And then I’d met Tom at the gym, and we slept together a few times, and then a few more, and then we met at his hotel room downtown and had a magical afternoon…and I ended up pregnant.
Guess what the strip bar didn’t offer? Health insurance.
Guess who hadn’t ever bothered to get Medicaid because I was never sick, and thus never needed it? Me.
Also, did you know you can’t get covered for pregnancy coverage after you’re already pregnant? Yeah, you can’t.
So guess who ended up stuck with a massive hospital bill?
And guess which strip bar didn’t take kindly to me needing a few weeks off after having a baby?
There went that job.
And wouldn’t you know…by the time I was able to go back to work, they’d filled the position, and only had slots open for dancers and waitresses, and the waitresses were more or less just extra strippers who would also bring food and booze out from the kitchen. So no. I had a little pride, after all.
Anyway, about six months into the pregnancy, when I was really starting to show, I finally tracked down an address—and let me tell you, that fucker did not want to be found—and showed up at his door. Pounded on it till he answered, at two in the morning. Naked. Just as hung and ripped as ever…and not pleased to see me.
He stared at me, as if absorbing my presence as reality, and then his gaze slid down to my rounded belly.
“Oh, hell no,” he’d snarled.
“Oh, hell yes,” I’d snarled back. “And yes, I know it’s yours.”
He’d stared at me again, and then held up a finger in a wait a minute gesture. Disappeared. Reappeared with a check in his hand. It was a check for ten grand. Which was when I’d finally absorbed where I was—the nice, upper-crust end of suburban Chicago. A brick house, huge and beautiful. Manicured lawn. Four-car garage. Porsche in the driveway. And, I noticed now, a ring on his ring finger, which had never been there. Nor a tan line, which meant he took it off a lot.
I stood there staring at his check, and his cock, and his house, and the marble floor and the chandelier over his head, and then a young woman several years my junior descended the stairs, wrapped in a thin robe which highlighted her perfectly fake tits, and her perfectly fake tan, and her perfectly fake blonde hair.
She’d sidled up behind him, leaned against his back, stroking his chest and stomach, as if trying to tease me. “Really, Tom? Another one? Pay her and come back to bed. I want you again.”
I shook the check. “He did pay me. But I’m not sure it’s enough.”
The woman—Tom’s trophy wife, I assumed—snatched the check out of my hand, glanced at it, sniffed, and tore it up. Reappeared after a moment with another check, this one for twenty-five thousand. “There. Now leave. And don’t come back. He’s a lawyer, and our lawyers have lawyers, so don’t think about trying anything.”
“He does this a lot, then?” I’d asked. “Knock up girls and then pay them off to vanish?”
She’d eyed me up and down. “I’m not sure you count as a girl, honey. A little past your prime for that.”
Damn. That had hurt more than I’d been willing to let them see.
“You know, if I’d known all along that it was like this, I’d have tried to get some goodies out of you.”
“You were a side-fuck, Delta, not a sugar-baby.” Tom had a watch on, something gold and glittering with diamond insets. He stripped it off and tossed it to me, careless of whether I caught it or not. “Here. Now seriously, get the fuck out of here.”
I got the fuck out.
Took the money and the Rolex. I still own and wear the Rolex, actually. More because I want a reminder of my bad decisions and how I got to where I am than anything. It’s too big, but in a fashionable way. And if I wear it with a sexy little black dress, I can pass for someone I’m not. Which is useful when you’re a single mother trying to get laid.
Anyway, back to the tingles.
Jonny Núñez gives me the tingles.
I’m on the beach, sitting next to him. We both have Styrofoam cups of coffee and sandwiches, and my head is resting on his shoulder. I’m not trying to be cute or coy, I’m just completely flattened by exhaustion. He doesn’t seem to mind. He hasn’t said anything, and he hasn’t tried to get away from my heavy head, so I’m assuming he’s okay with it. He doesn’t seem like a man of many words.
He’s salt of the earth, is what he is. Strong. Solid. Fit. Handsome, but not flashily so. Exotic. Ruggedly sexy. Deep-set dark eyes narrowed in a permanent squint. Weathered and darkly tanned Latino skin, scarred in places. Black hair, thick and wavy and messy, dirty and unwashed at the moment, flecked with debris and mud and who knows what else, finger-combed straight back, curling around his collar. A little too long, a lot messy. Scruff on his jaw, almost but not quite a beard. A scar on his jawline going from right cheekbone through his beard to his chin. His voice is smooth, has that musical Hispanic lilting, rolling accent.
He’s worked tirelessly since I first showed up two days ago, and he says he’s been here since three days before that. I have yet to see him sleep for more than a couple hours at a time, and when he does sleep he lies down wherever he is, pillows his head on his arm, and dozes off immediately. Wakes up alert and energetic. Works tirelessly, powerfully. Inexhaustible. Methodically. He does the work of three men and makes it look easy, as if he could do more but he’s pacing himself.
Ava is at the hospital, crowded into a room with three others. She’s dehydrated, exhausted, suffering from shock, and she has a concussion, despite not remembering hitting her head at any point. There’s no way for us to be with her, given how crowded the rooms and hallways are, and there’s work to be done. So we work.
I’m not aware of having made a decision to stick with Jonny and help clean up and look for survivors and bodies, but it’s what I’m doing. I should be with Ava. I should go back to St. Pete and be with Alex.
I call to check in every day, and Alex sounds like he’s having the time of his life with Gramma and Grampa, as he calls them. Eating sweets and junk food and watching movies all day, probably, being spoiled rotten. But god knows he deserves a little spoiling, since I can barely keep a roof over our head and food in the fridge most days, now.
I used the hush-money Tom gave me as a nest egg, a cushion. I try not to rely on it, or use it unless I have to. It’ll go quick, if I’m not careful. So I work all the hours I can, and provide for Alex myself. My neighbor, Mrs. Allen, is a retired widow, and she picks him from the bus and watches him till I get home. Even working doubles most days, it’s all I can do to pay rent, utilities, and buy food. I’ve got an apartment in a decent neighborhood, for Alex’s sake. It wouldn’t be as tight if I lived in a shitty area, but I want him to grow up safe. I want him to go to a nice school. Get a decent education, and grow up to be a successful adult. Which means I work my ass off to afford a nicer apartment in a nicer area than I really should and can afford, but he doesn’t know that, and I don’t let him.
Tingles, though.
Ava always said I was easily distracted, and prone to oversharing. Which, I suppose is true. It’s why I sucked at school, and never even tried to go to college. I focused on music, writing songs and honing my acoustic guitar skills, booking gigs at coffee shops and dive bars. I actually made a decent living for myself on music alone, for a while. But it just wasn’t going anywhere, and I had to get a day job. Which meant I gigged less and less, and then not at all.
And now it’s been, oh hey, wouldn’t you know? Six years since I gigged.
I still play though. When I get home from work at three or four in the morning, Alex is asleep and I’m too wired from work to sleep yet, I get out my battered and beloved Yamaha and I tune her up and I play quietly and sing my old numbers. I even write new ones. Usually bitter Ani DiFranco-esque pieces about how men are assholes, and quasi-artistic pieces about how life is hard, told via metaphor.
Tingles, tingles.
My ear and cheek where my head
rests on Jonny’s shoulder tingle.
My hip, where it touches his, tingles.
He lifts a hand to munch on his sandwich, and then lowers it, and his forearm touches mine, and my skin tingles.
Why am I tingling?
It’s stupid. I shouldn’t tingle. I never tingle.
I mean, after a really nice orgasm, I’ll tingle for a few seconds, but it goes away. Just innocently making contact with someone has never made me tingle before.
I know nothing about him. Nothing. NOT A DAMN THING. He doesn’t talk much. He just works tirelessly, like a machine. Eats, drinks coffee, dozes for an hour or two, sometimes on the rubble, or the beach, or wherever.
He listens to me, when we take breaks together.
Meaning, he watches me with those intense, inscrutable dark eyes of his and nods and asks probing questions and never seems surprised by my tendency to blab what other people might consider personal info, or TMI. I’m a constant fountain of TMI.
He seems utterly without judgment. Like, he just accepts, and listens. And I don’t get the sense that he’s just tolerating me, or keeping his judgment to himself.
I LIKE HIM.
Dammit.
It means he’ll probably turn out to be an asshole.
I’m preoccupying myself with Jonny and the clean-up efforts in an attempt to not freak out about—well, everything.
Reasons to freak out: Ava, the hurricane, Chris, and the fact that Ava doesn’t know he’s dead or most likely dead, or how many days of work I’m missing and that I’ll probably have to find a new job if I ever get back to Chicago, or how much I miss my Alex, and how I’m worried that he’ll like living with Gramma and Grampa more than me and I’ll be alone, or that I’m misreading the conversations I have with Alex and he’s actually miserable and hates it there and thinks I’ve abandoned him. And, oh yeah, Jonny.
And liking him.
And the mantra I’ve had looping through my head since I met him:
Don’t sleep with Jonny
Don’t sleep with Jonny
Don’t sleep with Jonny
I’m putting the reminder on repeat in my head, because I have to at least try to be a good girl.
But I’m not. I’m a bad girl.
I like sex and I’m reckless and impulsive and I’m a terrible judge of people—the exact opposite of Ava, in other words. She’s perfect, and always has been. Excelled in school. Never got in trouble. A good writer. Sweet. Funny. Classy. Effortlessly elegant. Effortlessly skinny. Snagged Christian without even trying, and he turned out to be a mega-popular novelist with books being turned into movies and made a shitload of money and now Ava drives a fucking MERCEDES-BENZ and I’m…just me, still.
Bad at school. Always in trouble, because I was always hanging out with the wrong crowd. Dyslexic, or dysmorphic or something, or just not book smart and can’t write or read very well. Not very sweet—I’m sarcastic and sassy and rude and talk too much and spout too much highly personal information without thinking about it. I’m not classy at all—see also my previous jobs, and my current job, and my current state of dress, e.g. booty shorts and a shelf bra and a tank; not elegant, and I have to workout like a fiend to stay in shape and keep my ass from ballooning into something with its own zip code. I hate running. I drive a fourteen-year-old Accord. I have no boyfriend, much less a wealthy and successful and admittedly gorgeous husband like Christian St. Pierre.
What I have going for me: naturally big and still-perky-at-38-despite-having-breastfed tits, a beautiful voice, talent with a guitar, a knack for songwriting, and a cool name. I mean, come on, Delta Martin says music star, doesn’t it? I’ve always thought so, but the music industry doesn’t seem to agree.
That’s pretty much it.
I’m good at sex, so I’ve got that going for me, too. I give a hell of a BJ, and I’m good with my hands, and I’m athletic and flexible enough to get into some really neat positions. Plus I’ve got the libido of a girl twenty years my junior.
Which is a problem, currently.
Because, as I said, I’m trying to remind myself that I should NOT under any circumstances allow myself to sleep with Jonny Núñez, because it’s bad timing and can’t go anywhere and he’s probably an asshole or transient or both, and I’ve got enough on my plate to deal with, and I’m a thirty-eight-year-old single mom and nobody wants to be saddled with that baggage and I’m at the stage of my life where I’m prone to getting clingy, and now I’ve got to be there for Ava, because god knows she’s gonna need a hell of a lot of help after the storm and with Christian going missing.
Sleeping with Jonny is a bad idea.
God, I’m so gonna sleep with Jonny, and I’m going to regret it.
Don’t sleep with Jonny
Don’t sleep with Jonny
Don’t sleep with Jonny
“I’ll make sure to keep my hands to myself, since you feel so strong about it.” His voice is a low rumble, amused.
Oh no.
Oh no.
“Did…Was I saying that out loud?” I ask, straightening up off his shoulder.
He rumbles again, and it’s a laugh, I think. “Yeah, you were chanting it. Been whispering don’t sleep with Jonny for like five minute now.”
“Shit. My mouth sometimes runs away from my brain.”
“Funny. I got the exact opposite problem.”
“I’ve noticed.”
“Jonny, listen, I just—”
He gazes at me, and his eyes are totally opaque and unreadable. “Why shouldn’t you sleep with Jonny? Asking for a friend.”
For once my mouth is shut, instead of blabbing all the reasons I’ve been obsessively going over in my head.
Oh, wait, nope, here we go.
“I, um. Because I want to.”
“That’s not a reason not to sleep with Jonny. Sleeping with Jonny is a good thing, from what I hear. And if you want to, then…presto, not a problem.”
I laugh. “But it’s a bad plan. For me. And for you.”
“See, I’m not hearing too much by way of reasons.”
“There are a lot of them, but they would just bore you.”
“I don’t bore easily. Try me.”
“Um. All this?” I wave around us.
He shrugs. “Good enough reason for now. Later, though, it may not stick for long.”
“Ava,” I say. “And…Christian.”
He frowns. “Gotta give you that one. Good reason.”
I sigh. “And because I have a son.” I sigh again, more heavily, because this is when dudes tend to check out on me.
“What’s his name?”
I’m silent for a moment, because I’ve been stunned speechless. “Um. His name is Alex.”
People don’t usually ask his name. Well, okay, that’s not true. Little old ladies, grandmas, grandpas, cashiers, servers, cops, security guards, etc., they all ask his name. I mean, he’s a ridiculously precocious and adorable little human being. He’s magnetic. But guys who want to get me naked? They don’t ask his name.
So either Jonny isn’t like other guys, or he doesn’t want to get me naked.
Not sure which; he’s a hard man to read.
I also don’t want to read into this, and create things that aren’t there.
Like feelings.
And potential.
And Jonny’s status as possibly not an asshole like every other male on the planet.
I have an absurd desire to light a bonfire on this beach, and play my guitar and sing.
If there was a bonfire, and a guitar, I would.
I really want Jonny to know I’m, like, a person with something to contribute to the world, besides a skill with a pen and order pad, and my banging-for-any-age-let-alone-a-38-year-old body.
I want him to…
I want him like me.
I haven’t wanted anyone to like me since my senior year of high school when I had a crush on the starting quarterback of the FSU varsity football team.
I want Jon
ny to like me.
Which creates a question, and thus a conundrum.
If I want him to like me, then I’m pretty sure I have to like myself first. That’s how that works, I’m pretty sure.
And I’m not positive I do.
Which is a problem.
Or, not, if I keep to my determination that I’M NOT GOING TO SLEEP WITH JONNY NÚÑEZ.
If I don’t sleep with him, it won’t matter if I like him, or if he likes me, or if I like myself.
I mean, I could JUST sleep with him, in which case it wouldn’t matter either.
That last one isn’t really a possibility, though. I’m gonna be clingy, and I’m going to like him, and I’m going to be a problem for both of us.
Dammit.
This was supposed to be a visit to my sister, to help her through a difficult, emotional time in her life.
It wasn’t supposed to create a crisis for me.
God, I’m so gonna sleep with Jonny.
* * *
Book Two in THE ONE series, coming soon!
Also by Jasinda Wilder
Visit me at my website: www.jasindawilder.com
Email me: [email protected]
* * *
If you enjoyed this book, you can help others enjoy it as well by recommending it to friends and family, or by mentioning it in reading and discussion groups and online forums. You can also review it on the site from which you purchased it. But, whether you recommend it to anyone else or not, thank you so much for taking the time to read my book! Your support means the world to me!
The Long Way Home Page 22
