes to my mind is Costa. And it doesn’t make any sense but nothing has. He doesn’t care about me that way.
But then why would someone send this to me? Unless it’s just another way to mess with my head.
20
Gray
Wasn’t exactly faithful
“Gray, come on.” India bursts into the sound booth, banging the door against the wall. “What is going on with you?”
“I know, it’s shit.” I drop my drumsticks and stand, huffing out a long, aggravated sigh.
We’ve been at this one part in the song for nearly an hour, and I’m the one screwing it up.
Last night when I’d texted Silas, I didn’t provide much of an explanation but agreed to give them five hours in the studio, until noon. India was none too pleased and didn’t say a word to me this morning, but she’s making up for it now as she rants about my piss-poor performance.