by Angel Payne
“Right,” I said, nodding again. “Right. I don’t know if you remember or not, but I dated a professional baseball player for a while. Doug Simcox.”
“From the Yankees?” He jolted a little. “Sure, I remember him. Who doesn’t? Never cared about his personal shit, though. I was deep into school back in those days. I had no clue about the gossip lines or the entertainment shows until Andrea hired me.”
I actually grinned for a split second. “Unreal. I’ve actually found one of the three people on the planet who has no idea about DougMar.”
“DougMar?” His eyes sprang wide. “Oh, say it wasn’t so.”
“It was so.”
“Agghhh.”
“Right? Anyway, fast forward by a year, to the day Doug broke it off with me.”
“He didn’t pull the hoke move and just text, did he?”
My grin sprang into a laugh. “No. He was a little classier than that—but it was still pretty ugly. It was all over the tabloids and social media within hours, and I was devastated. I was so worried about my social standing back then, trying to figure out what they all wanted me to be, and hounding Doug to fit into the same mold. I think he’d just had enough.”
Michael chuffed. “Sounds like he was just a pussy.”
I spurted. “Is that so?”
His upper lip curled. So sexy. “Yeah, that’s so. Why didn’t he just put his foot down with you and work it out?”
There were so many variables to filling in that blank, I didn’t start. Doug was part of my past—and, though a meaningful part, wasn’t worth talking about right now. “That’s a lot of shit, for a different day. The DL is this: I did something desperate to try to get Doug back. In a nutshell, I was young and foolish and crying out for attention. Lots of therapy and years of maturity, and I can finally say that.”
Naturally, I’d started twisting the hell out of my pinkie ring. Hawkeyes Pearson zeroed right in on that again and moved in, lifting one hand to the side of my face. I leaned into his touch for a tiny moment. How could I resist? His hold was so warm, so calming. Safe. I was safe once more.
God, I was going to miss this. Miss him.
“Tell me what you did to yourself, Margaux.”
I couldn’t deny his request any more than my own breath. He’d made it okay to do so. “I took a bunch of pills my mother—Andrea—had in her medicine cabinet. She’d had a nose job. Or maybe it was her boobs?”
“Irrelevant.”
“True.”
“So what was the shit?”
“Vicodin. I took… a lot. I don’t really remember how many. It certainly doesn’t matter at this point. I just wanted to escape it all, you know? Anyway, I was an idiot.”
Michael inhaled hard. Exhaled with twice the intensity. “But an idiot who survived.”
“Thanks to Andre.” I nodded at his widened eyes. “Oh, yes. He’d just started working for me, and looked for me in the house when I was more than fashionably late to the car. He found me lying on my bed in my favorite black Zac Posen gown, beyond revival. He called nine-one-one and followed the ambulance to the hospital. Held my hand while they pumped my stomach in the ER.” I shrugged. “The rest, as they say, is history.”
His face hadn’t given up its frown. “Andre was there for it all? But…where was Andrea?”
“Barbados. Handling a client. She handled me via phone calls to the office—and of course, to me directly at the hospital too. She wanted to be sure my words dovetailed with the press releases.” I smoothed a hand over the fist he’d curled. “In her mind, that was good mothering, Michael. Andrea was never the apple pie and Independence Day parade type. She handled the spin for me; made sure the world saw my crisis as only exhaustion. They even floated the story that I’d broken it off with Doug, that it was his insane schedule that put me in the hospital.”
I watched him battle to let the fury go. After a minute, he looked up, piercing me with every gold and green facet of his gaze. He brushed strands of hair back from my face, the tiny pieces that always seemed to get in my eyes, before tucking them behind my ear.
“I’m glad you didn’t succeed,” he murmured. “My life would’ve been so incomplete without you.”
I just rolled my eyes. And that’s why you’re leaving.
“I’m not feeding you corn chowder platitudes, sugar. I mean it.” His stare glittered deeper. “I’ve never met a woman like you—and I know I never will again.” A wistful smile dusted his lips. “The rest pale in comparison to you, Margaux.”
His fingers lingered on my face. I meshed mine with them, unsure what to say. I had comeback lines for every insult people could dream up, but responding eloquently to his adoration and kindness? I was lost worse than the Galactica.
“Michael—”
“Sshhh. Not done,” he insisted. “I need to let you know…I’m so sorry you were alone back then. That you were in a situation that led you to hurt yourself as the only way out. That things were so desperate, you wanted to end your life. I’m sorry Andrea left you all alone to deal with the aftermath from Doug. That woman isn’t fit to be called a mother. And I hope you know now, that no matter what goes on between us, you can always come to me.”
Okay…lost? Try thrust out of the damn universe. My comfort zone was blasted behind three galaxies ago. He couldn’t keep doing this to me. Not when he was about to be living on the other side of the damn country!
“Stop,” I bit out. “Just…stop. Cut the twelve-step bullshit, Michael. Doug was eons ago. That was all another lifetime ago. I wasn’t half the woman then that I am now. How do you think I got here? This version of me rose from those ashes.”
He smiled. “A real phoenix.”
“Whatever.” Why was he always so poetic? And why did it always make my chest flip over my stomach, then back again?
“All right.” he finally relented. “Let me circle this all around again to—God help me—Trey Stone.”
Do we have to? Just hearing that asshole’s name forced bile up my throat. But Michael had a point. We’d digressed and it hadn’t been pretty. “Trey came here…to blackmail me.”
Michael’s eyes darkened to that same violent green shade. “And that doesn’t surprise me…why?”
“He knew every detail—the real ones—about my suicide attempt. Clearly, Andrea either gave him the scoop about it or told him where to find it. But he had all the dirty details down, and told me if I didn’t give him a small mountain of money, he would go to the media with my whole story.”
“So what happened?” He almost answered his own question by keeping his scrutiny fixed on my face. “No,” he blurted. “Ahhh, no, Margaux. Don’t tell me—”
“Okay, I won’t.” I pulled my hand back, folding both arms in. “I told you this wasn’t going to be fun.”
“You gave him the damn money?”
I ignored his thunderous glare. “Not all, but enough—for now. I drained my savings and skimmed some more off an account at SGC until my lawyers can get into my trust fund. After that, I’m going to replace what I took. At least it’s holding him over.”
“Wait a minute.”
If I cracked his skull open, there’d certainly be a hundred gears whirling inside. Dammit. For being raised in the land of seed spreaders and boot stores, the man was damn smart. But at the moment, the lawyer in him had clearly kicked in.
Exactly what I was afraid of.
“How did you have access to an SGC account?” he demanded. “That’s not a normal perk for an employee, even in the milk and honey clouds of Stone Global. I mean, Claire probably doesn’t even have access to the corporate bank accounts.”
Shit.
In for a penny, in for a pound, right?
I lifted my shoulders. Leveled my head. “Because I’m a Stone.”
Stare. Stare. Head shake. Stare.
“Michael?”
“Huh? What did you just say?”
“You once asked me what kind of shit went down between Andrea and me during
the trip to Chicago last summer. Well, that’s the shit. I learned that my last name is rightfully Stone. And while we’re having so much fun with the mind fuck, my first name is actually Mary.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“No relation. Whatsoever.”
The chuckle I hoped for? Not happening. “Wh-when did you find this out?” he stammered.
“Right before Josiah Stone died. From his deathbed, he spilled the beans about being my rightful baby daddy.”
He peered around the room, his jaw slack. Shock had overtaken him. I sat quietly, giving him time to process it all, careful about overloading him with facts he didn’t ask for.
“So Andrea…”
“Is not actually my mother. She adopted me after Josiah knocked up a secretary. There was going to be a pretty huge scandal so they agreed that Andrea could adopt me. Everyone had the win—until Josiah decided to clear his conscience before taking the final train home. The scene in his hospital room was very soap opera dramatic.”
To his credit, Michael didn’t bolt to his feet again. But an entertaining string of profanity later, he turned toward me with full upper body attention, bracing one arm to the cushion behind my butt. His focus was almost overpowering. “So how are you doing with all this?”
Thunderbolt of awkwardness. If he expected me to crumple on impact, I was about to disappoint him. “No worse for the wear. I actually lost about ten pounds when it first happened, so I might even tag it another win.”
He grimaced. “I’m serious. This is some crazy shit.”
I bugged my eyes at him. “Welcome to my so-called life.” Really, what else does one say after dropping a bomb like that on someone? It was a lot to digest, and I’d lived through all of it already. “Hey, how about a drink? I know this is a broadside.”
He pulled his what-what-what face. “At seven in the morning?”
“But in Lahore, Pakistan, it’s seven at night. Happy hour!”
“I don’t think they have happy hour in Lahore, sugar.” A revelation seemed to cross his face before he relented, “You’re right. Fuck it. A beer does sound good.”
“I think Sorrelle actually got that sissy microbrewery shit you like,” I joked on the way to the kitchen. “And now that you won’t be around anymore, I’ll just be throwing it out.”
“Ha fucking ha.” He teased, but the shadows in his eyes betrayed how my comment struck home. He had a lot to deal with right now, and I’d just added to the pile, despite the fact that he’d asked for it.
My own pile deepened, too. Saying the words somehow made them true. He really wouldn’t be coming around anymore.
My chest was heavy. My stomach was a hollow pit. Screw it. For once, I wanted a “Honey-Cinnamon Pale Ale Brewer’s Select”, too.
I grabbed two bottles from the stainless steel monster in my kitchen, battling not to consider all the Michael-sized fingerprints that wouldn’t smudge it anymore, either. Why the hell had I told Sorrelle to wipe the last set off? Maybe I could get Michael to smear it up one more time, for old time’s sake.
“So you’re Claire’s step sister—”
“And her sister-in-law.” I knew where he was going so I cut him off while handing over his beer. “Yep, it was funny for a micro-second to us, too.”
He chuckled and chugged. “Oh, hell. I’ll bet!”
I gave him a half-hearted smile, but just as quickly, it fell.
Now that you won’t be around anymore…
I couldn’t do this. Couldn’t face this.
He was leaving.
He was leaving.
My heart shoved itself inside out. Then leapt to my throat and set up camp there.
“I—I think you should go now.”
Michael set down his beer. “What?” Glowered hard. “Why? What the fuck? I thought we—”
“I don’t know what you thought, but it was wrong. You got the information you came for, right? So…I just need you to go now.” I stood up, smoothed my skinny jeans down my legs and waited for him to follow suit. For some reason, he didn’t budge. What? Like the beer was a temporary parking pass for his ass?
“Please, Michael. Let’s not make this harder than it already is, or has been, for both of us. I just think it would be best if—”
“If what?” Now he decided to move, approaching me like a lion newly out of its cage. Slow. Stealthy. Steady. “If we ignore the feelings that are sitting in this room like an elephant?”
“Well…” My return volley of flippancy came out better than I’d hoped. “Yes, actually. So sorry you didn’t get more beer, but it is seven a.m. Bye, now. Thanks for coming.”
I walked toward the foyer with him hot on my trail. Finally.
A short-lived triumph.
He grabbed my arm, forcing me back around. “That may be your game, beautiful, but it’s sure as hell not mine.”
I shook him off but only because he let me. “Good thing I have the home field advantage then, huh?”
He slammed his hands to his hips—making me guess premeditated distraction. The way his jeans rode his endless legs…and the blatant bulge of his biceps against his T-shirt… Damn.
But my lust only reinforced what needed to happen here. Right now. If he stayed, everything between us would get sexier. Hotter. And much messier.
So I matched his pose. And steeled my tone, too. “Actually, I’m pretty sure we’ve covered all the major ground, Mr. Pearson. You said all you needed to say already with that awesome ultimatum you threw down at your place. And now, you know the whole story of me, including the ins and outs of why I’ve kept you off this fucked-up train wreck I call my life. Maybe someday I’ll write a memoir, and you can read it all as many times as you want. But seriously, right now? I think we’re done.”
I pulled the door open, treasuring the cool air that gusted in from the hallway. Another short-lived relief from the stifling heat of my grief. In a flash of motion that really was super hero-like, Michael slammed the portal shut then blocked it with his strong body.
“You seem to forget there are two parts to a conversation, blondie.” He folded his arms over, intensifying the muscled glory of his chest. “One part is talking. The other part is listening. Guess what? You’re really behind on that last one today. So get your fantasy-fine ass back on that yacht you call a sofa and get ready to listen for a change. Don’t even think of getting pissy with me about this—or that I won’t sling you over my shoulder and carry you.”
I whooshed out a heavy breath of air. Was unable to decide if his high-handedness was ass-hot or just ass-wipe. “You. Wouldn’t. Dare.”
“I would.”
Deciding this not a key battle I wanted to fight, I whipped my ponytail over my shoulder and started toward the sofa. When I abruptly stopped, Michael ran right into the back of me. Grinding my ass into his crotch purposefully, I said over my shoulder, “You really think this ass is fantasy-fine?”
He snarled into my ear. “Fucking walk or so help me…”
“Oooo, so bossy.”
“Don’t push it, sugar.”
I huffed and plopped down on the far end of the sofa. Right now, distance was going to be my best friend. When he was in this prowling Simba mood, fires flared deep inside me, extinguishable only by the lion’s bites. And sure, I’d put a closure fuck on the possibilities list, but second thoughts weren’t against the law. Considering another round with him now felt like a very dangerous game, in a shitload of terrifying ways.
He settled on the other end of the couch—then stiffened into a long, contemplative silence. Probably collecting words for whatever speech he’d deemed it necessary for me to hear, but that didn’t stop my imagination from taking his sternness and running with it. An image bloomed of me in full school-girl garb, sitting behind a desk, with him as my teacher. He paced up and down the aisles, tapping a wooden ruler to his palm, but I couldn’t move because of a shackle between my ankle and old-fashioned desk. Like I wanted to, once I beheld him in his bow tie, sweater ves
t, and geek-rimmed glasses, which did nothing to hide the pure sex in his eyes…
Mmmmm hmmmm…
“Hey! Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”
I straightened. “Yeah! Of course. Totally.”
Real Michael bought it less than fantasy teacher Michael would. My sudden spigot of eagerness was not a convincing help.
“Margaux. Dammit. I’m being serious.”
“Yes, Sir. I know.”
Yes, Sir? My nose might as well have grown for all my credibility now.
He lifted a brow and slanted his jaw. “Not going to work, sugar. I’m the one who’s watched you weave this spell over other guys, when they wanted to actually talk about—oh my God, I’m going to say it—feelings.”
“Oh, please,” I volleyed. “You want to ‘be serious’? I’m here, aren’t I? I haven’t called security on your ass, have I?” I reclined a little, watching him absorb that undeniable truth. But could I stop there? Of course not. More of the shit spilled out, though I battled to thread as much face-saving snark through it as possible. “Look, I’ve never had this many conversations with the same person in my entire life, man or woman, let alone about fucking feelings. So can we just get on with it? I have a very healthy fantasy I want to revisit when you leave.”
He threw a questioning glare about that. When I didn’t elaborate, he stood again. “You’re making this really difficult.”
“Says the farmer boy who strong-armed his way back in here.”
The comment worked its intended effect. His spine stiffened and his lips flattened. So why didn’t I feel better about the jab?
“You think you have it all figured out, don’t you, little girl?” His stare bore back down on me. Though I’d returned to admiring my pedi, I felt the unmistakable bulk of it. “You think you know everything about me, don’t you? That I had it easy growing up, in the land of sweet, gentle, and neighborly, but guess what? You don’t know shit, Margaux. Not about my childhood, not about me, not even about that ‘perfect farm life’, which isn’t what it seems at all. Forgive me for sounding confused that somehow you don’t get that. Maybe I thought you, of all people, would get that things are rarely what they appear to be. They’re just what people want you to think. The big show, the Instagram filter, the Facebook edit. But everyone’s hiding behind those façades. Everyone has secrets. Some are tiny, and some are huge as an eight-foot teddy bear. Some people cover their secrets up with makeup, while others mask them with press releases.”