by Moriah Jovan
Kinda makes you wonder why you’re sitting here pining over a small-time prosecutor when you could be sleeping with a funny, handsome man who happens to be a country star, huh?
With a choked sigh and a shake of her head, she went back to her motel room and stripped off her smoke-saturated clothes, stuffed them into a plastic bag, wondered if her housekeeping staff could get out the stink—the same stink that wafted from her hair. She got under a stream of hot water as fast as she could and scrubbed her zebra hair until her scalp was raw.
Her hand swept down her chest, over her breast, and stopped, her thumb playing with her hard nipple and she closed her eyes, caught her breath, wondering how and why she had let so many years pass before taking a second lover.
Had she been that busy? That focused?
Let’s just call it the fish that got away.
Or had she simply been pining?
It was easy to say that her first lover had spoiled her for other men, because it was true; no one else had approached his level of sheer sensuality. Unfortunately, the kinds of men who attracted her were intimidated by the fact that she had been a famous artist’s model—with the nude proof hanging in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was easy to refuse those who couldn’t match Sebastian and even easier to ignore those who let their intimidation get the better of them.
It was easy to claim that she was busy and she was young yet, because it was true. Knox had set her up for early success and financial independence for a reason. Sebastian had calculated his grand unveiling of Wild, Wild West to coincide with her last four months of culinary school to make Vanessa a hot commodity the minute she graduated. Still, she hadn’t yet reached that point in the process where she could just let go for a while. She had a grand vision for Whittaker House and not only was she far from attaining that, she’d just gone into a heap of debt to effect the next phase in her plan. If all went well, she’d have to go to the bank next summer for the final phase and it would take her years to climb out of that hole.
It was easy to fall back on years of religious training, both Catholic and Mormon, catechism class and Young Women’s. Giselle—the closest thing Vanessa had ever had to a real mother—had lectured her endlessly on the pragmatism of being, if not chaste, then savvy and discriminating. She’d warned Vanessa about strangers, about the emotional tricks men used, about getting drunk to lose her inhibitions, about disease and abuse and coercion and rape and drugs designed to enable rape. Giselle had taken Vanessa to the doctor to get her on birth control. Vanessa had had time to observe and learn without undue pressure, and years of watching her roommates at Notre Dame succumb to one or more of those had only reinforced Giselle’s opinions as truth.
Frat boys are pigs. Just don’t be stupid. If you want to have sex, wait and be very careful about who you choose. Do it sober, while you have your head on straight. Whatever you do, don’t have sex without a condom and don’t forget to take your pill. Ever. Remember this: Men use love to get sex and women use sex to get love. Don’t ever mistake sex for love because that’s when girls start getting stupid. And whatever else you do, don’t lie about your age. That should be enough to put most men off until you’re eighteen, and it’s not like you don’t know what happens to men who fuck underage girls, right?
With Giselle’s warnings in Vanessa’s ears and a ton of bad examples in front of her eyes that validated every word, it was easy to refuse. Without the temperament or taste for hookups, without a man as fascinating as Sebastian to tempt her into an affair, with a cornucopia of ideas crowding her head and a constantly rotating laundry list of things to do, it had been easy to refuse—until a well-disguised country star on the run from his management, his fans, and his career had shown up at Whittaker House alone.
When Mister Thompson had imperiously informed her upon check-in that he expected her to bring his dinner to his suite personally at precisely ten p.m., she had done so as a matter of course. Personal service by the celebrity chef owner was one of her gimmicks, and though she had not expected to become the entrée, he’d made her eager enough to serve herself up.
Now, two years into a discreet, comfortable, monogamous affair with another famous man, Vanessa knew she was spoiled: Her dream had blossomed under her and Knox’s careful nurturing, and it continued to gain momentum. She also had an intelligent, low-maintenance, and fabulous lover to scratch her itch with no expectations on either side.
. . . ting married to that bitch Annie Franklin.
But still . . . possibly . . . pining.
For a thank you?!
“Screw that,” she muttered, furious with herself and making a mental note to call a therapist when she got home. “Small-time prosecutor. Bite me.”
* * * * *
11: web of Knowledge
This could work.
Eric and Dirk sat on the floor putting Giselle Kenard through her paces, watching her, refreshing her memory, teaching her, updating her.
“I warn you,” she said, “I haven’t had a lesson or class since I left Utah, and I know Mill is constantly refining his curriculum. It’s probably changed several times since then.”
Neither of them had ever taught a black belt before, and it was as challenging for them as it was for her, especially considering she’d had a C-section four months ago.
“I’m still kind of stiff and sore,” she apologized, as if she had anything to apologize for.
Giselle’s husband Bryce had come, curious, he said, because he’d only seen her do this once. It was a very, very brief once, a twenty-year-old memory that had made his expression flash with pain and regret. “But then she converted to the gospel of Glock,” he muttered wryly.
Their son was a cute little devil, squiggly, jolly, inching and rolling his way here and there, a mop of bright orange curls bobbing around.
After two hours, Eric called a stop. He and Dirk could have watched more because her old training intrigued them, but—
“Annie and I have a date with six ten-year-old girls,” he pronounced, and the Kenards laughed. “Is this something you think you’d like to do, Giselle?”
“Oh, I would love to. Thank you.”
The four of them gathered in a huddle on the floor, the baby gleefully rolling over crossed knees from one adult to another like a glass pop bottle. Once Giselle snuggled up against her husband and he draped his arm around her shoulders, Eric got down to business.
“Would you rather teach adults or children?”
“Where do you need the most help?”
“The problem,” Dirk interrupted, casting a glare at Eric, who rolled his eyes, “is that people pay for Eric to teach them. It’s his name, his brand.”
“What we need help with is the six-thirty to nine-thirty time slots on the weekdays,” Eric said finally, tired of this, tired of being reminded of his life of relative leisure before he became the Chouteau County prosecutor. “I began building this dojo when I came home from Utah. When Dirk figured out he couldn’t make a living in Provo and he came back, it was a perfect setup for both of us, but—”
“But now Dirk’s trapped by your brand,” she finished. “And because you have to be here so he won’t take the hit, you don’t have time to start on the next step in your career.”
“Right and I have the same problem with the prosecutor’s office. Not enough lawyers and my new one needs to be trained. I have a couple of temporary secretaries coming Monday, but since we’ve never had any, I’ll have to start training them from scratch.”
Eric could feel the chaos and fatigue settling over all of them at once, because lately, he spread exhaustion like a disease everywhere he went.
“Eric,” Bryce rumbled. “You know most of my attorneys are from your office, right? Would you like me to see if one or two of them would be willing to come back up here for a while to help you out until you can get some more attorneys hired?”
Eric felt hope surge through him. “Are you kidding me? Absolutely!”
Bryce shrugged
. “Now, it’s up to them. I pay them four times what they made here—and I won’t pay them if they’re not working for me—so I can’t promise anything. But they may like to get back in the game since, well . . . ”
“Nobody in that firm goes to court anymore,” Giselle muttered with a smirk. Bryce chuckled and tugged gently at her braid.
Eric blinked. Stared.
The way Bryce Kenard looked at his wife was . . . unreal.
And Giselle returned his look with a shy smile, communing with her husband in a way that suddenly made Eric wonder if he were missing something.
He’d never had a reason to look at a woman that way—and he knew for a fact Annie didn’t look at him like that: love, lust, trust, and respect all rolled up into one lingering glance.
Six years navigating the dating waters and religious culture of BYU had convinced Eric that “soul mate” was a myth, that there was no such thing as fate. He’d learned that a marriage based on shared goals, intellectual and sexual attraction, and a commitment to working on the partnership—not “romantic” love—was far more desirable than bashing one’s head over finding The One.
Eric didn’t fear marriage. He never had. He’d left BYU without a wife, although he’d dated seriously and twice nearly popped the question. Then he’d come home to find a grown-up Annie, who had a grand plan. Being his wife would get her where she wanted to go, and with more prestige than she could get on her own. And Eric—well, he couldn’t ask for a better partner to walk his career path with him. Ambitious and pragmatic to her core, brilliant and street savvy, beautiful and good in bed, Annie also shared his politics, more or less, if she deigned to think about it.
Neither of them had ever pretended their relationship was anything but an efficient way to pool resources and strengths until they’d each achieved their goals, at which point they’d part company. They were the epitome of the sexy power couple; the voting public loved nothing better, and they intended to exploit it without mercy.
Eric had never had a reason to question his view of marriage.
Until now.
Watching a husband and wife share . . . something . . . he didn’t understand or know how to get.
Giselle’s voice shook him out of his reverie. “I can commit to two nights a week, your kids and adults. I’m staying home with Dunc now and it’d be nice to get out and back into something I love.” She grabbed the little boy and blew raspberries in his belly, making him giggle. After a moment or two of play, she cuddled the baby and said, “I want to raise this kid up properly—in a gi. How you handle marketing is up to you.”
Eric nodded and Dirk looked pleased. “Now, about pay—”
“Don’t,” she said. “You’ll be teaching me as much as I teach the students. You’ve each got five stripes on your belts and I’ve only got one. I’ve been out of it for years and I’m still recovering from getting Dunc here in one piece, so . . . I’ll teach in exchange for being taught. How ’bout that?”
“It’s a sixty-mile round trip for you. At least let us pay for your gas and mileage.”
She shrugged. “We can talk about it later.”
Eric could feel his burdens lightening even as he sat there chatting with the Kenards and he couldn’t believe his good fortune. Two good attorneys (maybe) who knew him and Chouteau County inside out because he’d hired them and Knox had trained them, and a new karate teacher who could take over four classes a week. Of course, Dirk-plus-Giselle still wasn’t Eric, but campaigning had to become his next priority; he couldn’t do that and teach six classes a week, too. With Giselle on board, he could begin to phase himself out without upsetting everyone at once, while conditioning everyone in the county that he’d be gone to Jefferson City in three years. Hopefully, he could do it so subtly the citizenry would take his absence for granted.
Dirk took care of outfitting Giselle with a gi, belt, patches, front door keys, and scheduling her for Mondays and Tuesdays, while Eric thanked Bryce over and over again for the possible loan of attorneys he didn’t have to train until Bryce finally laughed and held up his hands. “It’s okay, Eric. I get it, I get it. You golf?”
“Absolutely.”
Bryce grinned. “The Deuce at National next Saturday morning, then. Six-thirty tee time. It’ll give you a chance to plead your case to a couple of my buddies, get the word out about what kind of labor you need. Let the city know you’re not Knox and you’re serious about what you want to do up here. Get a start on collecting cash for your next few elections.”
Golf. With Bryce Kenard and two of his rich friends who could help Eric do what he needed to do: flip Chouteau County’s reputation upright, find experienced attorneys, and make connections that mattered to an up-and-coming politician.
Eric figured his luck had finally turned around . . .
. . . until he saw the Kenards walking to their car hand-in-hand, their baby lying quietly against Bryce’s shoulder, murmuring together as they rounded the opposite side of the vehicle to put Dunc in his carrier. He didn’t realize how much he’d missed seeing such sweet, innocent relationships like that since leaving BYU.
Being in one.
He didn’t have that with Annie, but he had exactly what he wanted with Annie, so why had he turned melancholy all of a sudden?
“You won’t get that with Annie,” Dirk muttered as he walked up to Eric after handing a set of keys to his oldest child and instructing him to take his sister around the corner to the office.
“Oh, fuck you.” Eric’s jaw ground, then it dropped as, through the windows and over the top of the Kenards’ SUV, he saw the Kenards’ gentility vanish: The man lifted his wife and slammed her against the truck, kissing her brutally—and she responded in kind, wrapping her legs around him so tight she would’ve broken a smaller man in half.
“Well,” Dirk breathed, “that goes a long way toward explaining the bruises around his wrists.”
Eric blinked. Shuddered. “Too kinky for me.”
Dirk grunted and turned to catch up with his kids at his office. Eric dropped into step beside him but he wasn’t sure why, since he knew that what had been brewing for a while was coming. “I wasn’t going to say anything,” Dirk began, “but I saw the way you looked at Bryce and Giselle. It’s like you’ve never seen people in love before.”
He had, but he didn’t remember it looking so . . . genuine.
“Now, you know Annie and I are friends, so I’m not slamming her. But you’re both deluding yourselves by thinking you can have a marriage like a business arrangement that’ll last long enough for you to do what you need it for.”
“Jelarde, you have no room to talk. You and your wife function like a well-oiled machine, just like me and Annie. Shit, you’re a fucking bishop and you can still do your job and teach class. You couldn’t do that without her. You work well together, you’re committed, none of that sappy shit I can’t stand.”
“Then you aren’t paying attention. Ten years Steffie and I have been married, okay? Four kids and one on the way, okay? I love her. I’m in love with her. But all you see is the ‘well-oiled machine,’ and you admire that so much you miss the rest of it. You don’t see what there is underpinning it. You don’t see the spontaneity and fun and laughter. You don’t see the sex. You don’t see the fights. You don’t see the crying. You don’t see us wrangling our kids constantly until we’re too tired to have sex at all. You don’t see how much time we spend apart because I’m always at church when I’m not here. You don’t see how much we miss each other, and I’m here to tell you—being in love is the sugar that makes that medicine go down. We couldn’t do it if we weren’t in love. You aren’t seeing how it all works together.”
“We don’t want all that drama,” Eric insisted. “No fights, no crying. That’s why we’re together. That’s why it works.”
“You know what?” Dirk said, exasperated. “You’ve never been in love so you have no idea what I’m talking about.”
“Apparently, I paid more attention at B
YU than you did. It’s your church leaders saying there’s more than one person you can be compatible with and make a life with. I didn’t come up with that, but it makes a whole lot of sense to me.”
“More than one person who is compatible with you that you can also fall in love with,” Dirk corrected. “There’s a big difference. I bet some time before or after you marry Annie, you’ll meet a woman who’ll knock your socks off. Then you’ll understand, but it might be too late.”
“Not possible. If it didn’t happen at BYU, it’s not going to happen.”
“Yeah, you know, there’s a reason it didn’t happen for you at BYU, and it wasn’t because you aren’t a member of the church.”
“Oh, it is, too. Heather told me that outright.”
“Heather had your number from the get-go. Why do you think you couldn’t get her out of the library, much less on a date? The girls you bought rings for didn’t dump you because you weren’t a member of the church. They dumped you because you weren’t in love with them the way they were with you.”
“That’s the biggest crock of shit I ever heard.”
“Do you know how many times your girlfriends came crying their hearts out to me?”
“And you got plenty of dates out of it. You’re welcome.” With that, Eric turned and jogged home to get ready for his date.
“Annie,” he said when he opened the door to their apartment. “Did you get the flowers?”
Annie, in her favorite set of navy lingerie, her blonde hair clipped up on top of her head haphazardly, sat on the couch, her feet propped on the coffee table, a romance novel in one hand and a glass of Scotch in the other. Jill Scott purred from the sound system.
She turned to look up at him over the rim of her glasses. “What flowers?”
He looked around. The rolling suitcase she used to cart her drug samples around to doctors’ offices was nowhere in sight. She had the bottle of Scotch and a stack of novels on the table between her feet. Obviously, she’d settled in for a weekend of well-deserved relaxation.