by Julia London
“Oh, Michael!” Leah laughed. If only he knew that she worried she’d lose him. “I do need you,” she assured him. “I will always need you. You’re my rock.”
He sighed and withdrew his hand, then gripped the edge of the table so tightly that his knuckles were white, and Leah’s belly did a strange little flip. “What I’m trying to say is that you really don’t need anyone—you’re great all on your own. The world is your oyster.”
“Well maybe,” she said with a smile, “but I don’t want to be alone.”
“But you will be, baby . . . because I’m leaving.”
Leah laughed. “I know. We talked about that this morning, remember?”
He looked absolutely miserable. “But this time, I’m not coming back,” he added quietly.
Something thick and hard snapped inside Leah. Her mind couldn’t process the words, but her heart was reeling. “What do you mean, you’re not coming back? That’s silly,” she said with a flick of her wrist.
“Leah . . . I’m ending it,” he said, his voice depressingly soft.
“Ending it?” she repeated dumbly. “Ending it! Ending us? But . . . but why?” she asked as panic started to rise in her.
He looked away, shoved two hands through his hair. “My job,” he said simply. “It doesn’t leave room for a . . . a significant other.”
This could not be happening. This could not be happening! She loved him. She adored him, and he’d just chopped the legs out from beneath her. She couldn’t seem to find her balance, a center where she could even absorb the words he was saying, much less understand them. “Just like that?” she asked him breathlessly. “No warning, no indication? We made love today, Michael! What, is this about the Hollywood thing?”
“God, no,” he said, shaking his head. “No, Leah I want that for you. I want you to go on and be as great as I know you are.”
“But . . .” She surged forward, reached for his hand. “But Michael, we have a great relationship. Why would you do this? Why would you hurt me like this? I don’t understand.”
He grimaced. “I don’t want to hurt you. I never wanted to hurt you. In all honesty, I should never have entered this relationship in the first place. I’m not the kind of guy to settle down, and I knew, I . . .” He paused there, seemed to be searching for words. “I’m sorry, Leah,” he said again. “I am leaving for Austria in the morning. I’ll be gone indefinitely.”
The words fell like rocks between them, each one heavier than the last. Yet Leah could not believe it. She could not believe that nine months of a blossoming, fantastic relationship, that was, by all accounts, a match made in heaven, was ending so abruptly with no warning, no clue. It was a blindsided blow. “I don’t get it,” she said, as tears began to well in her eyes. “I thought we were so good together. I had no idea there was anything wrong—”
“There’s nothing wrong. You’re an amazing woman.” He sighed again and looked very pained. “I’m so sorry I have to do this to you. I am sorry I ever let it go this far.”
“Let it go this far?” she cried, and felt the first tear fall. “What does that mean? You weren’t into it, but you just strung me along for no reason?”
“No,” he said instantly. “It wasn’t like that. But I never thought . . . shit, I don’t know what I thought. I just can’t commit, baby.”
“Who the hell asked you to commit?” she cried.
He reached for her hand, but she yanked it out of his reach. “I can’t be with you, not anymore. I have to leave. This is for the best—”
“Don’t you dare tell me what is best,” she snapped, swiping at the tears that fell from her eyes. “Just . . . just go, if you’re going.”
“Let me help—”
“No!” she cried. “Don’t do anything except get the fuck away from me, Michael!” She turned away, fumbled in her bag for some tissues.
He got up and moved toward her, but Leah wouldn’t look at him. She couldn’t look at him. Her whole world had just been turned upside down in one stunning blow. He’d stolen her breath, crushed her heart, and now she lay bleeding and gasping for air. She hated him in that moment. She absolutely hated him. She flinched when he put his hand on her shoulder, as if he had burned her. Michael removed his hand, and she listened to his footfalls as he walked out of her life, leaving behind nothing but the ashes of what had been the greatest love of her life.
Chapter One
New York
Five Years Later
SOMEONE hurled an empty beer bottle at the limousine Michael Raney was riding in; it bounced off the back windshield and hit the back fender before crashing onto the pavement as the car eased out of the Shea Stadium VIP parking lot.
“Lemme out,” Parker Price said through clenched teeth, and reached for the door, but his brother Jack held him back.
“There are dozens of them, bro. You can’t take them all,” Jack said.
Parker shoved his brother off and sagged against the plush leather seats, defeated. “It’s over. It’s so over. I might as well shove my cleats up my ass.”
“That’s the spirit,” Jack said. “And anyway, I don’t think it’s that bad,” he added, and rather unconvincingly, considering that it really was that bad. Frankly, Michael had never seen a shortstop play a game as poorly as Parker Price had just done. The Yankees had made the Mets look like a bunch of little leaguers, and the shortstop, for whom the Mets had shelled out one hundred and ten million dollars plus bonuses over seven years to make sure that never happened, was the worst of the lot.
Another beer bottle hit the top of the car. Parker snapped his head up and punched the button that lowered the window separating them from the driver. “Hey pal, if you haven’t noticed, angry fans are hurling beer bottles at us—do you think you could pick up the pace a little?”
“Yo, genius, I’m not the one who had a hole in my glove you could drive a truck through, right?” the driver snapped back. “I’m going as fast as I can, but there are a lot of vehicles in front of us.”
Parker punched the “up” button, raising the window, and stared morosely at the floor.
“Look at it this way, Park,” Jack tried. “If you were hitting well, they’d probably say you’d juiced up.”
Parker groaned and dropped his head.
Something else hit the car, bouncing off the top. A baseball, maybe?
“Oh for four,” Parker said. “I haven’t had a hit in eight games.” He suddenly punched the window button again. “We’re going to the Essex, Central Park South.” He sent the window up again without waiting for an answer from the driver.
That address, unfortunately, was where Michael Raney and Jack Price, two of the four Thrillseekers Anonymous boys, were putting up for this baseball series. T.A., as they liked to call themselves, was the premier private adventure club in the United States, catering exclusively to the very wealthy. They also did some of the best stunt work in Hollywood. In fact, Michael and Jack were taking one last little break in New York, while Eli McCain and Cooper Jessup, the other two partners, were back in L.A., finishing up a new deal for the film War of the Soccer Moms.
Jack had the idea of coming to New York to watch his brother Parker play ball for the Mets. “Private box,” he’d said to Michael. “Really good-looking women.”
‘Nuff said.
But now Parker wanted to come up to their suite, and Michael didn’t think that was a good idea. He was giving out all the signs of being a seriously wet blanket, and Michael was ready to go out. He hadn’t been to New York in a few years and he was anxious to hit some of his old haunts. Nothing against Parker—he was a decent guy when he was on, but when he was off, he was pretty miserable company, and man was he off now.
“You sure you want to come to the hotel with us?” Jack asked in a tone that suggested he was having the same misgivings as Michael.
“I can’t go home,” Parker muttered. “There’s an old woman who lives on my street, and Jack, she’s . . . she’s lethal.”
&nb
sp; Something else hit the car, but it was a softer thud than before. “Hot dog,” Michael guessed.
Jack and Parker glared at him.
The reception at the hotel wasn’t any warmer, although they did manage to get up to the room without an incident, which was an improvement over the scuffle they’d had trying to leave the stadium.
Inside their suite, Jack was on Parker’s case. “What the hell is eating at you? You used to be so damn good. What happened?” he demanded.
“Okay,” Parker said, holding up massive hands. “You’ll think I’ve lost it, but here it is: I think it’s that Kelly O’Shay.”
“Who?” a clearly perturbed Jack shouted.
“Kelly O’Shay!” Parker cried. “She has a morning radio sports show here in the city, and every single damn day she is hammering on me. I think it’s her,” he said helplessly, and dragged all ten fingers through his hair. “She’s really on my case, Jack,” he said, sounding like a kid. “You won’t find a meaner tomcat than her, I swear to God.”
Michael rolled his eyes and tapped up the volume on the boob tube. He wasn’t a pro baseball player, but he thought that if he were, and he couldn’t hit a slow-pitch softball, then he’d be down at a batting cage somewhere instead of holed up here like some felon, whining about some disc jockey who had it in for him. A female disc jockey, for Chrissakes.
Jack, however, was appalled. “Wait, wait,” he said, waving a hand at Parker as he tried to process it. “Are you trying to tell me that you can’t hit because some . . . some chick is talking trash?”
“She’s jinxed me,” Parker muttered miserably. “I swear she’s jinxed me.”
Michael sighed and flipped channels. And as he zoomed past one channel after another, something caught his eye, something so unreal that he suddenly bolted forward, quickly bumped it back a couple of channels, and peered intently at the screen.
Holy shit.
He turned up the volume. “There are times I just don’t feel like myself.” A pretty woman with shoulder-length blond hair, tight low-rider jeans, boots, and a suede jacket was walking down a country lane with her dog. She paused by a wooden fence and leaned against it, looking into the camera. “Sometimes, irregularity can really put a damper on my day. But then my doctor told me about Fibercil.”
Jack, who had paused in the dressing-down of his brother, chuckled.
“Ssh,” Michael hissed at him.
“Just one pill before I go to bed, and the next day, I feel like me again!” She smiled brightly and resumed walking, pausing once to pick up a stick and throw it for the dog, as a male voice intoned, “Serious side effects may include nausea, fatigue, hypertension . . .”
Michael didn’t hear any of it—he was too mesmerized by the woman. He watched as she strolled along, her corn silk hair shimmering in the sun, her smile content, her stick-throwing abilities pretty lame.
Leah Kleinschmidt.
He hadn’t seen her in five years now, and man, she looked . . . she looked so much better than what he remembered. Long blond hair. Fabulous breasts. Legs that went on for miles. Oh yeah, he remembered those long legs wrapped around him as he moved inside her, and his wanker gave him a little nudge. And that warm, million-watt smile he’d carried in his mind’s eye, comparing it to all the other smiles he’d seen in those five years, never finding one that could match it.
So Leah had gone to Hollywood. Good for her. He just hoped there was something a little better in her portfolio than a commercial for some constipation product.
“Mikey . . . are you having a problem?” Parker asked, as a male voice continued with the serious side effects.
“Huh?”
“A problem. You know. . . ”
“No, no,” Michael snorted. “No, it’s just . . . I know her.”
Leah turned and smiled at the camera. “I can rely on just one pill at night, and I feel as good as new in the morning,” she repeated sunnily. “That’s great peace of mind.”
“So who is she?” Parker asked.
What a loaded question—she was everything in some respects. And really nothing since he’d dumped her five years ago. “No one,” he said. “Just someone I used to know.”
Leah’s face faded behind a giant bottle of Fibercil. Michael quickly switched the channel to ESPN. Two commentators were discussing the Mets game. “The problem with major league baseball is there is no accountability. You don’t spend that kind of money without being guaranteed some results. If I were the Mets organization, I would be suing for every last dime I’d given Par—”
“Jesus,” Parker moaned. Michael quickly switched again, landing on some movie channel. He handed the remote to Jack, got up, walked to the windows that overlooked Central Park, and stared out, as Jack demanded that Parker explain more about the female shock jock who was harassing him to the point he couldn’t hit.
Leah Kleinschmidt. The One Who Got Away.
Well. Technically speaking . . . the One He Never Should Have Dumped.
Chapter Two
Los Angeles
Six Months Later
IN L.A., Leah Klein was dressed in a huge, thick robe and fuzzy slippers. Her hair was sticking up in two Mickey Mouse—like earballs on the top of her head, and she was holding a huge box of tissues stuffed under her arm.
The man across from her cocked his head to one side, studying her face. “Redder around the nose,” he said, because he was the director and could decree such things. “A lot redder. We want her to look like she’s been blowing more than her brains through there. Now she just looks like she’s had too much to drink. Let’s get this right, okay?”
Apparently, considering they were on what had to be at least the fiftieth take, getting a tissue commercial right was a lot harder than Leah could have imagined. Her agent, Frances, had said, “Just go without makeup. That oughta be good enough.”
Leah hadn’t quite known how to interpret that, but she had come without makeup and couldn’t wait to tell Frances that apparently her bare face didn’t look that ill.
A girl with two nose rings and a tongue and eyebrow stud suddenly popped up in front of Leah and started dabbing a brush around her face with a vengeance, shoving red powder into her nose and eyes. There was so much powder flying that Leah started wheezing and had to wave her hand in front of her face to get rid of the girl and the powder.
The director leaned in, his face looming large as he studied the newly applied powder and nodded. “Okay, Lisa,” he said as Leah blinked several times, trying to clear the cloud of makeup in them, “Let’s please try and get this done in this take, okay? Just dig down deep, think back to the last time you had a really bad cold, and let that emotion come out,” he said, making a digging motion with his hands.
“Leah,” she said, shaking her hands violently in front of her face to help her resist the urge to plunge her fingers into her eyes and wipe them clean of powder.
The director stared at her. “What?”
“Leah. My name is Leah. Not Lisa.” The idiot couldn’t seem to process what she was saying. “You, ah, you called me Lisa earlier,” she said, pointing over her shoulder to earlier. “I was just clarifying.”
He blinked, reared back, stabbed his hands high in the air and bellowed, “Great, Leah!” He dropped his hands to his waist. “Okay, Leah, let’s try and get it this time. Could you please try and get it right, Leah?”
Wow, he really meant it. Was she that bad? Did her acting skills suck so badly that she couldn’t play a sick housewife convincingly? If she was such a bad actress, then why was she here? WhywhywhywhyWHY did she keep taking these gigs?
Oh, right. Because she needed money. Needed it so desperately that she really didn’t want to lose this commercial—it was her second national, which meant residuals good enough to maybe get another car, and she was insanely desperate for another car. Her ‘98 Ford Escort had a bad transmission and started only about half the time.
“Hello! Earth to Leah!” the director snapped, startling
her out of her thoughts. “I asked you, can we get this done?”
“Yes,” she said with a resolute nod, ignoring the smirks of the people behind the camera. Who were they, anyway? Did Fluffy Tissue really need five people to make sure this thing went down? It was a tissue for god’s sake!
“Fabulous,” the director snapped, turned around, and stalked behind the camera. “Okay, places!” he yelled.
Leah jumped up and hurried to her place. Because she was the only one with a place, she gripped her box of tissue and smiled brightly at her director.
“Look sick,” he said.
She dropped the smile.
“Action!”
With a theatric sneeze into her tissue that would have won her a Tony had she been back on Broadway, Leah looked miserably into the camera. “I don’t know which is worse,” she said in her best stuffy-nose voice. “To have the aches and pains and the stuffy runny nose that goes with the flu? Or to have really rough tissues?” she exclaimed, shaking a fistful of them at the camera before tossing them aside. “I need a cottony soft tissue!” she cried into the camera, then pulled several more tissues from her box of really rough tissues and blew her nose into them, wincing with pain the whole time.
And then she started shuffling across the stage to a bedroom. When the commercial aired, this was the point someone would be telling the world that there was a cottony soft tissue for her tender nose. She had to make the shuffle last fifteen seconds, which meant she had to pause and sneeze twice on her way.
When she reached the bedroom, she picked up a box of cottony soft tissues from the dresser, which was really stupid, because why would her character be complaining about rough tissues when she already had a box of the cottony soft shit? But when she’d asked that during an earlier take, Marty Scorsese over there almost had a seizure. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye; he cued her, and she put one of the cottony soft tissues to her nose and sighed with relief. “Now that is a soft tissue.”