by Sierra Hill
Blaine had cooperated with investigators and the DA, admitting that he had pursued an inappropriate sexual relationship with one of his students, but through testimony and evidence, acknowledged that the sex hadn’t begun until she was eighteen. Good for you, Blaine. He should be applauded for his scruples. Not.
He copped a plea deal and avoided a costly trial, and was now serving three years’ probation and was charged with a misdemeanor under the California State sex abuse laws.
Sloane had not had any further contact with Blaine, or his family, since he was arrested. It had actually made it much easier to deal with the pain and suffering she’d endured not having to face him again.
And now she held the letter from the school board. She’d been waiting for weeks to close this chapter of her life. To move on, no matter what the decision or outcome.
Sloane had used the time while waiting the decision to refocus her life – fixing up her house and the other task of deciding what to do with the bar.
Prior to leaving Boston, Sloane contacted a real estate agent and put it up on the market. Since that time, she’d received exactly one offer, which came in at fifty-thousand less than asking price, so she promptly turned it down.
Her only saving grace was the wonderful employees she had on staff, who were handling things for her in her absence. She’d met with Donnie and Curtis the day before she returned home and explained what she had planned. She continued to hold weekly conference calls with them both – not to keep tabs on anyone – just to stay abreast of how things were going. Curtis informed her last week that Dylan stopped by with the final invoice.
Of course the first thing Sloane wanted to know was if Dylan had asked about her. But there was no way she could ask that question of Curtis. He would have just made a grunting noise in reply anyway. Not the most communicative man she’d ever met.
So instead, Sloane settled for hearing about how things were going with sales (good), and the new waitress from Chicago that was hired (Addison), and finally, Curtis’ mumbled thanks for ordering his brand new Viking Professional gas range.
It took a lot for good old Curtis to say much of anything, and to get a compliment or word of thanks was almost unheard of. You’d have thought Sloane had given him the keys to the kingdom with how he went on and on about the possibilities of putting that “bad boy” to good use.
She would have laughed at Curtis’ choice of words, but it only conjured up images of Dylan – her own bad boy. Or at least, he had been at one time, until she screwed it all up.
The heartbreaking loss she felt when Dylan walked out of her house three weeks before had more magnitude than anything she’d experienced with Blaine. It didn’t matter that she’d only known him for a few months, or that they were probably never meant to end up together anyhow. The logical side of her brain told her that these types of affairs – rebounds – never worked out.
But her heart felt otherwise. It was crushed. It seemed so right when she was with Dylan. They counterbalanced one another in the largest, and simplest, of ways.
The tears started pouring out of her immediately after Dylan walked out, and she cried every day after that disastrous moment. Sloane knew she was at fault for causing the riff. She’d had plenty of opportunities to tell him the truth, to share the entire sordid story with him, so he wouldn’t be blindsided. And maybe should would have…
Or not. If she was being truly honest with herself, she’d left Boston in a hurry and avoided Dylan for weeks because she was chicken shit. Deep inside, she thought she’d be off the hook because he would eventually get bored of waiting around for her, and would move on, thereby giving her the easy out.
What she hadn’t planned on, however, was his unannounced visit, the love she felt for him, and the hurt she caused him.
Dammit all to hell.
Was there anything else that could go wrong?
Yes. Yes there was.
The letter in her hand.
Screw it. Just rip off the Band-Aid, already, and deal with whatever cards are dealt.
With shaking hands, Sloane opened the letter addressed from the Superintendent and read through it. Once. Twice.
By the third time, her tears clouded her eyes so badly, she could no longer decipher the words in front of her.
Sloane wiped her eyes with a tissue and picked up her phone.
“Hey, Mom. Can you come over? I need you.”
###
“I’m really not in the mood to go out tonight, Ry. Why don’t you and Mitch just go hang out with your friends by yourselves? I’ll see Mark on Sunday when we have dinner at Pops.”
Mark Olsen, Rylie and Sasha’s third-wheel BFF, and now do-gooder humanitarian doctor, had just returned from his two-year stint in Africa as a Doctors-Without-Borders physician, and Rylie was welcoming him back with a party. Under normal circumstances, they’d hang out at their favorite bar near their clinic, but Rylie wanted to meet at Fitzgerald’s, where there was a Grand Reopening event happening. Free tap beers and well drinks for those with special invitations, which his sister was a happy recipient of. Who could pass that up?
Dylan – that’s who.
Although he’d also received the postcard invite in the mail the week before, he’d tossed it out as soon as he read it. No reason to ever go back into that bar. Even though he knew Sloane wouldn’t be there, Dylan had no desire to step back into that place. Too many memories. And ones he didn’t want to relive.
He’d finished his job remodeling the joint – and was damn proud of how it turned out. But that was all history. He needed to move on. And going back to that bar would only drudge up thoughts of Sloane.
Rylie, however, was not taking no for an answer. He should’ve let her call go to voicemail when he walked back into his house from the gym – sweaty, cranky, in need of a shower, and hungry as shit. Even the three rounds in the ring with his sparring partner hadn’t worked to elevate his spirits. He was downright pissy. And all because of that stupid open house.
“What bug crawled up your ass? You’re being a douche canoe. It’s free beer, D. Who says no to free beer?”
“I do. I’m not interested in socializing tonight. So just drop it. Plus, I just got home and I don’t want to go back out again.” Dylan thought that was a perfectly plausible excuse.
Rylie sneered into the phone. “You big baby. The bar is precisely two blocks from your house. Jason is going to be there, too. We all are and so are you. I haven’t seen you since right after New Year’s. Don’t make me come drag your ass out of your house tonight. You know I will, too. And I’ll get Sasha to come with me. She’d love to torment you. So go get showered and be there in an hour.”
It was no use arguing with her. Rylie never played fair and always won. Even as kids, Dylan was the one to get into trouble whenever they fought, even when Rylie started it by teasing him or just being an annoying little brat. And that never changed. She was still acting like a brat and annoying the shit of him.
“Fine,” he grumbled, tossing his dirty clothes in the hamper in his closet. “But I’m leaving after one beer. I’ll say hi to Mark, look at his stupid pictures from Africa, and then I’m back home on my couch to watch Sports Center the rest of the night.”
And who said Dylan was bad with compromise?
“I knew you’d cave. Love you, D. See you soon.”
And then the line went dead as she disconnected the call, and he was left standing half naked wondering how she always got her way.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The Grand Reopening of Fitzgerald’s was her mother’s idea.
Leave it to a woman who threw countless cocktail parties, fundraising events, and various other shindigs to convince Sloane that what she needed to do was capitalize on the renovation to get people in the door.
A party with free booze was a surefire way to draw in new business. But Sloane didn’t care too much about all the extra bodies that would be there tonight. All she wanted was to see Dylan and hopeful
ly have a chance to set things right with him. Even if he didn’t love her anymore, at least she’d be able to tell him the whole truth. And explain the reason she kept it from him in the first place.
Sloane had been working out the details of this celebratory affair since that night three weeks ago when she asked for her mother’s help. Her mother had come over right after their phone call, and did what mother’s do best – let her cry on her lap while she rubbed her daughter’s back, whispering soothing words of encouragement to her daughter.
Sloane was a blubbering mess. Everything that she’d been through since the holidays – the break-up with Blaine, the details unfolding about his affair, the ownership of the bar, the fling with Dylan, the school board suspension and investigation into the allegations that she knew of Blaine’s indiscretions, and then subsequently, the final decision related to her job.
She hadn’t been fired.
It was a blessing and a relief.
And yet, she’d lost hope. She’d been struggling with the fact that her employers, the teachers, students and faculty, had been so quick to judge her and turn against her without a shred of evidence.
So that night, she’d broken down and spent the entire night being a crying, sobbing, chocolate-devouring, why-is-my-life-so-unfair, I-hate-adulting mess.
Mothers just had a way of making things better, and hers provided Sloane with a simple solution that she’d used hundreds of times when she was just a kid. It required a worry bag, several strips of notebook paper, a marker, and a bottle of wine (that part wasn’t part of her therapy when she was underage).
Her mother had Sloane write down everything that she felt she had no control over, but that was keeping her up at night. For each worry slip, she placed it in the bag. Once all were identified, her mother took the bag out back, lit the grill, and burned that sucker up, until the embers and ash were the only things left of her anxious thoughts.
And then her mother began to suss out exactly what Sloane wanted to do next, and what would make her happy. Was it continue teaching in San Diego? Then do it.
Would it be to teach elsewhere? Then go for it.
Was it to take a break and try to make a living as an owner of a Boston bar? Then what was she waiting for? Make it happen!
Her mother was an eternal optimist that could turn lemons into homemade lemon bars.
Although the school board’s decision was to exonerate Sloane, which would allow her to return to her position the following school year, she’d decided it would be too difficult to go back after all that had happened. Perceptions and guilt-by-association would follow her around as long as she was in that school district, and her integrity would always be questioned.
So she gave her notice to the Superintendent, called her real estate agent to take the bar off the market, and put her mother’s plans in place to turn the bar around, starting with the special invites for a Grand Reopening celebration.
Being a teacher had been her life’s dream, and she’d been great at it. But Sloane also enjoyed being a business owner. Owning and managing a bar was hard work, but she had great people working with her, and it was a sense of accomplishment to be living out from underneath her parent’s wings – on her own, in a city where she could be whoever she wanted to be.
“A beautiful young girl like you shouldn’t be so deep in thought. It’ll give you premature wrinkles.”
The gruff voice was that of Curtis, who had just brought out another plate of spicy wings for the buffet table. Sloane laughed as he slapped away a young, twenty-something man’s hand, who was pushing his way in front of a woman in line, in order to pile more food on his plate.
“Damn kids. No respect these days,” he said, shaking his head. “But back to you, young lady. You should be all smiles tonight. This is quite the bash you’ve arranged. And the food is wicked good, if I do say so myself.”
She laughed at the obvious compliment he was fishing for, as he wiggled his gray bushy eyebrows.
“Yes, Curtis. You have mad skills in the kitchen, I’ll give you that. Must be that brand new state-of-the-art range your boss recently got you. The food damn-well better be tasty.”
She tried to sound serious, but knew her grin gave her away. Although they did have a little help with some catering, Curtis did create quite an eclectic assortment of appetizers for the evening.
In fact, she wanted to try one of the bacon-wrapped scallops that had just been brought out before they were all gone. Her empty stomach growled from the sight and smell of all the goodies on the table.
“I’m glad you’re back, kid. It’s nice seeing your beautiful face light up the place, again. We missed you. And I know your Uncle Patsy, God rest his soul, is looking down on you tonight and proud of what you’ve done here.” He cleared his throat, whether from grief or unease in the sentiment he wasn’t used to expressing. Sloane was honestly touched by his compliment.
“Well now, I best be getting back into the kitchen so my boss don’t go firing me. Oh, and I almost forgot…” Curtis pulled out a long white envelope from his back pocket and handed it to Sloane, who looked down at it with curiosity.
“What’s this?”
Clearing his throat again, he just pointed to the opposite side of the room, where a small group of people were standing, drinks in hand.
“It’s the check you asked Donnie to write out for Hemmons & Son Electrical. We figured we’d save you the postage fees.” And with that, Curtis gave her an encouraging wink, a nudge in Dylan’s general direction, and darted back into the kitchen, leaving Sloane standing in the middle of the bar with an opening to the apology she needed to give.
Good ol’ Curtis.
###
Dylan had seen her the minute he’d walked into the bar. There was no mistaking her for anyone else. No other woman in Boston held a candle to the natural beauty of Sloane Fitzgerald.
True to his word, Dylan showed up at the behest of his sister and spent the last fifty-eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds talking to Mark, who had been giving him the highlights of his trip and providing him a geography lesson on Africa. He’d just finished his beer and Dylan was now ready to call it a night.
He was a horrible actor, and trying to act happy to be there, knowing Sloane was within an arm’s length of him, wasn’t working. He had to get out of there before he did something stupid. Like talk to her. Or forgive her.
While the bar was packed with wall-to-wall people, it felt extraordinarily claustrophobic due to Sloane’s proximity. Every time he turned around, he saw her, smiling and talking to people. Handing out drinks. Clearing tables. Laughing at something one of her staff had said. Flirting with Donnie. That bearded, hipster prick.
He knew exactly where she was at any given moment – instinctively tracking her every move and it pissed him off royally.
His heart was a traitor, because it nearly exploded from the joy he felt when he saw her tonight. Dylan hadn’t expected her to be there – figured she would never return. Even though he hadn’t spoken to her in over three weeks, he still kept tabs through social media and the news. He knew exactly what had happened with the situation Blaine had created. What he didn’t know was why she was back in town.
His body ached to touch her. He was dying to talk to her. But his pride prevented it. She had fucked him over good. She lied to him. And he did not like liars.
So Dylan kept his distance, pretending to hear what his sister’s friends said, laughing in all the right places, and pretending to have a good time. But all he could think about was Sloane and their last day together. He had to make his escape before he lost it and did something stupid. Like get on his hands and knees and beg for Sloane to come back to him.
“Excuse me,” Sloane said, interrupting the story that Mark was currently telling everyone about some safari he went on. Her voice sounded small and timid from behind him. “Dylan, can I talk to you for a second?”
Everyone in their circle stopped talking all at once and turned to
look at Sloane, standing on the outskirts of the circle with something in her hands. When he glanced at his sister, she just winked and gave him a shooing motion.
Way to back a guy up, sis.
Dylan turned back to Sloane and gave her a weary expression, but shrugged his shoulders in deference. He’d play it cool, listen to what she had to say, and then get the hell out of Dodge.
“Yeah, sure. But it needs to be quick because I’m just about to leave.”
His sister smacked him on his shoulder, giving him a dirty look. Sloane just nodded her head and turned to walk back toward her office. Dylan stopped in his tracks, gripping her small wrist to halt her progress.
“Wait…where are you going?”
Sloane swiveled her head from left to right before giving him a chin jerk toward her office.
“I was hoping to speak to you in private. It’s pretty loud out here.”
There was no arguing that point, because it really was noisy, and definitely not conducive to a private conversation. But being alone with Sloane was a dangerous proposition. It scared the shit out of him, because he had no idea what she would say, and in turn, how he would react.
She bit down on her lower lip, her face telling Dylan how nervous and scared she was. And he hated that he made her feel anxious to talk to him. It made him feel like a shithead.
Nodding once, Dylan dropped her wrist which he hadn’t realized he still held, and gestured with a gallant sweep of his hand toward the back office. As soon as she closed the door, a rush of memories flooded his brain, his body responding to the erotic visuals.
Sloane straddled him on the ugly checkered sofa against the wall, her T-shirt flung off hastily, lying next to him in a crumpled ball, her bra cups pushed down so his mouth could take possession of her ample breast and nipples.
This was not helping.
Dylan scanned the rest of the room, avoiding eye contact with her as he cleared his throat impatiently. She clearly thought the same thing and avoided the couch altogether, instead choosing to sit on her desk chair.
