by Rose, Amali
Getting no response, I drag my ass to our tiny kitchen and take a drink of juice right from the carton before heading to our bedroom, ready to curl up next to my wife and get some sleep.
Doing my best to be quiet so I don’t wake her, I pull up short when I spot the empty bed. Assuming she’s gone out for a run, something her new therapist recommended she take up, I strip down to my boxers and slide under the covers. Stretching out to take advantage of having the bed to myself, my hand hits something hard shoved under Wyatt’s pillow.
Pulling it out, I stare hard at the blue notebook. She’s been scribbling away in this for months. Another technique her therapist suggested to help her cope, and one she’s taken to much more easily than the running.
Sitting up, I balance the book on my knees and try to talk myself out of reading it. We’ve been so disconnected this past year, both of us lost in our own grief. I would do literally any-fucking-thing to make her better and to possibly have the answers right in my hands? There’s no way I can resist that temptation.
Before I can change my mind, I open the book, my eyes quickly skimming the entries. Wyatt’s normally perfect handwriting is messy and haphazard, making it difficult to read, but words jump out at me. Words that have me rubbing my chest, trying to ease the ache.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
You would think the sound of her voice—her obviously angry voice—would stop me, but my eyes continue to devour her pain and numbness begins to seep into the very fiber of my being.
I feel the bed dip beneath me but, still, I keep reading, until the book is viciously snatched away. Looking up, I take in her red face. Tiny drops of perspiration bead her hairline and her mouth is turned down in an aggressive frown.
Suddenly, the memory of the first time I ever saw her rushes at me. She was all big smiles and innocent happiness. She radiated unadulterated joy and, after surviving my parents’ messy divorce and a cross-continent move, she was everything I wasn’t. I have no idea what she ever saw in me, but I needed her from that very first minute. She was as necessary to me as oxygen, vital for my survival.
But this girl kneeling on the bed before me now with tears glistening? She’s a broken version of my Cherry.
And I did that.
“You should have told me.” I don’t recognize my own voice.
“Told you what?” She shifts back and swings her legs, moving away from me. Always moving away from me.
“The truth.”
She laughs, a small, ironic laugh that hurts more than any physical blow ever has.
“You want the truth, Flynn?” Her entire body stills by the bedroom door, her back to me. “Our baby is dead and it’s because of you. Every time I look at you, I hate you a little more.” Then she walks away.
She slumps back in her seat, her shoulders sag and she looks exhausted.
“I’m sorry. What I said to you that day was—” She shakes her head, worrying her bottom lip. “It was cruel. So cruel.”
“It was true.” This isn’t a conversation I want to have right now. “Anyway—”
“It’s not true, Flynn. It’s not.” She leans forward, her face animated. “Please tell me you haven’t believed that all these years?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes, it does. God,” she whispers. “I’m so sorry.”
I clear my throat, not knowing what to say. Which, I’m pretty sure is a first for me.
“Flynn.” There’s an urgency in her voice that draws my eyes back to her. “I never really hated you, or blamed you, or-or, I don’t know! I was just so fucking angry, and it hurt so much, but if I focused on hating you then I didn’t have to think about how much I wished I had died that night too.” Her voice breaks off with a choked cry. “I wanted her so much, Flynn, and hating you hurt less than missing her. But I’m so sorry I pushed you away, because losing you?” Tears slide down her cheeks and she wipes them away, frustratedly. “Losing you as well, that broke me.”
Wyatt
His eyes don’t leave mine, the deep brown gaze as intense as ever.
“I thought leaving would let you move on.” His face is tormented as though the thought of hurting me is causing him physical pain. “That if you didn’t have to face the person responsible for what happened, you could stop reliving it.”
I watch him closely, seeing the storm of emotion pulsing within him and, not for the first time, I consider how the last ten years have been for him.
Only this time, I don’t presume to know the answer.
“What about you?” My voice is barely audible. “How did you get past it?”
“Music,” he replies simply. “Music saved me when I had no interest in being saved.”
A small smile plays across my lips. I remember distinctly how he would deal with any turmoil in his life. Locking himself away in a room with just his guitar, a pencil, and paper, playing and writing until he had worked through whatever issue was bothering him.
For the first time, I am envious of that passion.
I wish that I had been able to save him.
“I’m glad.” I reach for my drink and run my fingertip around the rim. “I’m glad you got your dream, Irish. You deserve it.”
There’s a long pause and then he sighs. A bone-weary sigh from deep within his chest before he slumps back in his chair.
“I didn’t get my dream, Wyatt. You were my dream.”
“No, you’re lying!”
“I swear to God.”
“Ugh, I would have died!” I laugh.
The last few hours have flown by. Our earlier conversation was interrupted by the arrival of our food. Conveniently for Flynn, it was right after his declaration. He then promptly used the distraction as an opportunity to change the subject.
He always thought he was so stealthy, with some kind of ninja-like distraction skills. I want to roll my eyes just thinking about it. He never realized it only ever worked when I also wanted to change the subject.
I’m in dangerous territory here and I need to put a stop to this before it goes any further. Being with me will only ever cause Flynn unhappiness and, if there is one thing his reappearance in my life has reinforced, it’s that I love him too much to be the cause of any more of his pain.
I also know him well enough to know that he is going to be hard enough to put off as it is. If he gets even a whiff of hesitance from me, he’ll never give up.
“Yeah, well, I was more ready to kill than die, but whate—” The sound of his cell phone interrupts him and he grimaces when he checks the caller ID, before pressing ignore.
“Hey, Cherry?”
“Mmmm?”
“I think it’s time we call it a night and you invite me back to your place for coffee.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Coffee, huh?” The sight of his smirk, and more importantly how my core is clenching in response to it, sends me into a panic.
“Flynn.” I sigh.
“Wyatt,” he challenges.
“It’s—” His phone jolts to life again, but he silences it without even a glance. “It’s a bad idea.”
“I think it’s a fucking brilliant idea.”
My face heats at his words and all I can do is hope that the dimmed lighting hides the effect. Before I can come up with an appropriate off-hand response, we are interrupted by the same girl from the reception desk.
“Excuse me, sir? I’m sorry to interrupt your meal, but you have an urgent phone call.” She hands Flynn a portable handset, offers a discreet smile and exits as quietly as she entered.
Flynn glowers at the phone before he brings it to his ear and barks out, “What.”
He listens for a moment, his forehead creasing and I’m struck by memories of stroking a hand over him, smoothing it across his brow, in an effort to remove those same creases. How many times did I do that over the years?
“Shit. Okay, yeah, send them in.” The phone is slammed down on the table and he exhales a harsh breath. “A blogger posted t
hat I was here and now there’s a shitload of photographers out front.”
He scowls at the table, lost in his own thoughts while I try to process this information. I don’t know why this is a surprise. Once I had reached a place where his name inspired more happiness than regret, I vigilantly stalked him through social media, magazines, and television, anything I could, in a desperate attempt to stay connected to him in some small way. I cheered his successes and hurt over his—very rare—failures. So, it shouldn’t come as any surprise that if I spend time with him, the paparazzi would find out. But for some reason it does. I feel rattled, and a sense of unease blankets me.
The double doors at the entrance of the restaurant are flung open and two hulking giants barrel their way in. After indulging in the tranquil atmosphere of Serenity by Havenworth today, with its unassuming staff, the dominating presence of these guys is disconcerting.
“Wyatt, this is Zane and Connor, my security guys.” He pushes away from the table, standing abruptly and addressing the larger of the two. “I’ll go out the front with Connor, you take Wyatt out the back. You arranged another car?”
The big guy, Zane? nods. “Campbell organized it before he called you. Both cars should be waiting. I really think I should take yo—”
“You’ll take Wyatt,” he commands. “Do they know who I’m here with?”
Connor, I guess, moves closer to the table.
“No, Giselle only posted that you were spotted here having dinner. No mention of Miss Monroe.”
“Giselle? I should’ve known.”
My head, which has been bouncing between these three imposing men, stops on Flynn.
“Who is Giselle?” My question stings with accusation. Yeah, so Flynn wasn’t the only one with jealousy issues, sue me.
For the first time since he took the call, Flynn’s visage relaxes, and he lets loose with a low chuckle.
“Giselle Cross, she’s an entertainment blogger. Think Perez Hilton, but bitchier.”
“Oh. She sounds delightful,” I respond drolly.
“Yeah, she’s a fucking treasure.” He takes hold of my hand and pulls me up, using slightly too much force so I fall into him, and have to place a hand on his chest to steady myself. The feel of his body pressed up against mine fires up every synapse, leaving me wanting.
Oh, he’s good.
Never one to ignore an opportunity, he leans down, and his lips find mine. Slowly, so goddamn slowly, his mouth slides against mine before he takes a taste, his tongue gently tracing the line of my bottom lip. Then, without warning, he bites down and as his teeth sink into the fullness of my lip, a pulse throbs violently in my clit.
Pulling away, he places a final, gentle kiss on the spot behind my ear where my tattoo resides. The same spot that makes my eyes roll back in my head.
He nods toward Zane and my face flames, realizing what they just witnessed.
“You go with Zane and he’ll take you back to your apartment. Connor and I will lose the photogs and then I’ll come to you.”
His words snap me back to reality and, as much as I wish things were different, it’s important I make it clear that this is not going to go any further.
Ever.
“Don’t do that.” I make sure my voice is firm in an effort to undo any confusion that kiss caused. “Tonight was fun, but it’s not going to happen again.”
I hear the shuffle of feet behind me, an embarrassed clearing of a throat, but Flynn ignores it, keeping his stare fixed on me for an uncomfortable moment.
“Let’s go, Connor. Zane, make sure no one follows you.” Then he strides out without looking back.
I follow Zane through the kitchen, heading for the back entrance, eager to get home and put this night behind me. My emotions are too chaotic, and I need to get some distance.
The kitchen is almost empty at this late hour. Plus, I assume with only two diners they were using a skeleton staff, so there is an awkward silence lingering as I do my best to keep up with Zane’s fast pace.
“So, how long have you been working for Flynn?” My question is graceless with no subtlety, but after I walk through my door tonight this will all be over, so I make no apologies for trying to scam as much information as I can before then.
“Four years.”
His voice is sharp and does not encourage discussion so, with a small sigh, I take the hint and focus on following him through the darkened corridor. When we finally reach the emergency exit, I take a deep breath before the door is pushed open and cross my fingers no paparazzi have made their way back here.
We step outside and I exhale gratefully when all I see is a black SUV idling by the curb, ready and waiting to get us out of here.
“This way, Miss Monroe.” Zane places a hand on my back and guides me in the direction of the car. Just as he is about to open the door, a voice calls out to us, surprising me and sending Zane’s hand diving for his belt.
“Oh, relax, Zane. It’s just me.”
I look up to see a gorgeous blonde with the most startling blue eyes. She’s tall and willowy, beautiful in a quirky way, and she looks exceedingly out of place in this dingy alleyway. Her eyes are narrowed, shrewdly appraising me and I have the uncomfortable feeling that she finds me lacking.
Zane opens the door, encouraging me into the car, but I can’t seem to pull myself away from Giselle’s scrutiny.
“You must be Wyatt Monroe.”
I try to answer, but my voice catches in my throat.
“Interesting. Not what I expected.” She tilts her head to the side, eyes wide and then flashes me a beautiful smile that transforms her entire face into something extraordinary. “Tell Flynn, he really needs to talk to his manager. I’ve made him an offer it’s in his best interest to accept.”
Before I can respond, Zane steps in front of me and gently pushes me into the car. We’re in motion before I can react and, as we head in the direction of my apartment, all I’m left with are Giselle’s words hanging over my head.
Flynn
I flop down onto the seat of the town car, the smile that has been fixed to my face for the last twenty minutes while I dealt with the press, disappears as soon as the door closes behind me.
“Guys.” I nod at Campbell and his husband, Simon. “Thanks for the ride.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Campbell assures me.
I slump into the seat, beyond pissed about this interruption to my night.
Once Connor has taken his seat in the front, I tap my driver on the shoulder. “Chris, I need to go to Wyatt’s.”
He was the one who picked me up in the early hours a few weeks ago, so I know he has her address programmed in the navigation.
“No problem. It should only take twenty minutes.”
“Thanks, man.” I fall back against the leather, scrubbing a hand over my jaw.
It takes me a moment to notice the strange silence in the car. You normally can’t shut these guys up, but when I glance at them, they are sitting tersely, side by side and the air is thick with tension.
“You guys good? Did I interrupt something?”
“No, we’re fine,” Campbell rushes to answer.
Simon turns and glares at him. “You need to tell him.”
That statement grabs my attention and I sit up a little straighter.
“Tell me what?” I look between the both of them, noticing how nervous Cam suddenly looks. “Tell me what, Campbell.”
He removes his thick, black-framed glasses and rubs a knuckle across his brow.
“We have a little situation with Giselle Cross, but it’s nothing to worry about, Flynn.” He offers a small smile. “I’m taking care of it.”
Simon shakes his head and turns to scowl out the window.
“Gotta say, I’m pretty fucking worried.” Giselle is a nasty piece of trash. I made a mistake with her years ago and she’s been determined to ruin my reputation ever since, portraying me as some kind of pussy-obsessed douche with anger management problems. She takes a ti
ny seed of truth and blows it up into the scandal of the decade over and over.
Anger creates a violent throb in my temple when a thought occurs to me.
“Does this involve Wyatt?”
Campbell slides his glasses back on and looks at me apologetically.
“She knows about the marriage. She’s threatening to go public with it.”
“Unless?” There’s always an unless with people like her.
“Unless you agree to give her exclusive behind-the-scenes access on the upcoming tour.”
“No fucking way.” I shake my head angrily. “She thinks I’m going to let her tour with us? She’s out of her fucking mind.”
“Wait a minute, Flynn, think about it.” He holds up a hand to stop my rant. “Think about Wyatt. Will she want her business splashed across every gossip magazine? We agree to this, and Giselle promises she can keep her sources quiet and she won’t run with the story. Ever.”
“So she says.” I scoff. “You can’t trust that bitch.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But we can get a contract and threaten her with legal action if she ever breaks it.” He sighs and looks at me resignedly. “Right now, we need to start damage control. I’ll start divorce proceedings on Monday. An ex-wife is nowhere near as big a story as a secret wife. Considering you’ve been separated for so long, it should be pretty straightforward and I’m confident we can keep it quiet with some well-placed money.”
That violent throb of anger I felt earlier multiplies in size as the words leave his mouth.
“I’m only going to say this once, so you need to listen very carefully,” I seethe, my voice low and deadly. “I am not divorcing Wyatt. That is never going to happen.”
Campbell blows out a breath of pure frustration.
“Fine, then I hope she’s ready to have her life put on show for everyone to judge.”
“You know what, Cam? Don’t worry about my girl. She might not like it, but she can handle it. She can handle any shit they throw at her.”