Love at the Electric (A Port Bristol Novel Book 1)

by Jenn Hughes

  With nothing coaxing Rudolph from his spot, they all gave up. The driver unhooked him from the sleigh to lead him to the stables while Sam and Lillian walked back on their own to the Hinterland village. Arm in arm, teasing one another and laughing and talking and utterly content, Sam didn’t give a second thought to his ruined Italian leather boots.

  They attempted ice-skating for about an hour. Attempted. He and Lillian fell on their asses more times than he could count, and eventually gave up to enjoy a quiet dinner at The Electric Diner. Sam had suggested the new restaurant downtown, the one with all the farm-fresh food a few people at Origin had raved over, but Lillian gave him a funny look and refused to go.

  Revenge of the Xalaxi lured them into The Electric for another late show. When they entered the auditorium, Lillian pulled him down into one of the loveseats at the back of the theater. Finally. He’d dreamed of doing it for weeks.

  Their usual spot in the last row of armchairs had a great view, but didn’t allow for the maneuvering he needed with her. The big, cushy black leather love seats gave him plenty of room. With the LED lights twinkling above them like stars in the night sky, they kicked off the best movie night ever.

  He spent most of the movie half-watching the screen but thoroughly kissing Lillian. As the final score streamed through the speakers, they tried to piece together the movie’s plot from the jumbled glimpses they had each managed to catch.

  Between the two of them, they only came up with something along the lines of an invasion by a bunch of blob-like green aliens who melted when exposed to a serum composed of mistletoe and chromium. Aside from the typical, poorly planned plot of a low-budget B movie and the bad special effects failing to garner an ounce of warm nostalgia, nothing about Revenge of the Xalaxi stuck out.

  “I’m no help. You distracted me. I have no idea what we watched,” Sam said with a sigh.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Lillian said. “Honestly, what you described is more than I remember. And your lips are the ones that are distracting.”

  He leaned over and slowly kissed her again, dragging out the heat of it. “I have other body parts that are equally distracting. Wanna get out of here?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. But I have a request.”

  “Anything.”

  “Can we go back to your apartment on Baker Boulevard? I like it better there,” she said, a devilish glint in her eyes. “And I’d like to put your Koowiee robe to good use.”

  God, I’ve found the perfect woman.

  Chapter 31

  Imperial Marching Orders

  Lillian woke up nude and surrounded by sinewy arms, and decided it was the sort of thing she could get used to, with time. Lots of time. And effort. Both of which she was willing to put in.

  For several minutes she lay still, soaking in the comfort of Sam lying next to her. Her eyes finally fluttered open. Bright morning light peeked through slivers of space between the blinds in Sam’s bedroom on Baker Boulevard.

  She stretched, her toes pushing up against the soft flannel Galaxy Trek sheets. Sam stirred next to her. A heavy breath hit her neck. He pulled her closer and nuzzled his face against her, but he didn’t wake. A few seconds passed, and his arm lay limply against her waist.

  Officially an expert on lazy Sunday mornings, the best ones in Lillian’s book involved waking up late to her quiet apartment. Sometimes she lingered in bed, listening to the subtle hum of cars on the street below or the drip of the automatic coffee maker when it kicked on.

  But Sunday morning with Sam put them all to shame. She settled back down to enjoy the moment. Smell the beefy, blue-eyed roses for a change.

  Then her stomach growled. Loudly. She cringed and waited. In a few seconds, her stomach released another rumbling order for food. It gave her a great idea. A home-cooked breakfast for Sam sounded fun. He had a habit of ordering take-out twenty-four seven, and she thought it would be a nice change. Scrambled eggs, toast, and coffee. The perfect meal for an already-perfect morning.

  Lillian scooted away from Sam, who sighed and turned over onto his stomach before sprawling out. She plucked his robe from its precarious position covering the lamp next to the bed, and slipped it on before sneaking out of the bedroom.

  After quietly closing the bedroom door behind her, she inspected the damage to Sam’s living room. The aftermath of their night of passion resembled something left by a mini-hurricane. A strange meteorological event, one mysteriously grabbing only clothes and tossing them around the room. The sofa had been shoved out of place. The TV showed the idle screen of a space exploration beta game they’d briefly played before getting distracted by . . . playing.

  Lillian spent several minutes straightening up. She pushed the sofa back into place, and then folded and stacked their clothes neatly on the two-by-four coffee table. Once through, she searched for her phone. She remembered hearing the ding of arriving texts the night before, but had been too preoccupied to check them. After scouring the room top to bottom with no luck, she gave up and figured she’d try calling it from Sam’s phone later.

  In the kitchen, Sam surprised her by having food in the refrigerator. At best, she expected a jar of pickles and some expired mayo. Both present and accounted for, obviously. But in addition to those containers, she found an unexpired carton of eggs and a pack of plain bagels. She explored the cabinets for several minutes, searching for a frying pan but discovering a variety of strange things as her hunt progressed.

  A pair of rolled up socks in the silverware drawer.

  A box containing a nature documentary series on Blu-ray in an otherwise empty cabinet next to the stove.

  A stack of dusty routers beneath the sink—next to a frying pan.

  As she finished washing the pan, she heard a familiar tune rumbling from somewhere in the living room.

  Dum-dum-dum Daa da-dum Daa da-dummmmm . . .

  Her ringtone sounded muffled. Lillian left the pan in the sink and rushed back over to the sofa, slipping her hands between the cushions. The ring stopped just as her fingers brushed against her phone case. She jerked it out, and on the screen found a missed call from a strange number.

  Twenty missed calls from twenty unknown numbers. Lillian scrolled down and found a dozen texts making absolutely no sense.

  Helena: Let’s discuss b4 moving forward. Rebranding will be huge, tons of work and no going back. Is it definitely necessary?

  Tyler: Getting backlash from some of these cancellations. Left January red carpet event w/ JS on your schedule. Helena says no backing out!

  Unknown: Did I leave my underwear at ur place? The red thong & lace bra?

  What the hell? Did someone sign me up for a spam attack? It didn’t make any sense until a new one popped up on the screen.

  Jacinda Shields: Not answering? I know you said we’d hook up after New Year’s but don’t wait. In NYC now, ready to party!

  That particular flaming piece of spam tipped Lillian off she wasn’t holding her phone. She didn’t have supermodels on speed dial.

  “We have identical phones and the same ringtone,” Lillian mumbled, her mind as useless as a butter knife cutting through cheap steak.

  What are the odds? Apparently, pretty fucking good.

  From dull to razor-sharp, her brain kicked into gear. Lillian marched into the bedroom and straight over to the bed, then grabbed the covers and yanked them down to the floor. Sam’s bare backside greeted her, but she resisted the urge to give it a whack. He groaned, turned his head, and then peeked at her with one eye open.

  “Good morning?” he yawned. “Ready for level ten?”

  “Not on your life.” Lillian tossed the phone onto the bed next to him. “You said you don’t answer to your company or your ex-girlfriends anymore. So explain to me why several of these people seem to be very worried about your rebranding, an
d the others want their underwear back.”

  Sam grabbed the phone, and then rubbed his eyes as he stared at the screen. “This . . . This is out of context.”

  “Red thongs and lace bras are only in one context. The same one as Jacinda Shields and hooking up.”

  “Jacinda never uses that term correctly. She means she wants to meet up, not have sex. Hell, one time I overheard her say to someone that she planned to hook up with her mom the following day for lunch. And I have no idea who has the other number. I’ll admit it’s probably from an old date, but I can promise you that I haven’t gone out with anyone other than you in over a month. In fact . . . ” He tapped the screen. “Cedric?”

  “Yes, Sam,” answered his computerized wingman.

  “Restore the name of this deleted contact and tell me the last time I was near the person.”

  “Yes, Sam. The name of this contact is Tamara Jones. You were within six feet of Tamara Jones on October 20th. At 9:20 p.m., the distance between you and Tamara Jones reduced to ze—”

  “Shut up, Cedric!” Sam screamed at the phone. Then he looked back at Lillian. “See. Old news. Same with Jacinda. I told her we’d grab lunch after the first of the year—as friends.”

  He might have tapped his way off stage when it came to ex-girlfriends, but Lillian wasn’t through watching him dance yet. “And what about the fact you asked your company for permission to date me, and now they’re trying to convince you to do otherwise because it will be too much work?”

  “I did not ask for Origin’s permission. I told them—”

  “You told them? When? Before or after the party? Before or after we slept together? Was it a slideshow, Sam? Were there diagrams?”

  By then, Sam had rolled off the bed, grabbed the covers, and wrapped them around himself. His hair flopped in every direction, and he had the expression of a deer in headlights. Exactly the way she felt.

  “I had to clear my schedule, Lillian, and I had to give a reason for it. I’m the CEO, but I’m answerable to a board of directors and my staff. So, yes, I told my assistant to cancel every single publicity event on my schedule, which set off a PR chain reaction. And of course this was before the party. The party was our big introduction as a couple, and I definitely was not trying to hide our relationship. You said that was what you wanted. What difference does it make how I went about getting it done?”

  “It makes a difference to me. You created Origin as your weapon, and the two of you are inextricably linked. I understand why, but I don’t have to agree with it.” Tears filled her eyes, pressure pounded in her head. “I wanted to be with you. Not you and your company. Not you and Preston Lavery. Not you and your ex-girlfriends. Only you.”

  Sam moved closer, but she took a step back and kept him just out of reach. He tugged on the sheet barely covering his midsection. “You are with me. The real me. The fake me. Every version . . . So why are you talking in the past tense?”

  Lillian said nothing. Not then. If she had, she thought she might have cried instead. She walked into the living room and, with her back to the bedroom door, let the robe fall to the floor. She heard Sam enter the room, felt his eyes on her as she picked up one piece of clothing at a time and, with shaking hands, tried to dress. It was a struggle. Her fingers fumbled with shirt buttons until she gave up, leaving them out of line and only half-finished.

  Lillian turned around to face him, the tears finally breaking free from her restraint and sliding down her cheeks. “I don’t think I can do this again.”

  “Again? What do you—”

  “I can’t be the other woman. I can’t spend my life waiting to be what someone wants whenever they decide they want it. I can’t live worrying about what will happen when shares drop because you’re photographed with me instead of Jacinda Shields. When things don’t go your way, and I’m not enough to make you happy. I’ve fought my entire life, Sam. My strength was used up way before we met. I’m sorry.”

  Lillian headed for the door. When she reached it, her ringtone sounded off again, but this time from Sam’s coat hanging on the rack next to the door. She reached into the pocket and pulled out the phone. There on the screen and hovering over her BU wallpaper was a missed call notification from Tessa.

  One look over her shoulder at Sam felt like another kick to her bruised heart. He stood there staring, barely covered by a Galaxy Trek sheet. Eyes begging her not to go. But the air in the room grew so heavy, she had to choose between staying and suffocating or leaving.

  And so Lillian left.

  Outside, the ice-cold morning air didn’t clear her head the way she’d hoped. In fact, Port Bristol had been blanketed by a heavy morning fog. Just like her brain.

  Lillian yanked the hood of her parka over her head, and then headed down Baker Boulevard. Her footsteps hit concrete like cracks from a bullwhip. The anger passed the time in a red blur. One second, and she was turning the corner onto another street. The next, and her apartment door slammed shut behind her.

  She stood there in the stillness. Home was quiet. Safe. No one and nothing could hurt her there. But heavy strings and horns suddenly cried out from her pocket. The ringtone jarred her back to reality. It had to be Sam, and so Lillian almost didn’t answer.

  Almost. Anger prodded her into pulling the phone from her pocket. She had more to say to Sam Owens. Like she hoped a hell troll sat on his head. So, no look at the screen. No hesitation. Grab. Swipe. Phone to her ear.

  “Did you find the thong and bra or do you keep those in a collection?”

  “Uh, what thongs? I would definitely remember those. And the only things I collect are Quasar Crusades T-shirts and Galaxy Trek action figures so, no to your question,” replied a stranger on the other end of the line.

  Lillian’s eyes widened. She struggled to place the voice with a name. “Oh, I’m . . . I apologize for the, um, outburst . . . Who is this?”

  “Ravi Ganesh. Sam’s friend. We did the Macarena at the party, remember? It’s a bond which cannot be broken.”

  God, can this day get any worse?

  Alcohol occasionally made her do silly things, but the Macarena was beyond the pale.

  She rubbed her forehead. “Ravi. I’m sorry. That wasn’t meant for you. How did you get my number?” She shook her head and added, “Never mind. Cedric, I’m sure. It’s not really good time—”

  “Sam troubles?”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “Oh. I was hoping you two would work things out. Probably not a good time to bring it up, but I hacked Preston Lavery’s security system so now it makes fart noises and his attorney called and said stuff like ‘invasion of privacy’ and ‘litigation’ and ‘imprisonment’ and I was kind of hoping you might break the news to—”

  “No.”

  Most people would have taken the hint. Apologized and quickly ended the call. But after a long pause, Ravi simply dove in deeper. “Hmmm . . . You have failed me for the last time . . . ”

  “Don’t do that.”

  “Don’t do what?”

  “You’re force-choking me. Stop. It won’t work. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

  “Uhhhh . . . How did you . . . Okay, never mind. See, I knew you were cool. Most people wouldn’t have caught that. Anyway, it’s a joke so chill and hear me out on something. Let’s forget about all the schmoopy romance crap for a minute. I heard you quit Mythos in a blaze of glory. I’m impressed.”

  “You’re impressed I’m jobless?”

  She heard a crunching sound. He was eating. Probably one of the trillion cookies he carried around with him. “You’re not jobless. You can work for me.”

  “Work at Origin with you and Sam? No, Ravi. That’s a little like being an alcoholic with an open bar tab and, besides, I signed agreements at Mythos preventing me from working with competitors for th
e next two years.”

  Another crunch. “No, no, no. You can work for me. Not Sam. In kind of an unofficial, covert capacity. I want to start a new division at Origin, or a partner company or whatever. I want to make games. Sam won’t devote any of Origin’s finances toward it. Keeps saying all this nonsense like ‘You’ve got to have a business plan,’ and ‘How are you going to cover the overhead?’ and stuff like that.”

  “I think what you need is to contact an accountant or a corporate attorney dedicated to this sort of work. I mainly deal with intellectual property law, and it isn’t the same thing.”

  “No. I need you. I need someone who gets it. Who believes in what they’re doing and isn’t a yes-person. I have all the info from my accountant. I just need you to give me advice and help me create a business proposal to convince Sam to let me do this. It was our dream and he’s forgotten it, and you’ve made him weak and pliable so now’s the time I need to strike. Hammer to hot iron—pow! I need to remind him . . . and I’ll pay you double what Preston Lavery did.”

  Lillian’s wide eyes nearly popped out of her head. She distinctly heard the sound of a cash register ringing. And there was the little something about it being difficult to ignore Ravi’s impassioned plea.

  “Okay, Ravi. But before you commit to paying me obscene amounts of money, let’s set up a meeting to go over what you want to do.”

  “Cool. Old Henry’s Tavern. Wednesday. Noonish. I’ll be late, just a warning. Can you order fries and a cherry soda for me?” A crunching noise muffled Ravi’s voice before he added, “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Sam.”

  “Me, too, Ravi. Me, too.”

  Chapter 32

  Headshot and Wait to Respawn

  A cutting breeze and bitter cold stung his freshly shaved face as Sam slammed his car door. The pain barely registered. Razor burn hurt a hell of a lot less than the ache in his chest, but he went ahead and turned up the collar of his wool trench coat to shield himself from the Atlantic winter wind.