by Amity Cross
He was still staring at me, but now his brow had creased, and he was scowling. His gaze bore down on me with all the hatred I probably deserved. I’d broken him, after all. This was the last piece of karma come to right the balance of the universe.
“Right…” I muttered, tearing my gaze away. “I, uh…”
He didn’t have to say it. I saw the hatred written all over his face. On today of all days, I had to burden him with this memory. He’d won his first professional fight in spectacular style, and now it was tainted with another of poor little Jade Forsyth’s selfish cries for help.
“I’m sorry,” I said, my throat burning as I fought back a torrent of tears. “I’ve just ruined your thing…” I waved my hand uselessly. “I thought… I tried… I’m… I’m mortified.”
Stepping around him, I practically ran toward the door. I’d burned brightly just like a meteor ignited as it hit the Earth’s atmosphere, and like that hunk of rock, I’d broken up on re-entry, and now I was nothing more than a steaming pile of ash littered across a barren wasteland.
He didn’t want me, and now I’d ruined it forever.
Before I could wrench the door open and flee, a big hand curled around my forearm, and I was tugged backward. Turning, I gasped as Ryan’s mouth collided with mine. A rush of emotions overcame me as his lips moved against mine in a blistering kiss, and my tears began to fall.
“Don’t cry,” he murmured. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, sobbing. “I’m sorry.”
“Shh,” he murmured, pulling me into a tight embrace. “I see you, Jade. I always have. Kinda like the way I always knew I was in love with you.”
“You do?”
I buried my hands in his damp hair, my gaze drinking in his. I was too afraid to say anything else in case I spooked him away like a wild animal. Then his palms found my face, and he caressed my skin, his gaze lowering to my lips.
“I believe you,” he whispered before kissing me again. “I believe you.”
29
Jade
“This place is going to be amazing.”
Standing beside Juliette, I looked around the office space I’d rented in the trendy inner-city suburb of Fitzroy.
It wasn’t much to look at, just four white walls with a separate kitchen and toilet, but it would suit us just fine. It sat above a hairdressing salon just off Brunswick Street, and outside, we could hear and smell the hustle and bustle of the hipster mecca of Melbourne.
Flicking on the lights, I glanced at Juliette and grinned. “How are you with flat-pack furniture?”
“Are you kidding me?” she replied. “I’m a boss with an Allen key.”
She practically skipped across the chaos that was our attempt at setting up Melbourne’s newest small publisher, Rush, and began enthusiastically tearing into the boxes I had Ryan lift upstairs last night. We had a lot of work to do before we could start looking for the next big thing, but we were off to a good start. Multimillion-dollar companies weren’t built overnight.
Shaking my head as Juliette became tangled in a mess of sticky tape, I set down my bag and began opening the box that contained our fancy new modem. Calling my one-time assistant and begging her to take a risk on me was the best thing I’d ever done. She was a total gun—seriously, her enthusiasm levels were off the charts—and would be a kick-ass editor.
Bucket list item number five was coming to life—the real number five—and fuck it felt good.
Start my own business in dream field. Check!
After the Herald Sun had come out with my story in their weekend magazine, things had gone a little crazy. Job offers began flowing in, and interview requests from radio stations and television networks and invites to fancy parties all dropped into my lap. The truth and the subsequent owning up to my mistakes never tasted so sweet. Growing as a human being and taking ownership? It was the most difficult thing I’d ever done, but if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be standing here right now.
Anyway, none of this meant a single thing unless Ryan was by my side…and he was. Every step of the way.
“There you fucking are!”
I glanced up at the sound of a familiar voice and almost dropped the box I was carrying on my foot.
A tall, willowy woman with long brown hair was standing in the doorway, a black handbag slung over her forearm, looking casual yet completely ready to grace an editorial spread in Vogue. Her blue denim shirt was knotted at her waist, her back leggings hugged her slender figure like a glove…and her boots were to die for. It could only be one person.
“Alexis?” My mouth fell open. “What…”
“Alexis Storm?” Juliette cried, appearing from behind a mountain of Styrofoam. “Oh, my God. Oh. My. God.”
“The one and only,” the million-dollar author declared, picking her way through the chaos.
“What are you doing here?” I asked as she gave me a hug.
“Pfft. Looking for you, bitch,” she said, rolling her eyes. “When I heard Charles fired you from Slattery, I had a meltdown. I was out on tour with Joe, and it was weeks before I knew.” Joe was her rock star husband, and his band toured two-thirds of the year, which meant she was in and out of Melbourne every other month. “I mean, I love my editor, but it was you who I stayed at Slattery for. You can sell books like no one’s business. Besides, you were the first person to believe in what I had to say. That means something.”
“I’m glad you think so,” I said.
“That’s why I’m here, actually.” Alexis glanced around the office, curiosity etched into her pretty face. “I bought out my contract.”
“You what?” My mouth fell open again. “But that was like a—”
“Seven-figure, multi-book deal.” She shrugged.
“Then someone must’ve picked you up,” I began. “I know you, Alexis. You wouldn’t give up writing.”
“You’ll pick me up,” she declared.
“Me?”
“You started out as my agent, then you went to the dark side and became a marketing guru after selling like five books to Slattery,” she went on. “You keep forgetting about the things you help others with. Mainly the part where I almost lost Joe because of my fear of betraying my dead fiancé.”
I blanched, still slightly disturbed she was so abrupt about what happened to her all those years ago. A car accident took her fiancé, and she’d blamed herself for years…until she met a rock star named Joe Fox.
“You helped me, too, remember?” Juliette said, waving from the middle of her island of Styrofoam. “You pulled me back from the brink in my moment of darkness.”
“I don’t think you understand,” I began, my cheeks heating. “I don’t have that kind of money. We’re scraping the bottom of the barrel here. Our budget for advances is like four figures. I’m flattered, I really am, but I can’t afford you.”
“Of course, you can’t,” she said with a laugh. “But that’s the point. I’m tired of the write, submit, write, submit merry-go-round. I want to invest.”
“You want to invest? In Rush?” I couldn’t believe it. Alexis Storm, the biggest name in Romance, wanted to cut ties with her publishers and go all in with little old me?
“Shut up, and take my money!” Alexis cried, throwing her arms around me.
Pushing through the front door of Ryan’s apartment, I sighed. Dumping my bag on the counter, I ran my fingertips over the laminate, my mind wandering.
Things were falling into place like some kind of fairy tale. I was getting everything I wanted, and those that had tried to tear me down were getting their own brand of karma. Except, they weren’t dealing with it the same way I had.
Margaret had lost her job, her husband was filing for divorce, and Belinda and Heather had done a runner on her. As it turned out, her marriage wasn’t as open as she’d liked to believe.
And Hunter… He was just as he always was. Overworked, never at home, and still single. I wondered if he’d learned anything at all. Most likely not, an
d that was the kicker. You could lead a horse to water…but you could never make a cheater monogamous.
Fake always outed, but I couldn’t help but feel a little sad for them.
“What’s the matter?”
Turning, I smiled as Ryan stepped inside from where he’d been lingering on the balcony. His hair was damp, and his skin was pink from the shower, signaling he hadn’t been home long from training. Either that or he’d been out for another run. That man’s energy was never ending. Not that I was complaining.
“I was just thinking,” I replied. “It’s been a long day. My mind wandered backward a little there for a second.”
“Yeah?” His arms closed around me, and I sank against his chest. “Want a cuddle?”
Cracking a smile, I made a face. “For such a tough fighter guy, you’re a big squishy teddy bear.”
He picked me up, and I let out a squeal as he bounded across the room and flopped down onto the couch. Making a safe landing, I buried my face into the crook of his neck. Damn, he smelled good.
“What did we say about dwelling on shit we can’t change?” he asked, caressing my back. “Hmm?”
“It’s just… I wonder about them, you know. They were like me in a way. I came out the other end smelling like roses. I can’t help wondering if I truly deserve this ending.”
“Jade, you found yourself. It took some time and some shitty heartbreak along the way, but you’re a better person because of it. You owned up to your mistakes and made amends. That kind of honesty takes guts. You deserve the good things that are happening to you.”
“You say that like you knew.”
“I did know,” he replied. “I just didn’t count on us ending up together.”
“I’m surprised…” Raising my head, I ran my fingers along his stubbled jaw. My fighter… “By all of it.”
“Why?” he asked. “The cream always rises to the top.”
“I just—”
“Stop,” he murmured, placing his fingers over my lips. “No more doubts, remember?”
“I guess I’m still a work in progress.”
“I don’t think we ever stop,” Ryan said. “Here.” He picked up the notebook and pen from the coffee table. “Let’s make a new list.”
“Um, I’m pretty sure making lists was what got us into trouble in the first place.” I made a face, not liking the sound of that. We’d already cracked the whole history repeating itself thing, no need to give it another whirl.
“Jade,” Ryan said, grasping my face in his big hands. “It wasn’t about the list. It never was.”
“Then what was it about?” I murmured, caught in his eyes.
“Strength, courage, conviction…belief. It was about all of those things.” Pressing a kiss against my lips, he drew back and handed me the notebook.
“What do I put on it?” I asked, caught in his gaze. “It’s not the same this time.”
“It’s a different kind of list,” he replied. “Things we would like to do sometime between now and when we kick the bucket. This way, we won’t forget that life is about the experience. We’ve both got full-on careers, but we can never forget about what led us here.”
“Yeah, for sure,” I said in agreement. “Life isn’t all about work and status.”
“Right.” He nodded.
“Easy for you to say, Mr. Pro MMA Fighter.”
“Easy for you to say, Miss Small Business Owner.”
“Well, this time, you have to contribute, and I expect greatness.” I tapped the notebook. “Oh, yeah, and I got a million-dollar investor today. For real. Rush Publishing is full steam ahead.”
“No shit?” Ryan’s mouth fell open.
Grinning like a fool, I thought over all the peaks and valleys I’d crawled over to get here. Water slides, hot air ballooning, and fighting for the man I loved. The struggle was worth it knowing he was waiting at the end with open arms. Every last bit.
“What are you thinking about now?” Ryan asked, his brow creasing. “I hope it’s sex. Is it sex?”
“Kinda,” I whispered, sticking my hand down his trousers. “What a rush, huh?”
STRIKE
#10 The Beat and The Pulse
1
Callie
After years of saving and planning, my dream was days away from fruition.
The Fitzroy Cake Company was the culmination of years of baking, experimenting, studying, and saving. Not to mention, the competitions at the annual show, building my social media following with clever pictures, the dead-end jobs baking bland finger buns out of standard premix flours, and the ruthless cutthroat determination of building a business from the ground up at the expense of having a life. You know, the life where I had lots of friends, went out dancing, and got laid.
Cake or sex? Dick or chocolate ganache? Marzipan sculpted penis cupcakes for hen’s parties didn’t really count.
Rolling my eyes at the thought of my cock-starved vagina, I surveyed the disarray in the stockroom. Callie Winslow, you’re finally going places…right after you paint this shithole blue.
The tiny storefront on Brunswick Street in Fitzroy, Melbourne, Australia, wasn’t the most spacious, but it was mine. The moment I signed the lease and the keys were in my hand, I’d come here and sat in the middle of the kitchen in a complete haze. To think it had once been a kebab shop!
It sat on a corner lot, so the front was open with lots of windows, and the wall across the cobblestones was full of vibrant graffiti. The kitchen was behind the counter, but I’d had builders in to put in some walls to separate it, and beyond, was a dark little storeroom with a door on the left that swung out onto the lane.
Tonight, the last of the painting was happening. Tomorrow, the last of the contractors were coming through to install the display cabinets. The day after that, the furniture was arriving, and then the baking for opening day would commence. Mini cupcakes showered on passersby galore!
The sun had dipped low, the doors were locked, my earphones were stuck in my ears, and my phone was set to play a rotation of all my favorite songs. I was ready. Placing my hands on my hips, I stared at the wall. Okay, Callie, no time like the present.
Wedging the lid off the can of paint, I peered at the pale blue hue inside and wrinkled my nose. I hadn’t thought about the fumes. The back door was wedged shut. The lock was jammed, and until the locksmith came, there was no getting out the back. There wasn’t even a window out here. The only exit was back through the little kitchen and out onto the shop floor.
I hoped I didn’t pass out before I got the first lick of paint on the wall.
To save a bit of money, I’d opted to do the painting myself, but all those years of watching home renovation reality TV shows hadn’t prepared me for how big a job it actually was. Sanding back plaster, cutting in around all the edges, and rolling on three separate coats to achieve a perfect finish. My first attempts had looked like someone projectile vomited on the wall there’d been that many streaks and drips. No one ever told you how difficult it was to paint a wall a solid color.
Was I that uncoordinated with a brush? I should stick to baking and decorating cakes. Fiddly and intricate were my things. Oh, and tweaking recipes to achieve the richest, most flavorsome cake and icing you could put in your mouth. That was my forte.
Dipping the brush into the pot, I carefully applied paint along the corner of the wall. It was a perfect powder blue, a shade between white and full-blown color, it was perfect for the space. It brightened up the dingy stockroom and matched precisely with the kitchen.
Singing along to my playlist, I worked my way around the edges of the walls, and when I was done cutting in, I tipped some paint into a tray and dipped a roller into the powder blue. Slapping the roller onto the wall, I began applying the first coat, my heart soaring, and I wiggled my round hips and ass to the music.
I wasn’t exactly overweight or anything, but I wasn’t thin, either. How was I supposed to keep my thighs firm when I had to sample all my recipes? More
sugar! More spice! More chocolate! More crème patissière! Spun sugar, butter cream icing, marzipan, lemon meringue… Trying to keep your stomach completely flat when all you wanted to do was lick the batter from every spoon was impossible.
My nose wrinkled, and I sneezed as an unfamiliar smell tickled my nostrils. Size fourteen wasn’t exactly in the overweight category, but it wasn’t in the realm of borrowing clothes from my super slender housemate, either. Macy had that gap between her thighs and everything.
Turning, I went to lower the roller into the tray, but I gasped at the sight of billowing smoke and the flicker of flames through the doorway. My fingers went numb, and the roller fell to the floor with a thud, leaving streaks of powder blue paint on the toes of my sneakers.
The kitchen was on fire.
Wrenching out my earphones, I grabbed my bag and slung the strap over my head. There was no sound, other than the crackling of flames. Why wasn’t the alarm going off? Why hadn’t the sprinkler system engaged? The fuck…
Covering my nose and mouth with my sleeve, I ducked low and stepped into the kitchen but was instantly pushed back by a wall of heat. Beginning to panic, my heart sped up, and I tried again.
Boom!
An explosion tore through one of the appliances, and I was thrown back against the wall, my head cracking on the brickwork. My arm crashed against the tin of paint, knocking it over. Powder blue pooled over the drop sheet as I cradled my aching head in my hands.
Moaning, I pushed to my knees as smoke began filling the tiny room. The kitchen was an inferno, the explosion only adding more fuel to the already raging fire. It had gone up so quickly. Just…poof. I hadn’t even smelled any smoke until it was well alight. Now…it looked like I was completely fucked.
