Sweet Sinful Nights

by Lauren Blakely

  Her heart lurched towards him, and all her instincts said to comfort him. Because the man was in denial. “Brent, nothing would have changed,” she said softly.

  He smacked his fist into the bed covers. “I would have wanted to know. No matter what. I hate that you went through this alone. I wanted to be there for you, and you didn’t give me the chance.”

  She choked back the tears. “I wanted that, too. But how was I to know what you wanted? You left. It was over. You made your choice. You chose work over me. You made it clear I had to go with you or we were through. Why would you expect me to think you wanted to be there for me?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Besides, by the time this happened we’d been apart for four months. Even after it happened, what was I going to say that would have changed a thing? You were gone.”

  * * *

  He didn’t see it that way.

  Because he’d just learned he was a bigger schmuck. He had done something far worse than walk away from the love of his life. Turns out, he’d abandoned the mother of his child. Thanks to his epic last words, she’d thought he wouldn’t have wanted to be by her side.

  She had every reason to think that.

  “If you don’t go with me, there’s no point staying together.”

  He pictured her in London, alone and scared, not even sure what to tell the father of her child. He stood and paced around the room. He opened his mouth, but he had no clue how to respond. He was a fish out of water, gasping for air. Everything in his life had come easily to him. He had never suffered bad news. He had never lost someone he loved. But now, he felt the sting of devastation the first time in his life. He was experiencing all sorts of things that had become far too normal for Shannon. Unlike her, he had no roadmap to navigate this new terrain.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he muttered.

  “It’s okay. You don’t have say the perfect thing,” she said softly. She rose, too, and clasped his hands in hers, consoling him.

  He couldn’t let her. Not when he’d failed her abysmally. If he hadn’t backed her into a corner, they’d have stayed together and he could have properly cared for her. He pushed her hands away. He didn’t know how to touch her. He didn’t deserve her affection. So he said the one thing he could manage. “I’m sorry I looked through your things.”

  She flashed a small smile, absolving him. “I wish you hadn’t, because I was planning on telling you tonight. But it’s okay, and now you know. I was going to tell you as soon as I came back from feeding the cat.”

  In a flash, his guilt vanished because that sounded awfully convenient. He arched an eyebrow in a question and shoved all his hurt on her. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  She stepped back. “I only started seeing you again two weeks ago. It’s not really the sort of thing you say at a first meeting. ‘Sorry I haven’t seen you in ten years, but hey, thought you might like to know it turned out I was pregnant when you left.’”

  “That’s a start,” he said, even though those words felt all wrong, out of sync.

  “Brent, that’s not a start. That’s not how you tell someone something hard.”

  “Okay fine, since you’re such an expert. How about over dinner then at the Cromwell?”

  Her eyes bugged out. “We were just starting to get to know each other again. I had no idea what we were going to become.”

  “Then how about at one of our lunches?” he tossed back, simply throwing things at her, barely knowing where they would land, or how much they would hurt. All he knew was that everything inside him ached terribly, and now that he’d recovered the power of speech, he was using words as missiles lobbed at the nearest target—the woman he loved.

  “That hardly seemed to be the time or place either. But since you’re reviewing chapter and verse and naming all the times I saw you, you should know that I actually did plan to tell you on Saturday night when we went out to Alvin Ailey.”

  “Why didn’t you?” he asked, as if he’d caught her red-handed.

  “Seriously? You’re seriously asking me? You left town that night. You sprang it on me after the show that you were leaving town in an hour. That’s why,” she said, parking her hands on her hips.

  His eyes flared with anger. “Are we going to go over this again, Shannon?” He was sick and tired of having every mistake he’d ever made boomeranged back at him. “Can you ever fucking give me break?”

  She stared at him, jutting out her chin. “Excuse me. This isn’t about cutting you a break. I was just saying that when you’re getting on a plane would have been a really shitty time to tell you. Think about it. Is that honestly when you wish I’d have tapped you on the shoulder and said, ‘Hey, I know you’re off to New York for a really important business meeting, but I’ve been meaning to tell you I had your baby and lost your baby. Have a nice flight.’ Is it?”

  She had a point, but he could barely see it just then. He was filled with anger, brimming with self-loathing. He hardly knew what to do with all this horribleness, so he erected more walls. “This whole time you’ve been asking me to be honest with you. And I was. I was honest about everything,” he said, shaking a finger at her. “And you have never been able to honest with me. It’s like pulling teeth to get you to tell me anything.”

  “That is bullshit,” she said, her voice breaking with tears and anger. “And you know that. I am more open with you than anyone in my entire life. You just expect it from day one. And I’m so sorry I’m less than perfect at finding the best moment to tell you about the tragic fucking circumstances that have trailed behind me.”

  He tossed his hands in the air and huffed. “There you go again. It’s always about you. It’s always about the shit you’ve been through.”

  A fresh stream of tears rained down her cheeks. “This is what I meant the other night on the phone. That you’re going to resent me, and you already are.” She swiped her hand across her cheeks, wiping away the tears. They seemed to be falling faster now, relentlessly, streaking down her face. “I guess it’s nice not to have to deal with shit, isn’t it? But maybe if you could think about it, you’d realize it wasn’t so easy to tell you on our first date in college that my mother was in prison. That she sent me letters that ripped me to pieces. That prison made her go insane.

  “And I’m very sorry that I didn’t tell you at lunch last week that I had a child, and lost a child. And that I miss him terribly and I imagine what he was like, and if he would have been like you. If he’d have had the best parts of you, like your heart and your humor, and the way you love. I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you that right away. And I’m sorry that one of the reasons I wished he was alive is that I would have had a part of you then. I’m sorry I didn’t have the words to tell you all of that so eloquently at lunch, or in the photo booth, or the elevator, or at your club. And I’m sorry I’m doing a shitty job now. Most of all, I’m sorry that you’re finding it in you to belittle the fact that you’ve had a perfect life and mine has been problematic.” Every single word she said cut him to the bone. “But I guess now you know how it feels to lose something. It’s pretty awful, isn’t it?”

  He nodded and clamped his lips shut. He swallowed, and the lump in his throat was like a jagged rock. It cut him to pieces, and he had no clue what he’d say if he spoke again. Words had killed them last time. He’d said the wrong things ten years ago, and he was treading dangerously close to doing it again with the cruel ones he was firing off at her now. He couldn’t chance it happening a second time. He walked to the kitchen, picked up his bag, and headed to the door.

  She followed him, grabbing his arm and spinning him around. Devastation was written in her eyes. “Are you leaving me?”

  He took her hand, peeled it off him, then cupped her shoulders. He ached to swipe his thumb across her cheek, to tell her everything would be okay. But he couldn’t because he was feeling things he’d never felt before—like his skin had been sliced open. He had no training in how to stem the bleeding.

  �
��No. I’m not walking away,” he said, taking his time with each word. “But I’m pissed that you didn’t tell me, and I'm pissed that you went through something awful and I couldn’t be there for you. And I’m pissed at myself for not having the right words to say. I’m leaving, because I love you, and because I don’t want say another wrong thing. I need to go, Shannon. I really need to go and have some time to deal with this. You’ve had ten years to deal with it. I’ve known for ten minutes.”

  He opened the door, and left.

  * * *

  She collapsed, falling onto the floor, tears spilling into her lap. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to hurt more than she had before.

  But he’d punctured a hole in her heart, and that damn organ had already been bruised too many times.

  He might not call it walking away, but hell if she could tell the difference between now and the last time he’d done it.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  She scratched Nick between the ears and the tabby arched his back. Purring contentedly, Nick rubbed against her legs, a thank you for feeding him again that the morning.

  “You’re a sweetie,” she said as she crouched in Ally’s condo, stroking the happy guy. Her voice sounded empty to her ears, a hollow noise, mirroring her insides.

  Eight hours later, and no word from Brent.

  She was a big girl, she could handle eight hours; she could give him the time, she told herself. Even though it felt like an eternity. Her body was keenly aware of every passing minute, and each one wore her to the bone. Running a hand down the cat’s back, she wished her life were as easy as this—eat, purr, be happy.

  But the universe insisted on throwing hurdles and roadblocks at her. The universe kept moving the line. Jump higher. Run faster.

  Then it cackled at her and demanded she do it once more. It was so unfair, given what they’d shared in San Francisco. Making love with Brent again had been nothing short of cloud nine. It had been bliss and beauty, passion and pleasure. He had seduced her, body and soul, and she had craved every second of their intense connection. She longed for him. More than she’d ever expected to. More than she knew what to do with.

  That was what hurt so much. After ten years of barely getting over him, she’d let down her guard in a few short weeks. Little good that had done. Here she was with a raw, beating heart, and no one to tend to it.

  But herself.

  “Be a good boy. Ally will be home later today,” she told the cat, who answered her with one final silky rub of his head against her leg.

  She locked the door and texted her friend. Nick is fed, rested and ready for your return. Meow!

  She popped back into her home, grabbed her purse, dropped a big pair of shades over her eyes, and drove to the airport. At the gate, she met Colin for their quick day-in/day-out trip to Los Angeles. He was leaning against the window looking at his phone. An airline voice blared overhead. “Flight twenty-three from Las Vegas to Burbank will board in ten minutes.”

  Colin tucked his phone away when he saw her walking to him. “You look like hell,” he said.

  “Thanks. Good to see you too.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Didn’t sleep much,” she said, yawning.

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

  She shrugged a shoulder. “It was supposed to be a good thing, but it turned out to be a bad thing.”

  “Man trouble?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “Something like that.”

  “Be a nun. Easier that way.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “You be a monk. How about that?”

  He shook his head. “Hell no.” He tipped his forehead to a Starbucks across the concourse. “Let me get you a coffee. We can’t have you yawning like that in the meeting.”

  On the short flight to Los Angeles, she downed her coffee, the caffeine rejuvenating her, temporarily erasing the sleeplessness. She touched up her makeup as Colin walked her through his goals for the meeting with the reality show producers who wanted her to choreograph a one-night reunion, but her mind kept wandering to the sight of Brent walking away.

  He hadn’t called it that, but to her it was déjà vu.

  The door shutting.

  The two of them on opposite sides.

  “The meeting should be short and sweet, and I have some key thoughts on how to make this a good deal for you,” Colin said, in his businesslike tone. The sound of his voice returned her to the present moment. She forced herself to focus, since he was in her corner, going to bat for her. “The important thing to keep in mind is that you’re rising. When you worked on the show a few years ago, you were merely an associate choreographer on staff. Now you’re a star, and you create your own productions. Those network guys know that, but it’ll be natural for them to revert back to thinking of you as an employee. My goal is to make sure they don’t treat you as anything but the star that you are,” he said, and even though she was still hurting, his praise made her feel a little better. “That’s why I’m going with you. Because you are Shay Fucking Sloan,” he said, punctuating his pep talk by pointing his finger at her. “And if they want you for a one-night reunion, I’m going to make sure they treat you like a queen.”

  She wrapped her arms around him. “You’re the best. Thank you for always looking out for my interests.”

  He waved a hand as they pulled apart. “You make it easy.”

  When they landed in Los Angeles, her phone was silent. No messages. No texts. No calls.

  Her heart sank. Brent had been radio silent all through the night and early morning.

  But she’d survive, she reminded herself, as they deplaned on the tarmac, the sun shining brightly. No matter what became of the two of them, she would survive. She always did; she always had. She knew how to keep on living, keep on moving, and keep on fighting.

  She had her brothers. She had the three men who had never abandoned her. The three men who would always be by her side. She would stand by them, too, through anything.

  The four of them had an unbreakable bond. They were her people.

  * * *

  October.

  The pictures he’d seen were from October. She’d been four months pregnant then. If the pregnancy had continued, she’d have carried to March.

  He’d have a nine-year-old son.

  As his real estate attorney talked about neighborhoods in Chicago that were ripe for nightclubs, Brent ran his palm across his chin, trying to process the passage of time.

  What grade was a nine-year-old in? Third? Fourth? Hell if he knew. The only kid he’d spent any time with lately was Carly and she was one. He knew nothing about children. Would his nine-year-old have been a sporty kid? Wanting to play catch or baseball or whatever kids wanted to play these days? Or would he have liked video games and Xbox? Would he have been a mama’s boy or just like his dad?

  He twirled his pen between his thumb and forefinger, a long-time habit. He stared at his hand in motion as if it were a new addition to his body. Was this part of his DNA? Was something as mundane as pen twirling at a conference table a genetic trait he’d have passed on to a kid?

  Brent lifted the pen to his face and studied it. Was his son right-handed or left-handed? Would he have been a good speller, or a whiz at math? Would he have liked being read to at night? Kissed on the forehead before he fell asleep?

  “So there you go. We should be able to secure the property in Chicago, and I hope that we can get this one you had your sights set on in Atlanta. Ten-four, gentleman?”

  Tate raised his eyebrows and glanced around the conference table, waiting for an okay from Brent and James.

  But Brent was seeing his boy before his eyes, watching Shannon tuck him in at night, planting a kiss on his forehead.

  “Where’s Daddy?” his kid said. “I want Daddy to say goodnight to me, too.”

  Brent closed his eyes briefly. The scene was too much to hold onto. Too much to let go of. Because he couldn’t e
ven put himself in the scene. He was seeing Shannon and his phantom son, but he wasn’t there. He wasn’t saying goodnight to the boy he didn’t have. He hadn’t been there to help his son’s mother.

  Guilt clawed at him. His chest ached as if it had been carved up and hollowed out. He was left with a strange new feeling—missing.

  He missed someone he never knew. This kind of missing was hard like a fist, its knuckles pushing up against skin and bones. He missed a person he’d never met, and would never know. A person who was a part of him, and a part of the woman he loved madly.

  Tate and James were asking him questions, but they might as well be speaking Swahili. Hell, everyone was speaking in foreign tongues today. Sanskrit and Latin and Greek rained down on him. He had no clue what anyone was saying, and he had no notion of how to speak. It was as if his voice had been snatched away. His voice—his goddamn instrument, the tool he’d relied on when on stage, and now in business—was gone, turned into the ash that was coating his throat.

  “Sounds great,” he somehow managed to say, finding those words deep within some primordial part of him that remembered how to communicate.

  After the attorneys left, Brent stood too, but James sat him back down. Concern was etched in his eyes. “Never seen you like this.” James gestured heavenward. “It’s not even like you weren’t here. It’s like you were on another planet.”

  Brent rubbed his hand over his jaw, the day-old stubble reminding him that he hadn’t even bothered to shave this morning. He glanced down at his outfit, making sure he’d remembered to put on clothes. The jeans and button-down he wore were the only reassurance that he hadn’t gone completely insane. He’d remembered to dress.

  “Sorry,” he said, because that was the only thing he could say.

  James patted him on the shoulder. “Hey, no worries. I’m here for you. This is your ship, and you run this baby,” James said, and Brent cringed at that word—baby. “You sure you’re okay? Why don’t you take the day off?”