by Rachel Cross
“You okay, Amy?”
“Yeah,” she said, still looking out of it as she sat heavily in the chair beside him.
“Shane?” Langley said.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, standing.
Clay closed the door and Shane pitched himself into the leather chair closest to the door. Clay went to stand behind the desk.
“What's so urgent?” he drawled.
Clay rubbed his face. “Three days ago I got a letter from an attorney representing Kayla Clark. Does that name ring a bell?”
“Nope.” Shane glanced at the door. Was Amy all right? She'd looked stunned. “Hey. What did you tell her anyway?”
“Who, Kayla?”
“No, Amy.”
“Attorney-client privilege.”
“C'mon man, I'm the one paying you.”
“It doesn't work that way. I'm glad you sent her to me though. She'll tell you what's going on.” He waved an impatient hand. “But your problem is a little more pressing.”
Now the man had Shane's full attention. He liked this guy because he was so laid back—for a lawyer—but his voice was tense.
“What problem?”
“This woman, Kayla.” The older man took a deep breath and looked away from Shane. “She's saying you impregnated her.”
He bolted upright. “What?”
“Kayla Clark? Is she someone you've dated?”
Oh shit. Was this the girl he'd busted the condom on? Fuck. His stomach did a series of somersaults and landed in a pit that made him aware his breakfast may not stay down.
“Don't know her.”
Clay stared Shane down. “So there's no possibility?”
He shifted in his seat. “I always wrap it, man. Always.”
“Then there's no way this is a credible accusation.”
“Well. . .”
His attorney peered over his glasses. “Well, what?”
“There was one girl, the . . . the condom broke,” he said in hushed tones, running a shaking hand through his hair.
“The condom broke? Was her name Kayla?”
He rubbed his face. “I don't know. We didn't . . . get that far.”
“Oh, Shane,” the other man said sadly. “So this could be true? How long ago was this?”
“Early May?”
The man nodded. “This girl is about fourteen weeks along, give or take a few, her attorney says.”
Shane picked at the seam on his jeans with trembling fingers. “So now what?”
“Now we request a paternity test. It used to be you had to wait for an amnio, but they can do a blood test on her—much less invasive—starting at about this time. And see if the DNA matches yours. You need to get to a lab for a blood draw.”
His back pressed into the chair, putting as much distance between himself and his attorney as possible. “Seriously, man, it’s probably not even mine. She took me home with her, but for all I know she could take half a dozen guys a week home.”
“Well, let's hope so, but at any rate, we need to get our ducks in a row,” Clay said matter-of-factly. “She'll want money, of course.”
“Of course,” he said bitterly.
“For the duration of the pregnancy.”
“Aren't we getting a little ahead of ourselves? We're not giving her a dime unless we're sure it's mine. I'm damned sure it isn't,” he insisted.
Clay's sigh was weary. “Sometimes it's best to err on the side of caution—in situations like these, when it's possible it's your child, you don't want to look like the asshole who didn't support her during her pregnancy. You look unsympathetic to a judge and it doesn’t play well in the press.”
“No. No fuckin' way. I will deal with all that once we know for sure it's mine.” He forced the words out through a throat thick with fear. “If I pay her, it will look like I'm responsible.” And what would Amy think? Best to assume some other guy knocked her up. “I'm serious. This thing is nailed down, I'll pay what I owe. But not until then.”
“Shane, she's hired an attorney. She's got to be pretty sure—”
“I won't pay her anything until its certain.”
“I'll get in touch with her attorney, she may have already had the test. You need to go to the lab this week. It'll be court ordered otherwise.”
Shane stood. “That it?”
“Yeah. I'm sorry to be the bearer of bad news. She's a nice woman.”
“What?” A nice woman?
“Amy,” Clay said.
“Oh. Yeah, she sure is. Thanks.”
He made an attempt to mask his horror from Amy when he returned to the waiting room, but she looked at him curiously nonetheless.
“You okay, Shane? You look . . . pale.”
“Everything's fine. Now tell me what he said about your situation.”
Her eyes lit up and she leaned toward him. “There is money, Shane. In a trust. My father finagled something with the people managing it—at least that's what Clay thinks. I haven't even received a statement. And I may owe taxes on it. There is something hinky going on, that much Clay is sure of. And given what my dad does, you know, that's not surprising. But it's sitting there, and it's been earning interest for seven years, Shane. Seven years,” she whispered. “Clay thinks it will be a matter of signing a few documents, verifying some information, and it will be in my account by the end of the week. Can you believe it?” she said in hushed tones. “Clay says if I manage it well and try to live off the interest . . . and Shane, it's a lot of money.”
Shane mustered a smile. “I'm glad.”
Chapter Seventeen
“So this is it?” Shane dropped her bag at the entrance doors inside the terminal.
Amy bit her lip, nodding, willing tears away. She would not be the one to break down; she would wait until he left to weep, even if it killed her. It was a mistake to have him bring her to the airport, but he had insisted. She could tell he'd been preparing himself for this moment—he'd been distant since that meeting with the attorney. She would untether her emotions and the tour would distract her from everything, even a broken heart.
I'm getting everything I wanted, another year to figure out my life, another year doing what I love.
But the usual excitement she experienced going on the road was missing.
The breakup had been her decision. Shane accepted it with good grace, and he even agreed it was the right thing to do. He'd failed at the long-distance thing, too.
Shane raked a hand through his hair. “You've got everything?” He avoided making eye contact, his jaw tight.
“Yeah. Thanks, Shane. I wouldn't be here if it weren’t for you. And keep up the practice, will you? Frank posts the open skate schedule online every week.”
“I know,” he said as he made a move to embrace her.
She backed up a step and held a hand up to stop him, swallowing back tears.
“Don't. Please. It's too hard,” she said, gritting her teeth. She grabbed the handle of her bag, ignoring the hollow, breathless feeling as she blinked rapidly. Amy turned her back, pulling her suitcase behind her, and got in line for her boarding pass.
Silent tears tracked down her face, and the guy in line in front of her who'd been checking her out stared.
“Do you mind?” she hissed.
The man straightened and scowled, turning away to roll his bag to rejoin the line that had moved once again.
The tears continued as the line surged forward until she had to duck her head, wiping at her face.
She heard “excuse me” and patrons grumbling in line behind her. Probably some asshole late for his flight who thought he was entitled to go to the front of the queue. She looked up at the guy in front of her to see his expression register astonishment a split second before hands descended on her shoulders, turning her around.
Shane.
He pulled her hard up against his body. “I can't,” he said, hoarsely in her ear. “I can't let you go.”
“But we agreed—” She sniffed against his che
st, burying her face in his familiar scent.
“Screw that. I can fly to see you. I've got nothing but scripts to read until my audition and who knows when that will be.”
“This is a terrible idea,” she said shakily, her arms wrapped tightly around his waist.
“We've both had bad experiences, but we can make this work. All I know is I want to be with you.”
Her hands clutched him spasmodically. “Yes.”
• • •
Shane adjusted his position on the yellow plastic seat and moved his feet, which were sticking to the floor. No surprise there, children surrounded him with their tubs of popcorn, drinks and cotton candy. They did this show twice a day? He'd meant to get in early, but he'd slept through his alarm, exhausted after last night's hockey practice. The amateur league he'd joined was turning out to be a lesson in humility. The next flight hadn't been until eight so he'd missed the first show.
He watched the vendors strolling the aisles with spinning light up toys, more soda and candy. He hadn't known quite what to expect, but he'd never been to anything like it. Children's voices raised with excitement. Parents were trying desperately to keep them in their seats in the interminable wait before the show started.
He tried to identify the feeling in his gut. Was it nerves? How could it be nerves? He'd seen Amy skate a dozen times.
The lights dimmed, the announcer's voice came over the PA system, and a hush fell over the crowd. It was astonishing how quickly the shrieking voices quieted.
A song came on—one he didn't recognize—and then a flood of skaters came out dressed as fairies, their costumes reflecting the spotlights, making glittery patterns in the ice. Their synchronized dance didn't last long because friendly looking furry monsters chased them, paired up, and danced. Shane sat forward on his chair, craning his neck for a glimpse of Amy.
The music ended and the fairies and their beast accompaniments disappeared from the ice.
Another song came on—this one a vaguely familiar love song—and there she was, in her skimpy yellow costume, heartbreakingly lovely. His heart hitched in his chest and then resumed its pace at triple the rate. He leaned forward enraptured, absorbed in her routine—the expression on her face, the joy in her movement. She whizzed by on one leg then danced in the spotlight, spiraling and leaping. He knew a few of the terms for what she was doing—a spin, now a double axel, nothing like she used to do, she told him.
He grinned. Even with the layers of makeup, her happiness was transparent. No wonder she didn't want to leave this. She was born for it.
Someone else entered the ice from backstage. Was that Kyle in a bright blue costume, dark wig, and tight, flared pants?
They skated toward each other and met in the center of the rink, where even from here he could see them gazing into each other's eyes. Jealousy rose up and he pushed it back down. They were acting for God's sake.
Then Kyle picked her up and his heart stopped. The man spun her, her blonde tresses flying out behind her. His heart resumed its erratic beat as Amy's skates met the ice again.
Another spin apart, more dancing together, backward this time before Kyle's stance widened and Amy leaned back—
Shane leapt to his feet.
Jesus, was that a death spiral?
Heart in his throat he watched Amy's head, inches from the ice, so close her hair swirled in circles on the frozen surface.
And that bastard Kyle leaned back, grinning, as she made three revolutions around the ice.
He was shaking, he realized distantly. And someone was saying something behind him, but he couldn't take his eyes off Amy.
After an eternity, Kyle pulled her up and they spun around the oval shape together.
Someone tugged on his shirt. A scowling woman said, “Sir, sit down. My son can't see over you.”
Shane collapsed into his seat, heart thundering.
That looked dangerous. It was a death spiral all right.
He held his breath—now Kyle was lifting her above his head. So help him God if that man dropped her . . . Shane stood again. And sank back into his chair as they embraced, both pairs of skates on the ground.
More backward skating, another lift. This time she was fully extended with Kyle holding her skates chest high. She moved gracefully above his head, bending over, her back arched until her head was hanging halfway down Kyle's blue suited back.
Shane was going to have heart failure if this continued much longer. A few more dancing embraces, one more hoist over Kyle's head, and the song ended with Amy draped across Kyle's lap. They left the ice and some other costumed creatures came on. The tension fled his body, leaving his stomach in knots.
God. He needed a drink. The vendor came by with a giant cup of lukewarm beer and Shane downed it with unsteady hands and bought another.
She came out three more times in different costumes, once with a prince who wasn't Kyle, but the moves they did were not nearly as daring.
He waited in his seat as most of the patrons shuffled out. His adrenaline had surged every time her skates had left the ice in a leap or jump, and now he was as drained as if he’d been out there on the ice, too. He wasn't sure he was in any state to go see her.
It was nearly twenty-five minutes later that Shane made his way to the backstage area where a security guard recognized him. “Hey man, you did a great job as the Avenger.”
“Thanks,” he said, shaking the man's hand.
“Enjoy the show?”
“You could say that,” he muttered.
He spotted Amy still in her glittery blue costume, heavy makeup, and stockinged feet immediately. She was holding a Dixie cup full of something, likely champagne, and laughing with one of the sprites, or fairies, or whatever they were.
Her eyes met his and she grinned, still radiant, still on the adrenaline high from her performance. He remembered it well from his TruAchord days. He picked his way through the backstage area, over cords and equipment to meet her.
“What'd you think?” she asked.
He embraced her. “You were amazing,” he said, softly.
She leaned back to look at him, clearly trying to puzzle out his expression. “But?”
“It was terrific—you were in your element out there and it was awe-inspiring.”
She frowned. “Then why are you so . . . off?”
He turned her around and slung a proprietary arm around her shoulder. “Introduce me to the cast,” he insisted.
An hour later they said good-bye to her friends and made their way to the hotel he had booked.
• • •
Amy curled up on his chest, listening to the slow thud of his heart under her ear, her fingers lazily stroking his overheated flesh atop solid musculature. “So why did you look so strung out when you came backstage?” she murmured.
Instantly his heart rate picked up, until it pounded underneath her ear.
She sat up. “Shane?”
He pulled another pillow behind his head and she sat cross-legged next to him.
“I was pretty freaked out,” he admitted.
“About what?” she asked, baffled.
“That routine. The lifts. The death spiral.”
She stared at him, confused.
“It's dangerous,” he insisted. “I've read about that move. It's called that for a reason.”
She pressed her lips together to hold back laughter. The audience always worried more about that than skaters did. She hadn’t given it a thought since she had absolute confidence in her partner.
He scowled. “It's not funny. It's hard to watch and Kyle. . .”
Her eyes narrowed. “This is about Kyle? I've told you he’s a friend.”
“No,” his voice hardened. “It's about watching the person you . . . care about . . . get hoisted up and swung around over a hard surface. It's about fear,” he admitted, taking her hand and encouraging her to lie back down against his chest.
“You don't think about it, do you?” he asked, softly. “How dan
gerous it is.”
She turned his jaw until he met her eyes. “I'm a professional, Shane. It's not like I've never fallen or been dropped. And I have complete and utter confidence in my partner. I couldn't do this if I didn't.”
“I know, Amy. But you have lasting injuries from falling and being dropped. We both know you do.”
“I have some issues,” she admitted. But it was more than that and the shows today—the first ones since May—had taken more out of her than she cared to admit. She'd been too nervous to eat since Shane was coming and despite being in such great shape, she'd felt breathless out there. Her hip was also bothering her more than usual. The jarring landings had put enormous stress on her hip for years. The doctor she'd seen to get an anti-inflammatory shot before leaving LA had spoken of arthritis and a hip replacement in her future. He'd been the first orthopedist she'd seen who had used that language and warned her that one bad landing or fall could mark the end of her career—if the problems from chronic overuse didn't end it sooner.
Chapter Eighteen
One month later, Shane paced in his lawyer’s office. His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he pulled it out to check the incoming text. Not Amy. It was from a number he didn't recognize.
Fun night with u at Excel—Erika
He stared at the message, his heart racing with a combination of guilt and excitement. It was the brunette from last night's outing with his hockey team. Only one person had his cell number, the player-coach, Jason. That idiot must've given the girl his number after he left the bar. The guy had been so drunk by the time Shane left, he might not remember doing it.
He tucked the phone back into his pocket when Clay came to greet him.
He read nothing in the other man's expressionless face, but his heart raced, thundering in his ears.
They entered the office and Clay shut the door. Something told Shane he’d better take a seat for this news.
“I don't know what to tell you. She hasn't done the blood test.”
“What? Why not?”
“I don't know. Maybe she suspects it isn't yours. Maybe she's planning to hose us in the press after the baby comes. Normally in these situations, they want the money coming in right away. Her attorney had the balls to suggest she'd get the test after they received a payment covering her medical bills and living expenses. I refused of course. That smacks of blackmail.”