Just One Night: Sex, Love & Stiletto Series

by Lauren Layne

  “So don’t.”

  “But you just said—”

  “That you should write about sex. But sex ultimately has to be about self before it can be about the other person, right?”

  Riley gave Camille a look. “Are you talking about masturbation again?”

  Her boss tapped a maroon fingernail against the back of Riley’s hand. “I’m talking about the difference between being a girl and a woman.”

  “Wonderful,” Riley muttered. “Whisky makes her deep.”

  “Go ahead and sass,” Camille said. “But I’ve accumulated some wisdom along with the hot flashes and sagging tits. You think that sex is all about the right position and the flexibility?”

  “Um …”

  “Wrong,” Camille retorted. “It’s about knowing yourself enough to know which positions work for you, and to know that you like your men with a little paunch around the belly, and about leaving the blindfolds and the feathers to the other ladies if you don’t like it.”

  Riley looked around desperately. “Is there, like, a safe word I can use to escape this conversation?”

  Her boss shrugged. “Hey, not my fault you’re taking tiny sips of that drink.”

  Riley lifted the cocktail glass and took a healthy gulp.

  “So you’re good on the story, then?” Camille said, gesturing to the bartender for the check.

  Riley stared at her, flabbergasted. “How would I be good on the story? I told you what I wanted to write, you said no. Then you started talking about sagging boobs and hot flashes, and I have no idea what you’re trying to tell me.”

  Camille patted her hand as she dropped her corporate card into her billfold. “Sure you do. You’re just pretending you don’t know, because you don’t want to do what you have to do.”

  “Which is …”

  “You tell him. How you feel.”

  Riley nodded once. “Yeah. Yeah, I kind of knew you were going to say that.”

  She tossed back the rest of her drink.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “You don’t have to do this.”

  “I know.” Riley leaned forward to turn up the heat that he’d turned down five seconds earlier. His eyes flicked from the road down to his truck’s thermostat, but instead of giving the expected my car, my rules lecture, he merely turned his eyes back to the road with a resigned look.

  Riley didn’t like that. Not one bit.

  Come to think of it, she wasn’t liking the way he’d been acting the past few days. He wasn’t quite distant. He wasn’t quite grumpy. But he was different.

  He was careful. And no matter how much she smiled—no matter how hard she tried to get him to smile—she was desperately afraid that things were shifting in the wrong direction. She sensed he was pushing her away, and desperate times called for desperate measures.

  And desperate measures meant going with him to visit her.

  “Did you tell your mom I was coming?” Riley asked, turning to stare out the window.

  “Nope. Because until you climbed into my car an hour ago, I didn’t know you were coming.”

  She turned to look at him. “I told you yesterday I would.”

  “And I told you yesterday that I didn’t want you to,” he snapped.

  Sam still wouldn’t look at her, but it didn’t take a genius to see he was pissed. His jaw was tight, his knuckles were white, and his tone was curt.

  She reached across the car, her hand landing on his upper thigh. “Look, it’ll be good for her to get to know me. In all the years she lived just a couple of streets over, I only met her a handful of times, and—”

  “My mother doesn’t want to get to know you,” Sam said, brushing her hand off. “I’m not even sure she wants to know me, much less a tagalong wannabe girlfriend.”

  It stung. It really stung. She turned her head away so he couldn’t see her expression, but her sharp intake of breath gave her away.

  “Ri—” His voice was regretful, but he didn’t reach out to touch her.

  “It’s fine,” she said, forcing a tight smile. “I know things with your mother are difficult. It would bring out the worst in anyone.”

  He muttered something she couldn’t make out, and they drove the rest of the way in tense silence. In hindsight, a five-hour drive to visit a woman who didn’t want to see her, with a man who didn’t want her company, hadn’t been her best decision. But she knew—she knew—that dealing with his mother and her bag of issues was a crucial step in taking their relationship any further.

  Riley was so lost in thought, she barely registered that they’d come to a stop in front of a run-down house in a long row of other run-down houses. Riley had only been upstate once or twice as a kid, and always to quaint little lake towns. Calling this part of Watertown, New York, quaint would be a stretch. It looked … tired. A handful of the yards were kept up nicely, and some of the homes had cute little shutters, but the majority were a jumble of peeling paint, junk in the front yard, and weeds.

  The house Sam had parked in front of wasn’t the worst of the street. But it was close.

  “Home sweet home,” he said grimly, as he cupped her elbow and led her toward the front door.

  Her hands went a little clammy. One of the unexpected benefits of never having a serious boyfriend after Dan was that she’d never had to do this whole meet-the-parents routine. She understood why this moment got such a bad rap in relationships. It sucked.

  “Don’t let her get under your skin,” Sam muttered in her ear as he lifted a hand to knock. “We’re here to make sure she’s alive, wish her a happy birthday, and—”

  Riley’s eyes went wide as she glanced in horror at his tense profile. “It’s her birthday?”

  But it was too late for him to explain why he’d forgotten to mention that tiny fact, and too late for her to freak out over their not even having a sappy card, because the door opened.

  And there was Helena Compton, looking every bit as unpleasant as Riley remembered her, and just as mean. No. Meaner.

  “Sam,” the blonde said without so much as a hint of a smile. Her gaze shifted to Riley, and Riley wondered how her eyes could be so identical to her son’s in shape and that distinct pale blue color, and yet so different in expression. Sam’s were guarded, yes, but they could also be warm and kind.

  Helena’s eyes were—Riley didn’t even have the right word—cold? cruel?

  She stepped aside and let them in, which Riley supposed was a good start.

  “Happy birthday,” she managed as she stepped into the small home. It smelled like an ashtray, but Sam had already warned her about that, so she was prepared. Riley had a vague memory of a small kitchen piled high with dirty dishes and a small dining table piled high with crap before Sam led her to the sofa, his not-so-gentle tug on her arm making his instructions clear. Sit. Quiet.

  She did the first. Whether she complied on the second would depend on whether Helena Compton behaved herself.

  “I told you not to come,” Sam’s mom said, lighting up a cigarette and studying them as she sat down in the recliner.

  “It’s your birthday,” he said gruffly. “And you were just in the hospital.”

  She blew out a long stream of smoke. “And yet you didn’t come to see me then.”

  “You told him not to!” Riley exploded.

  Sam groaned, and Helena narrowed her eyes. “Is that so? And how do you know?”

  Riley narrowed her eyes right back. She worked at a woman’s magazine. She knew every female play in the book. “Because we were together.”

  Sam’s mother gave a mean little cackle. “Of course you were.”

  “What does that mean?” Riley asked, keeping her voice level.

  “Riley,” Sam said, turning his head in her direction. “Leave it.”

  “I won’t leave it,” she snapped back. “I’m not Skippy and one of his stolen socks. I don’t drop what you tell me to drop. Your mother clearly wants to say something.”

  “Yes, but nothing w
e want to hear,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Oh, let her hear it, Sammy,” Helena said dismissively. “She’s not going to be around much longer anyway.”

  “I’ve been around since we were teens,” Riley snapped back.

  “That’s right, you have. Making him work for an entire decade to get into your pants, hmm?”

  “Mom!”

  Neither woman paid any attention to Sam. Riley had suspected the gloves might come off during this encounter, but she hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. She hadn’t even had time to insincerely compliment the woman’s shoes, or thank her for the beverage that hadn’t been offered, but hey, if Sam’s mother wanted to get right down to business …

  “Sam didn’t get into my pants, because Sam is a gentleman,” Riley said calmly, crossing her legs and keeping her shoulders back.

  “That’s lovely,” Helena said, voice dripping with condescension. “But we both know he was merely waiting his turn.”

  “Jesus, Mother.”

  Riley set a hand on Sam’s leg to quiet him, her eyes never leaving his mom’s. “You’ve read my articles.”

  “I’ve scanned the filth you write, yes,” Helena said, tapping the tip of her cigarette into the ashtray.

  Sam growled, but Riley merely smiled. She’d heard plenty of unsolicited opinions on her work. And if she’d learned anything over these weeks with Sam, it was that writing about sex in the general sense and making love to someone you care about weren’t even remotely in the same category.

  And anyone who tried? So not worth Riley’s time. She knew what she was. She knew what she and Sam were. And no amount of heckling from his mother could turn it tawdry.

  “My articles have nothing to do with Sam.”

  Helena snorted. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing because it keeps my son out of your magazine, or a bad thing because he’s not worth writing about. Probably the latter.”

  Sam said nothing, but Riley felt him stiffen beside her before his chin dropped just the smallest bit in resignation. And it was that resignation—that acceptance that it was okay for her to talk about him that way—maybe even acceptance that she was right about him—that set Riley off.

  Her Irish temper rarely sparked, but when it did …

  “Mrs. Compton—”

  “Ms. I’ve learned over the years to keep my maiden name. Not that my father was any better than any of my husbands …”

  Whatever. “Ms. Compton, I know it’s none of my business, but—”

  “Riley,” Sam said quietly.

  She ignored him. “Actually, scratch that. It is my business, because I’m in love with your son.”

  It was as though a bomb had gone off in the room.

  She couldn’t bear to look at Sam, but he’d turned into stone beside her. And Helena’s mouth was gaping in surprise, as though Riley’s declaration of love simply did not compute.

  That, more than anything, pissed Riley off. “Yeah, that’s right. Somehow, despite your best efforts to tear him down, he’s turned into the most wonderful man I know, and for the life of me, I can’t understand why his mother—the one person who should have loved him more than anything—is so blind to the person he’s become.”

  “I love him,” Helena muttered, furiously tapping her cigarette.

  “Do you?” Riley said, leaning forward. “Have you ever told him that? Have you ever said you’re proud of him? Have you seen his distillery? Asked about it? Did you know that he coached a soccer team last year, even though he didn’t personally know a single kid on the team? Have you ever thanked him for driving all the way up here to visit only to have you crap all over him?”

  “What do you know of it?” Helena snapped. “You ever had a kid you didn’t want at twenty? You ever try to tell the father, only to learn that he’s skipped town and gave you a fake last name and a wrong phone number?”

  “None of which is Sam’s fault!” Riley shouted, coming to her feet now. “I can respect that you’ve had a rough life, Helena, and maybe you’re a little entitled to a little bitterness, but there’s no excuse for taking it out on your son. None.”

  Sam stood beside her. “Riley.”

  She shook him off. “He’s good,” she said, her eyes watering as she looked down at his stunned mother. “He’s the best.”

  Helena Compton’s mouth opened and closed several times, her eyes darting to her son before she stared stubbornly at the blank television.

  “Tell him,” Riley said, her voice breaking.

  “Riley,” Sam said, his fingers wrapping around her biceps.

  Helena lit up another cigarette.

  “Tell him!”

  “That’s enough, Riley!”

  Both women blinked in surprise at Sam’s shout, and although Riley thought for sure his anger would be directed at his mother, she was the one he was glaring at. It was Riley he was hauling toward the front door as if she were an irresponsible child.

  “I’ll call you later, Mom,” he said gruffly. He didn’t wait for a response before he let the door slam behind them. Sam released her then, pulling his hand back from her arm as though he couldn’t stand to touch her, and made his way toward his truck without looking back.

  “We’re leaving?” Riley asked, slowly following him. “But—”

  “But what, Riley?”

  “We just got here …”

  He spun around then, and if his eyes had been mad before, they were furious now. She took a step back. “What the hell did you think would happen when you screamed at my mother, Riley? Did you think she’d hug both of us and make a pot of tea? Did you think she’d show you my baby pictures? Maybe haul out the box of trophies from my childhood? Do you really think she has either of those things!”

  “Sam—I just wanted—”

  “Right, you just wanted. This was about you.”

  “I said that I loved you!” she shot back. “Did you miss that part? Because that was about us.”

  His jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Riley’s stomach twisted.

  He glanced at the ground before meeting her eyes again. “You overstepped, Riley.”

  Her eyes filled. “I just hate that she talks to you like that. She’s your mother, and—”

  “Right! She’s my mother, Riley. My only relative. She didn’t need any ammunition to resent me further, but you gave it to her, so thanks for that.”

  “Then maybe you don’t need her—”

  “She’s all I have!” he exploded. “I don’t have two loving parents and a bunch of loving siblings, and a cushy job and a whole tribe of friends, Riley. I have my mom. That’s it.”

  “You have me!” she shouted right back.

  “Which I didn’t ask for, Ri! You said just one night, but here we are fighting outside my mother’s house like a goddamned old married couple! I don’t want that. I never wanted that.”

  “You’re just saying that because you’re scared,” she said, her voice a little desperate.

  He merely folded his arms across his chest. “Look, I’m not trying to be a dick.”

  Riley swallowed around the lump in her throat. “You have my family.”

  “They’re your family. They care about me, sure, but when forced to choose—”

  “Then let’s not make them choose. This can be something, Sam. It is something.”

  His eyes flicked away again.

  Damn it, Sam. Don’t do this.

  She tried again. “Liam’s your best friend. You really think he’ll kick you to the curb because we had a fight?”

  “He sure as hell isn’t going to appreciate me deflowering his baby sister. I promised him I wouldn’t touch you—”

  “Oh, get over that,” she snapped. “It’s a shield, and you know it.”

  He closed his eyes and shook his head. “What do you want from me, Riley?”

  I want you to love me back.

  She didn’t say it, but when he opened his eyes and looked at her, she knew by the slight softening o
f his expression that he understood.

  And worse, that he pitied her for it.

  “Riley.”

  She held up her hand. “Don’t. Just don’t.”

  He opened his mouth to argue, but instead paced in a little circle. “So what now, we just drive back to the city in awkward silence?”

  “Yes,” she said, pushing past him and yanking open the passenger-side door. “That’s exactly what we do.”

  And they did. Five hours, and not a word or a glance between them. Riley held on good and tight to her anger. It was the only way to ward off her pain until she could get far, far away from him.

  He didn’t love her.

  The car ride was both endless and over too fast, and by the time he pulled up to the curb outside her apartment, the tension was thick enough to choke her.

  And because she still couldn’t think of the right thing to say, she lifelessly lifted her hand for the door handle when his voice stopped her.

  “Ri.”

  She paused.

  “I care about you. I do. I’m just not cut out for the happily-ever-after stuff. I tried, and failed. You deserve more.”

  “Really? You’re going to try to spin this into the I’m-doing-this-for-your-own-good cliché?”

  “What do you want from me?” Sam exploded, his voice finally losing its patient control. “You’ve already saddled me with a dog. What’s next? A wife? A baby?”

  “That’s not even remotely fair! It’s not like I’ve been leaving Modern Bride magazines on your coffee table. I was simply suggesting that we attempt to have a mature, adult relationship for as long as we’re both feeling it.”

  “Well, I’m not feeling it anymore,” he snapped.

  “Just tell me what changed,” she said, grabbing his arm. “A few days ago I thought we were in a good place. You’re mad at me because I yelled at your mom? I overstepped. I get that, and I’ll call and apologize.”

  “You weren’t wrong in the things you said to her, and the friend in me appreciates it, but that whole shit show was just the tip of the iceberg, and I’m not going to let you stick around and get pulled further in. You matter.”

  “You’re breaking up with me because I matter? You know there’s no trophy for that, right?”