Love Resurrected (Love in San Soloman Book 5)

by Denise Wells

  “They can still hear him.”

  I look over and see Brad is mumbling to himself. I grab at his mic and yank it off him.

  “Ow! What the fuck?” he yells.

  “Stop talking!” I say. “Everyone can hear you. The mic is live.”

  To his credit, he quiets immediately. I hang my head, not sure how to get out of this. A runner approaches with a different mic and quickly switches Brad’s out, and the emcee gets his a moment later. The auction begins soon after, right on time. And I didn’t even have to be there. Nice to know I planned things and prepared people appropriately.

  “I didn’t know,” Brad says.

  “It’s fine. What’s done is burnt.”

  “It’s done is done.”

  “What is?”

  “The saying is, ‘what’s done is done.’”

  “Not from where I’m standing, Number Nine. You just torched that shit.”

  He grimaces.

  “Come on,” I say. “You need to be backstage.”

  He follows me back through the building until we reach backstage, where everyone has either forgotten or put aside Brad’s snafu, and all are a flutter with activity. One of the runners rushes up, “Number Two just got fifteen hundred dollars! That will be hard to beat!”

  Their enthusiasm is contagious. I smile and dance along to the beat from the sidelines, laughing at the emcee’s jokes. Numbers Three, Four, and Five go quickly and each for as much as Number Two if not more. But it’s Number Eight who really gets things going. A detective from the homicide division, he has a big personality and a great stage presence. His final bid is two thousand five hundred. A stunned hush falls over the crowd. Not a good time for Brad to make his appearance.

  In comparison, Brad is dull and lifeless. Even if the audience hadn’t heard him call them pathetic, idiotic assholes, I doubt he would have shined on stage. The emcee finishes his introductions and starts the bidding.

  “Bidding starts at one hundred dollars. Can I get one hundred dollars for this veteran firefighter? Come on ladies, who wants to play with his hose?”

  Brad scowls in the emcee's direction. Not a single person bids.

  “How about fifty dollars? Can I get fifty?

  Nothing.

  “Twenty-five? Look at this guy, ladies. He’s sure to please with these muscles, don’t you think?”

  I panic. This could ruin the entire auction.

  Think, Tenley. Think.

  I quickly scribble a number on a scrap piece of paper and send it with a runner over the emcee.

  “Well, what do we have here, ladies? If I’m not mistaken, it’s a bid on Number Nine. And, wow.” He clears his throat. “Get ready for this one. We’ve got an anonymous bid of five thousand dollars for Bachelor Number Nine. Going once . . . going twice . . . and sold to the anonymous, and crazy generous bidder.”

  I let out a deep breath as everyone goes a little crazy.

  Brad stalks off the stage in my direction. I look away, convinced he knows it was me who bid on him.

  “How do I find out who bid on me?” he demands.

  “What? Why?”

  Should I tell him? I don’t want to tell him. He’ll think I like him or something. That’s the last thing I need.

  “Because it was a stupid waste of money. Which they clearly have more of than brains. I don’t want that kind of responsibility.”

  He’s right. I do have a lot of money. But definitely not more than I have brains.

  I place my hand on his upper arm to calm him. “I think you’re missing the point. It’s to raise money for others. There’s no responsibility for you.”

  “There’s a dance, right? And a date or something?” he asks of the traditional activities. After the auction, the bidder gets a dance with their bachelor and then the next day they get their date.

  “Well, your bidder was anonymous, so you don’t have to do any of those things.”

  “I have to do the dance. Everyone will be watching. I already look like an asshole since someone turned my mic on.” He looks at me with a clear dislike shining from his eyes.

  “Trust me, that had nothing to do with the mic,” I lash out.

  His eyes narrow even further, and I glare back.

  He glances around the room, running a hand through his hair, and lets out a long sigh. I feel sorry for him. A bit.

  “I’ll dance with you,” I say before I can stop myself.

  “Huh?”

  “I’ll dance with you. Your bidder was anonymous, so no one knows who it is anyway. We just have to be civil for the three to four minutes the song takes, and then we’re done. That work for you?”

  “Sure, thanks,” he says, his voice flat.

  6

  Brad

  The emcee announces the bachelors and winning bidders, inviting them to the dance floor for the first dance before the after party begins. I follow Tenley to the dance floor when we’re announced and try to ignore the dirty looks I get from everyone we pass. Those that I can’t ignore, I return.

  Fuck these people for being so simple.

  Fuck Remi for making me do this.

  Fuck Tenley for leaving my mic on.

  Fuck Kat for dying.

  That’s the root of it. I’m still extraordinarily pissed at her for dying. But I can’t be mad at her, she’s gone. Everyone else gets to experience it instead.

  I pull Tenley into my arms, a little harder than I intend to, and her body goes flush against mine. She’s only a few inches shorter than I am, but her legs are long, so our hips are closely aligned. Blood rushes to my dick. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a woman in my arms. Since before Kat died and her last three weeks were just her declining, rapidly. I wasn’t able to touch her much at all.

  The song is melodic with a haunting chorus. I don’t know it, even though it sounds familiar. But the singer laments no one said it would be easy, but also not this hard, and how she wants to go back to the start. It resonates with me; I love it and hate it at once. Kat had this playlist she would put on when she was feeling down, and most of the songs would make her cry. Somehow, that whole experience would make her feel better, but I was never sure how. This song sounds like one that would have been on that list.

  Tenley clears her throat and looks around for a moment before looking up at me. She smells good. Like coconut and vanilla.

  “I should be honest with you,” she starts.

  I look down, brow furrowed, and wait for her to continue.

  “I was the one who bid on you.”

  “Why the fuck would you do that?” I ask.

  “I didn’t want your lack of bids to ruin the auction.”

  “Well, I hope you don’t expect me to pay you back.”

  “Did I ask you to?”

  “No, but five G’s is a lot of money. Are you really going to pay it?”

  “Of course I’ll pay it.”

  “You’ve got that much money lying around to waste on me?”

  “I’m not wasting it. And it’s not on you. It’s for the Families of the Fallen Fund. Which, to me, is money well spent.”

  I keep forgetting this whole event is for a good cause, one that’s important to me.

  She keeps talking. “I appreciate that you did this. I know you didn’t want to. But we’ve raised a lot of money tonight, and that’s really important.”

  “Happy to do it,” I say.

  She laughs. “You couldn’t sound less convincing if you tried. You were not even remotely happy to do it. But that’s okay. I get it.”

  I laugh bitterly. “You’re right. I’m just . . . fuck, I don’t know. I’m not in a good head space right now.”

  That’s the biggest understatement ever.

  “There’s no timeline on grief, you know,” she says.

  “Excuse me?” Tell me she’s not bringing up what I think she is. I mean, yeah, it’s common knowledge that Kat passed. But it’s not something we talk about. Outside of my basic core group, that is.
<
br />   “Your wife died, right?” Tenley asks.

  “We never married.”

  “Oh. Well. I’m sorry for your loss,” she stammers.

  “For all intents and purposes, she was my wife. Fuck, she was my entire life. We just, for some stupid reason, we never made it official. We were engaged. We felt married. It just didn’t happen. Because I’m an asshole.”

  She nods her head as though she understands my pain. “My mom left us when I was young.”

  She doesn’t get my pain at all. “My mom died,” I respond, feeling that death versus leaving gives me the upper hand in some weird, cryptic way.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. When?” Tenley asks.

  “I was young, like, ten years old,” I tell her. “Breast cancer.”

  “Oh, god. The same . . .” Her voice trails off and she puts the pieces together. Both the love of my life and my mother died from the same vicious disease.

  “Yeah, well.” I let our thoughts settle there, unfinished.

  We dance in silence. It’s uncomfortable, Kat and my mom just hanging there between us. I take a breath and force myself to politely ask, “How . . . er, uh, what happened with your mom?”

  “Came home from school one day and she was gone. She left a note for my dad, but nothing for me. I haven’t heard from her in over twenty-three years. My father gifted me with three different stepmothers before I was even out of high school though. And another two since. All have been equally vapid and disappointing gold diggers. He’s super good with commitment.” The sarcasm and frustration are clear in her voice.

  I stay silent.

  I’m such a dick.

  I can do better than this.

  I promised Remi I would try. For Kat, if for no other reason.

  I lean my head down to whisper that I’m sorry about her mom, that I know how hard it is as a kid to lose a parent. My lips end up in her hair, and her hair smells great. For just a moment, I let myself enjoy the feel of a woman in my arms—her scent surrounding us, her hair against my face, my lips brushing against her ear.

  Then I snap out of it.

  And instead of whispering my sympathies, I end up asking, “We about done here?”

  “Is the song over?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Then no, we aren’t about done. Just shut up and try to have a good time.”

  “I don’t have good times,” I say.

  “Well then, it sucks to be you, doesn’t it?”

  “You always this pleasant?”

  “Are you?” She looks up at me, her eyes wide and tone challenging.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I just, I really don’t want to be here.”

  “Then why are you?”

  “Remi made me.”

  “I doubt that’s true. I have a feeling no one makes you do anything you don’t want to.”

  “Fine. I’m trying to make an effort.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I promised Kat I would before she died.”

  “An effort for what?”

  “To keep on living and not let her death rule my life.”

  “Okay,” she says. “No offense, but—”

  “Every time someone says no offense, they’re about to be offensive,” I say.

  “I would say that you aren’t doing that. You aren’t living.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “Not really.”

  I glance down at myself and take my hand off her to gesture to my body. “Looks like I’m here to me.”

  “You know what I mean,” she says.

  She’s right, I do. Doesn’t mean I have to admit it to her.

  “You may be here physically, but emotionally and mentally, you’ve fought it since the second you arrived.”

  I grunt in response. I know she’s right. She’s knows she’s right. And further, I’m sure she knows that I know she’s right.

  “If you wanted to keep your promise to your . . . to Kat, you would attempt to take part fully. Not just take up physical space.”

  Who the fuck put her in charge of me and my actions?

  I repeat my internal accusations out loud. “Who the fuck put you in charge of what I do?”

  “No one, I’m just calling it like I see it. And I see you pretend that you are living by going through the motions in a half-assed manner, like you are tonight, and then justifying that you’re upholding your promise.”

  “Fuck you, lady. You don’t know a goddamn thing about me. What the hell gives you the right—”

  “Nothing. Okay. Nothing gives me the right and I’m sorry. That was out of line.” She stops and looks at me. “I have a horrible habit of speaking before thinking.”

  She sounds genuinely sorry, and I feel my anger dissipate.

  Fine. I get it.

  Audibly, I sigh and try to move her into resuming our dance. She doesn’t budge.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “Aren’t we supposed to be dancing?”

  She points to the ceiling. “Song’s over. You fulfilled your commitment, congratulations.” Her voice is flat.

  I hadn’t even realized the song was over, replaced by something up-tempo, not suitable for my mood or my flip-flop clad feet.

  “Great, thanks,” I mumble, relieved to be through, and leave her standing alone on the dance floor.

  I’ve almost reached the exit when someone pulls at my hand.

  Remi.

  “Where’re you going?”

  “Home. I’ve fulfilled my duty. I was put up for auction, purchased, did my dance, now I’m through.”

  “Have a drink with me,” she says.

  “I don’t want to.”

  She looks at me.

  I look at her.

  “Do it anyway,” she says.

  Dammit.

  I join her at the bar.

  She wastes no time after we get our drinks. “Tenley bid on you, right?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “No one else has that kind of money to waste on something like this, and definitely not on you after your little tirade into the mic before the whole thing started.”

  “Yeah, well.” I wave my hand dismissively in the space between us.

  “You need to go on the date with her.”

  “No way. Absolutely not.”

  “Think about it, B. It’s perfect. You don’t really have anything to lose. She has to say yes since it’s part of the auction, right. It’s low-key, no expectations, the perfect way to get your feet back in the water, so to speak.”

  “I don’t even like the woman,” I say, sucking down half my beer. “And she doesn’t care for me either.”

  “Even better,” Remi says. “Then it’s just practice. No matter what you do to fuck it up, it won’t matter. She already doesn’t like you. This is a win-win, Brad. And it just helps you prep for a real date.”

  I think about it. She has a point. Because it’s Tenley, there’s no pressure. I want nothing from it. She’s not going to want anything from it. And as a bonus, if I ask Tenley on a date, it counters her whole point of me being half-assed about living my life. And it gets Remi off my ass for a while.

  “Fine. What do I have to do?” I ask Remi.

  “Ask her to dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t act so excited about it.”

  “I’m not that excited about it.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that you might have a good time?”

  “No.”

  “Brad, look, you know I love you. You know that Kat was like the other half of my soul. Why would I want someone else for you she wouldn’t have wholeheartedly approved of?”

  I don’t have an answer to that. In my defense, I don’t think an answer to that even exists. I look down at my one beer, versus her multiple empty shot glasses, and change the subject.

  “How do you hold your alcohol so well?”

  “Practice,” she says flippantly.

  “Don’t let her fool you.” Ch
ance comes up behind us and runs his hands down her arms, then wraps them around her from behind. “She just doesn’t slur. Like a freak of nature.”

  Remi looks up at him and smiles. Both mirth and love shine equally from her face.

  “I’m going to get you home and—” Chance starts.

  I clear my throat loudly, so I don’t have to hear what he says next. Because I miss that. And I want it back. The love and acceptance, desire and compatibility, promise and longing. In equal measure, I never want it again, so I can ensure avoiding the pain of another such loss.

  “And with that, I'll let my man take me home,” Remi says. She leans in and kisses me on the cheek. “You good?”

  I nod.

  “Let me know how it goes with you-know-who.”

  I nod again, knowing she’s referring to Tenley. She and Chance leave and I decide to head out too. Right after I find Tenley and make plans to meet her for dinner. I’ll appear as though I’m trying to move on, I won’t really have to, and everything will be fine.

  7

  Tenley

  The event has gone better than I could have ever hoped for. We raised a ton of money, even if I don’t count the money I threw in for Brad. And everyone involved seems to be having a great time. I make my way to the front exit, so I can step outside to grab some fresh air and quiet for a moment.

  The night is warm, and the slight breeze feels good after the cool of the air-conditioning in the building. I raise my arms over my head and join my hands together, bending my body from side to side, stretching my tired muscles.

  “Happy freakin’ birthday to me,” I say aloud. It wasn’t the ideal way to spend it, but it wasn’t all bad either. And, as I keep telling myself, it’s for a good cause.

  “It’s your birthday?” I hear a deep voice, startling me. I turn to see Brad Mathews looking at me curiously. His head is cocked to the side and his eyes are squinted ever so slightly.

  “Yes, it is,” I reply.

  “Well, happy birthday.”

  “Thank you.”

  He smiles and I smile back, then we stand there in uncomfortable silence.

  “Well, I’d better—” I say, at the same time he says, “Wanna have dinner?”