Lost In Between: Finding Me Duet #1

by K. L. Kreig

  “Carrie.” He nods politely and twists me in his arms until I’m facing a petite brunette standing barely above the five-foot mark. At first glance, you wouldn’t describe her as beautiful, but the more I look at her, the more I see it. Behind her thick black glasses are arresting chocolate eyes. Heavy, black hair hangs in a straight bob around her oval face, but she has one side pushed back behind her ears. A smattering of light freckles dots her tiny pale nose and her face is makeup free except for a light gloss on her thin lips.

  She looks unassuming and meek, only I will soon find out she is anything but.

  30

  I know Carrie Reynolds from high school, though I haven’t seen her for several years now. She was two years my junior. Her parents own five very successful restaurants in the Seattle area, so her parents hobnobbed with mine, and they both continually tried to push us together. When I was a junior, I gave in to my mother’s pressure and took her on a date. One. It was a disaster. The entire time she talked my ear off about the guy she was obsessing over, Will Hankley, a friend of mine. Will had had the same girlfriend since the seventh grade, and Carrie wanted my assistance in plotting the relationship’s untimely demise. I refused. She was pissed. Will and Kate have been happily married for fourteen years.

  So, when I saw her name underneath the article about Willow and me, I cringed. I hadn’t seen her at the restaurant that night; I’d seen a colleague of hers, but Carrie must have been sitting at his table. I tried to pull strings with Kayla, the editor-in-chief, to assign a different reporter, but that got me nowhere. There’s also no love lost between us, either. Sometimes your bad decisions come back to haunt you and this would be one of those times. Although in fairness to me, she wasn’t the EIC when we slept together.

  That being said, I laid the ground rules solidly before I walked through the door today. I will not be ambushed or undermined. This interview is a coup for Carrie. She’s green, having only been a reporter now for fifteen months or so. It’s her second career after a second failed marriage. I’m just hoping twenty years has erased the torch she wanted to burn me with, but one can never know with women.

  After we spend twenty minutes in front of the camera posing for our cover picture, we sit at a small round table in a glass-bubbled conference room. “So, how did you two meet?” Carrie asks innocently enough after she clicks on her recording device.

  Willow and I talked about this after we both came back into our bodies from the best fuck I’ve ever had in my life. It was more than a fuck, you asshole. It was…hell…it was transcendent. She wanted to argue about my gift. I thought our time was best spent preparing for this afternoon’s interview instead. It was mutually agreed I would take the lead; she’ll add color commentary.

  Tightening my hold on Willow’s hand, which is planted on my lap, I launch into the story of our accident. I even throw in the new Audi she’s driving in hopes that once it’s in print, she’ll have no choice but to keep it.

  Carrie is cordial, nice even, and half an hour goes by uneventfully as we answer question after question. It’s a light, easy atmosphere, and I find every answer out of my mouth is truthful instead of some story I’m trying to weave for the press or my father.

  Just when I think we’ve wrapped up with the list of preapproved questions I’d authorized earlier, Carrie says, “I have a couple more questions for Willow, if you don’t mind?”

  Unease settles in my gut, and my stare hardens. Carrie ignores me, turning to Willow, who grips my hand harder.

  “Of course,” Willow says congenially.

  Carrie drops her eyes, flipping through a few pages of her notebook. Willow and I exchange glances and I see the nerves that were there earlier flare up again.

  “Willow, your father was Charles Blackwell, correct?”

  Was?

  Willow’s entire body goes rigid.

  “Yes,” she roughly responds after wetting her lips.

  Carrie’s voice turns sympathetic when she continues. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you,” Willow mumbles almost incoherently.

  “And didn’t your father work in research and development at Aurora Pharmaceuticals?”

  Willow nods slowly.

  Oh fuck.

  Oh. Fuck.

  Her father worked—as in past tense—at Aurora Pharmaceuticals? In R&D? My mind races, trying to piece this together, but it’s not that hard once I really think about it.

  CJ Blackwell. The brilliant researcher who invented a potential cure for Alzheimer’s. The same one who committed suicide, falling to his death from Schultz Bridge. It was not only a tragic loss for the scientific community, it almost crippled Aurora Pharmaceuticals. I remember it well for so many reasons, not the least of which I had my own bullshit issues with Annabelle to deal with that very night.

  CJ Blackwell is Charles Blackwell.

  CJ Blackwell is Willow Blackwell’s dead father.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  Why did I not put this together before now?

  Then Carrie turns to me. “And isn’t Aurora Pharmaceuticals one of your clients, Shaw?”

  My jaw ticks. Willow tugs her hand from mine, her brows creasing in confusion. Carrie’s devious eyes bounce back and forth between us, glee sparkling in them.

  Well, fuck her. Fuck this.

  “What’s your question, Carrie?” I spit, rage welling inside me. I reach over and take Willow’s hand back, holding tight. It’s shaking.

  “No question, really. People just eat up a love story with a great twist, and yours definitely has one.”

  “That’s hardly a twist. That’s pure coincidence,” I snarl. Holding fast to Willow, I stand, pulling her with me. She’s visibly upset, her entire body wracking with shakes.

  We get within a foot of the door when Carrie adds, “Maybe, maybe not. But the fact that her father was solely responsible for the initial discovery of the drug that’s going to make Aurora Pharmaceuticals, along with Wildemer, billions when you help them launch their IPO early next year is.”

  And my bad. I didn’t give an inexperienced reporter nearly enough credit.

  Leaving Willow by the door, I stalk toward Carrie who is now holding her little notebook to her chest like that will help protect her against me. As fucking if. I tower over her by a good foot and let my size and breadth intimidate her as I easily enter her personal bubble.

  “You print this, you’re through,” I grit. “You’ll be done here. You’ll never get another job in journalism again, and you’ll be forced to find a third husband who will support your pitiful ass.”

  She bristles, and her red face turns to steel. “It’s public information, Shaw. I’m not printing anything that’s slanderous or untrue.”

  She’s right. CJ’s—Charles’s—death is public information. Aurora Pharmaceuticals’ initial public offering is public information. The fact they are a Wildemer client is public information. But the media has a way of taking an innocent set of coincidences and twisting them into something that’s nefarious and reeks of scandal.

  “Let me tell you how this is going to go. You’re going to print the story we just gave you. It’s going to be glowing and happy, and you’re going to stick to the script. Not one mention or innuendo about Willow’s father or his death or Aurora, or the next call I’ll be making is to the president of Lock Media.”

  Her face pales.

  “Yeah, that’s right, sweetheart.” I lower my voice. “Lock Media, the same group that owns the 7-Day. John and I were frat brothers in college. I went to his wedding. I’m the fucking godfather to his baby girl. So, I assure you, John’s loyalty to me runs far deeper than this piss-poor excuse of a newspaper. You print that garbage, I make a call, and this place is shut down within twenty-four hours. You’ll be solely responsible for forty people standing in the unemployment line, yourself included. Now, you have to ask yourself, is getting one over on Shaw Mercer after twenty years really worth the pain and suffering that will rain down on you
?”

  She stands there, mute.

  “Is it?” I prod, demanding an answer.

  “No,” she mutters.

  “Good. Glad we understand each other. You e-mail the article to Dean before it’s printed. It doesn’t see the light of day without my approval, or I make that call.”

  I spin on my heels without waiting for a reply. It’s a demand anyway, not a fucking question. In just a few steps, I have Willow’s tear-streaked face in my hands.

  “You okay?” I whisper, my thumbs brushing the moisture away.

  She nods. More tears spill. She’s not okay. I want to kill Carrie for upsetting her. Fucking bitch.

  “Someone else will connect the dots, Shaw. And they’ll print it. You’re only delaying the inevitable,” Carrie says softly behind me.

  Another tally in the win column for Carrie, but I have more influence over the other media in town than I do this shitty little paper, which is why I needed to get them in my pocket. Now all I’ve managed to do is delay a fucking war.

  “One more thing, Carrie,” I snarl after I secure Willow to my side. “This newspaper breathes anything with mine or Willow’s name associated with it without my prior authorization, you can pack your bags. Just give me an excuse to shut your doors permanently.”

  With that, I guide Willow through the maze of low-cut cubicles, out the front door, and to the elevator. Once the doors shut, I wrap my arms around her, holding her tight. I feel her shake with each sob. My heart hurts for her, and I wish I could take away every ounce of pain.

  Once the doors open, I walk us to a bench that’s pushed against the wall, pulling her into my lap. She buries her head in my shoulder and cries.

  “Willow, baby.” Jesus, she’s killing me. Why is it that every woman’s tears before made me cringe in annoyance, but hers slice my heart like a blunt knife? I physically hurt simply because she’s hurting. That’s a new one.

  “Shhh,” I soothe. I run my hand methodically from the top of her scalp to the tips of her hair. Over and over until she calms. Until I can take a breath again without the pain of her agony stabbing me.

  Easing a finger under her chin, I tip her tearstained blotchy face up. My God, she is breathtaking, and I can’t resist kissing her softly, tasting salt and despair.

  “I didn’t know,” I tell her quietly.

  “How could you have?” she answers in a broken voice.

  I could have. I should have, though I never knew CJ Blackwell by anything other than CJ. And I didn’t know him personally, though I met him when Jack Hancock interviewed our firm several years ago now. Although he was a brilliant man, he was also charismatic and genuine.

  “I met him once. Your father.”

  Those incredible blue eyes widen. “You did?”

  “Yes. At a business meeting. He seemed like a good man.”

  Her glassy eyes well again. I can tell she’s barely holding herself together, the pain of losing her father still an open, bleeding wound.

  “He was,” she whispers.

  I’m at a loss for words, unfamiliar with how to handle such an emotionally intimate moment. “I’m sorry, Willow. It was tragic.” Those welling tears overflow, creating a waterfall of pain flowing down her face. “Willow, fuck, you’re killing me. Please don’t cry. How can I help?”

  She bites her lower lip, and I wipe away the drops rolling down her face.

  “Would you really do that? Get the newspaper shut down? For me?”

  Oh, Willow. I think I’d do anything for you. I’d burn this place to the fucking ground if that’s what you wanted.

  I chuckle, shaking my head. “I would if I could.”

  Her brows dip. “But you said you know the owner?”

  I let a slow smile spread across my face. “Technically, yes.” I see a hint of a smile on her lips and breathe a sigh of relief.

  “Technically?”

  “Met him at a party once last year,” I confess on a laugh. “He and his wife had just had a baby girl. Elana, if I remember right.”

  “So, you’re not frat brothers or godfather to his daughter?”

  Grinning, I tuck a stray hair behind her ear. “’Fraid not. Although it would be very convenient right about now.”

  “Wow. I believed every word you said.”

  And that was the point. Lies told with authority and conviction suddenly take on a life of their own, becoming truth when even those who know otherwise start to believe and defend them.

  “So did she.”

  I watch in awe as the sadness melts away, replaced by the most mind-blowing smile I’ve ever seen on her. It lights up her entire being and does something funny to my heart. She leans in and places her soft lips on mine, moving her body closer when she winds a hand in my hair. I grow hard beneath her as she takes her time as if she’s making love to my mouth.

  “Thank you,” she says quietly.

  “For what?” I breathe fast, wanting her mouth back on mine.

  “For protecting me like you said you would.”

  There are so many responses I could give, that I want to give, but the one that plays on my lips is a lie. “I’ll always protect you.” I don’t know if that’s true. I don’t know if I can protect her from the media, who love to sink their bloody teeth into a good story and rip it apart. I don’t know if I can protect her from me. I cup her cheek and settle for, “I’d like to hear about him sometime. When you’re ready.”

  Her eyes latch onto mine and don’t let go. “I’d like that, too.”

  Time hangs.

  Of all the interactions I’ve had with Willow over these past several weeks this seemingly inconsequential one is the most profound, the most impactful. It sinks far and deep, and I know, no matter what, it will stay with me forever.

  Because this? This moment changes everything.

  The door she keeps firmly sealed cracks open just a hair. And I felt a piece of her slide into me permanently.

  31

  “I’m getting too old for this scene,” Noah grumbles loudly beside me.

  So am I, especially since this place is jammed with barely legals, but Willow is here somewhere, and I couldn’t make myself stay away. I haven’t come to Emfest for years. I should be anywhere but here. Willow has a life of her own, friends of her own, interests of her own that don’t include me. But I want them to, and that small voice that tells me this will be over soon keeps being drowned out by the bigger part that just doesn’t give a fuck.

  I want her. Jesus, do I want her. More and more and more every goddamn day. And this is more than sex. Far more. I want her laugh, her smiles, her trust, her everything. I’m walking a tightrope of emotional suicide, and let’s face it—I’ll fall. I’ve not once made it across that fucker, but the ground has never seemed so far away before. Why should what I have with Willow be any different?

  Because you’ve never had anyone like her waiting on the other side.

  “You’re full of shit, Noah,” I finally say when I watch his eyes rake down a practically nude waitress as she passes by. She has on the tiniest skirt known to man, and her small, perky tits are painted with what appears to be a series of thick, interwoven, gold-tipped, green chains that cover her nipples and areolas but leave the sides of her breasts bared completely. It looks as though she has a heavy necklace on, but it’s body paint. It’s brilliant and sexy as hell, and whoever is responsible for the art this year has outdone themselves.

  But I find I’m barely giving these beautiful women more than a passing glance. I mean, I am a guy after all, so if I say I’m not looking, you’d be well within your right to call bullshit. But before, I would have sought them out. Maybe even picked one I wanted to end the night with. Now I’m not.

  Tonight, all I care about is locating my woman in this writhing mass of bodies…to watch her from afar. I have a feeling she’d be very unhappy with me that I’m here. Good thing we’re tucked into a corner where we’re hard to see but have a great view of the entire room.

  �
�Find her yet?” Noah asks with a shit-ass grin on his face that I ignore.

  “Find who?” I reply calmly.

  He laughs. “You think I don’t know why we’re here, Merc?”

  “No idea what you mean,” I feign. I take a sip of my Clix on the rocks and scan the room again. I figured Willow would be in the VIP section, what with her roommate working here, but I haven’t seen hide nor hair of her. Maybe she changed her mind and stayed home instead. God, I hope so. I don’t want every guy in the place trying to pick her up.

  After the debacle at the 7-Day yesterday, we walked the few blocks over to Pier 57, got two tacos from a food truck, and ate them on the Great Wheel as we gazed out into the harbor.

  We talked the entire twenty-minute ride around in the sky.

  I wanted her to tell me about her father. She didn’t, but she did tell me about growing up with Sierra. Her friendship with Sierra sounds a lot like mine with Noah. I reciprocated and talked about what it was like growing up and running a business with my best friend.

  It was the most real night we’ve shared so far. It felt like an actual date for just us and no one else. I asked her to come home with me again. To stay the night. Jesus, I can’t believe how much I wanted to wake up with her in my arms this morning. Only, she politely refused, saying she didn’t think it was a good idea.

  And once again, I found it pissed me off, because I want much more than she’s giving me. She holds herself in reserve. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s from everyone or just me? I want to believe it has everything to do with that fucking contract. I feel like it’s a wall between us but one I’m still reluctant to tear down. I lay in bed alone last night wondering why the hell I wasn’t just ripping it up.

  Do I want to give myself an out? Make sure if I end up hurting her I can make myself feel better by pointing to the rule book?

  “You never said how things are going with her.”

  I pin my friend of thirty-six years with a stare. “And you never said how you met her.”