Last Second Chance

by Caisey Quinn

  “I feel like there is much to learn from you, wise one,” Stella said, only half joking.

  “Yes, young grasshopper. Watch and learn. Although, in hindsight, maybe I should’ve let him buy us another bottle.”

  Both women giggled as they eyed the now empty bottle of wine.

  “Would you be totally disgusted if I licked the plate?” Stella nodded to the sweet and spicy barbecue sauce remaining on the plate.

  Her friend laughed. “That should take care of any more unwanted male attention.” She glanced around. “Nah, it’d actually probably send some of them right on over.”

  “Yeah right.” Stella wiped her mouth and hands with her napkin and sighed. “So you already know I’m lusting after a man I can’t have. What’s your story?”

  At that, the consistently even-keeled woman’s eyes went wide. “Oh, you don’t want to know.” She waved her hand between them, but Stella could tell that the nonchalance was feigned. She’d perfected that very same act herself.

  “Sure I do. But only if you want to share. I know we don’t know each other very well, but the only ears I’d be in danger of repeating your story to are firmly attached to a thousand-pound horse named Shadowdancer.”

  “Shadowdancer?”

  “He’s my therapist,” Stella informed her without cracking a smile.

  “Ah.” Miranda took a deep breath. “Well, since I’m guessing Shadowdancer is a pretty good confidant, I can tell you that once upon a time I was very young, and very stupid.”

  “Weren’t we all?” Stella said softly. Due to her new friend’s profession and her guarded demeanor, she suspected that Miranda typically did more listening than talking. She felt honored that the woman was opening up to her.

  “Oh, I was exceptional at it.” The woman’s silky blond hair swayed gently as she shook her head. “Travis Clanton was a bull rider, and a damn good one. Even in high school, he was let onto a professional circuit. I would’ve followed that boy anywhere.”

  “Was he cute?”

  “Good God, he was sex personified.” Miranda’s ivory cheeks pinked. “But you know, boys like that…”

  Again, Stella felt like the Queen of Naïveland.

  “Have trouble staying faithful,” she finished for her edification. “But that wasn’t even the problem.”

  Stella couldn’t imagine how that wouldn’t be a problem. It would always be a deal breaker for her.

  The dreamy light faded from Miranda’s clear blue eyes as they clouded over. “He got hurt. Badly. Several times. But he was young, and his family needed the money. So he started taking painkillers so that he could keep riding.”

  Stella felt like the air had been sucked out of her lungs by a high-powered vacuum. “Oh,” she breathed out.

  “Yeah.” Moisture began to well in the woman’s eyes. “So I made him choose. The pills, the girls, the booze, and the bulls…or me.” She shrugged as she dabbed at her eyes with a cocktail napkin.

  “He chose them,” Stella said quietly, the residual pain from her friend slowly seeping over to her.

  “I don’t know.” Miranda swallowed hard. “He OD’d in a hotel in Tulsa before he told me what he’d decided.”

  Oh God. Sheer panic gripped her. Talk about an unexpected turn. She hadn’t expected the woman’s story to end that way. She’d thought they were going to get more wine and toast to men being assholes.

  She didn’t know how to comfort people. Not being in the habit of confiding in others, she was usually glad that they returned the favor. She spoke in the soothing voice she was used to using with Shadowdancer.

  “I’m so sorry, Miranda. I can’t even begin to imagine what that must’ve been like for you.”

  “Dear Lord, I didn’t mean to turn Girls’ Night Out into a pity party. Sorry.” She huffed out a breath. “He’s been gone eight years. But he’s why I took this job after finishing medical school. If I can help someone before they lose their life—and before the people who love them lose them to addiction—then I want to be in their corner for that fight.”

  Stella nodded. A shameful heat burned in her cheeks. That was an awfully noble reason for working at SCR. She’d just been mostly hiding out from home.

  “Have you, um, dated anyone since then?”

  Her friend’s gaze dipped downward. “Not exactly. I’ve um, hooked up, I guess you could say, with a few guys just to blow off steam. But no, nothing serious.”

  “You look so young. Eight years seems like—”

  “I’m twenty-seven. I’ll be thirty before you know it,” Miranda told her. “But thanks for the compliment. What are you? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

  “I’ll be twenty-three in a few weeks.”

  “We’ll have to go out again to celebrate. Can I give you some unsolicited advice from someone who wishes someone would’ve given her some at twenty-two?”

  Stella smiled, grateful that Miranda seemed slightly lighter after getting her story off her chest. And that she wanted to hang out again. “Sure. Shadowdancer sucks at advice.”

  Her friend grinned, but then her expression went deathly serious. “If you are just lusting after him, give it two months until he’s out of SCR and meet up and get him out of your system when it won’t cost you your job.”

  Stella bit her lip. Two months left meant he’d hit his thirty days. Thirty days meant he’d been moved into one of the private residences and out of the main facility. Two months had never seemed so long. This past week alone had felt like torture. Like someone had breathed life into her and then stolen it right back.

  “But if it’s more than that,” Miranda continued, “like maybe you want to pursue more than one night with him, then put your two-weeks notice in and tell him how you feel. Sooner rather than later.”

  Stella opened her mouth to deny that this was even in the realm of possibility, but her friend wasn’t finished.

  “Maybe that seems extreme. But you don’t always get a tomorrow, Stella. Believe me I know.” Her eyes began to fill again. “Everything ends one way or another. Love, lust, life. And when it’s over, when it’s all said and done, it will be the things you didn’t say that will haunt you.”

  Van’s face, those intense ocean-in-a-storm eyes of his, flashed in her mind. She wanted to see him. Right then. So damn badly. It was worse than want. It was need.

  Both women were quiet as they drove back to SCR. When they parked in the designated employee area, Miranda turned to her, glancing down at the fingers Stella had knotted in her purse strap.

  “Well this was fun. Sorry I’m such a bowl of sunshine. I’ll try to tamp it down next time.”

  A nervous giggle escaped Stella’s throat. “Honestly, this was the most fun I’ve had…maybe ever. So I’m not sure what that says about me, but I bet you could have a hell of a time psychoanalyzing my dysfunction.”

  “Nah, I’m off the clock,” her friend said with a wink. “Hey, Stella?”

  Half out of Miranda’s car, she glanced back to see if she’d forgotten something.

  “I can’t say much without risking my job—patient confidentiality and all that—but I’m pretty sure you’re going to risk yours, so I have to say something.”

  “Okay.”

  “What I said about struggling to overcome addiction being like fighting a battle? He’s fighting a bad one. Worse than most of the folks here. So…just know that if you’re going to stand in his corner, you need to commit to staying in it. You’re probably going to get a few bystander injuries if you get too close.”

  Stella nodded to acknowledge that she’d heard the woman loud and clear.

  She’d heard the warning. She had. But picturing Van fighting a battle with an invisible enemy he couldn’t see made her stomach turn. Because she was pretty sure he was fighting alone, the corner behind him heartbreakingly empty.

  It went against everything she knew that made sense. But the knowledge that he needed her to be in that corner was soul deep.

  Van was much more comfort
able in his new living arrangement. Granted, his penthouse apartment in LA it wasn’t. And the fucking buffalo head above the fireplace wasn’t exactly his style, but he and Dave—that’s what he’d named the buffalo—weren’t doing too badly for themselves.

  A small kitchenette, which he had no plans to cook in, took up one corner. A round wooden table and chairs separated that from the living area, which was really just a brown leather couch, a fireplace, and a flat screen. A decent-sized bed that was a hell of a lot more comfortable than the one in his initial room had been took up most of the floor space. A tiny bathroom with a stand-up shower stall was all that was beyond that.

  It was only his second night alone in what tiny bit of privacy the facility allowed, but he felt like he could breathe. There was just the one thing. The bed.

  It wasn’t built for one like his bed in the main facility. No, this one could easily fit two. Or more. In his past life, he’d have seen how many nurses he could fit in it at the same time. But in this life, it was the image of one woman writhing in that bed in all her naked glory that taunted the ever-loving shit out of him.

  Since Vanessa had made her grand appearance, Stella Jo had barely looked at him. Her avoidance was affecting him in a way that no other woman had. He wanted her to look, wanted to see that ravenous need flash in those gorgeous eyes, ached to watch those luscious lips of hers part in surprise when he told her what he wanted to do to her.

  So far he’d just watched TV, perused the Field & Stream magazines under the coffee table, and then lay in bed reenacting the one time she’d claimed his mouth like she was competing to become the world champion of tongue kissing. Fuck. Even thinking about her tongue sent him down the painful blue-ball spiral of doom.

  After he’d showered and brushed his teeth, clear eyes stared back at him from mirror over the bathroom sink.

  Swiping the condensation from the mirror so he could get a better look, he sighed. Sure, he’d been sober thirty days. And he was even doing his damnedest to behave during therapy sessions. But no matter what he did, that man in the mirror would remain the same. Damaged with a fucked-up past. The demons peeked over his shoulder, reminding him that Stella Jo Chandler was a hell of a lot better off without him.

  Or is she? the demon of selfish destruction whispered in his ear.

  Sometimes she looked so lost, so empty. Like maybe she needed him, needed someone rough and vehement like him who’d give it to her how she needed, who wouldn’t judge her no matter what, and who would always want and accept her.

  He couldn’t imagine anything that could make him want her less. If anything, the closer they’d gotten, the more he wanted to know. She was the one drug he’d never get enough of. Never be able to force himself to detox out of his system.

  The past few nights he’d been told by Jesse that things were handled and he wasn’t needed in the barn. He’d been sent to do other tasks, like clear out fallen tree branches on the riding trail and clean out a shed way out on the property.

  He’d seen a stream with a small bridge over it, and the first thought in his head was, Stella Jo would love this.

  What the fuck was that about? Really?

  He wasn’t the kind of man who had those thoughts. His thoughts about women were limited to Yes, I’d like to fuck that one and No, I would not like to fuck that one. And usually, once he was free of his manacled mind via his usual cocktail of coke and bourbon, they all fell into the ‘free to suck his dick’ category.

  He was pretty sure a line had formed once.

  His mind danced around like a boxer in a ring. Corner to corner. Back and forth. Past and present.

  He’d tried to come up with something, some way to get her to talk to him, to let him explain about Vanessa. He’d research and explain quantum physics if that’s what it would take to get her to listen. But explaining about Vanessa always led to explaining about Val, which would lead to explaining about himself, and shit on that shit. No way she was ready for all that.

  If he told her everything, the dark memories that fueled his addictions, she’d probably jump on Shadowdancer and ride him as far away as the beast could run.

  Just as he settled on the couch to watch whatever was on one of the nine channels he actually got, a gentle knock rapped lightly on his door. He hit the mute button on the remote and the time appeared on the flat screen. It was after ten. Who the hell would come knocking this late?

  Dropping the remote and adjusting his boxer briefs, he contemplated putting on pajama pants. But hell, it was late by facility standards. Whoever would come around this time of night would just have to deal.

  The more he thought about it though, the more he suspected it might be someone who would prefer him in less clothing. If it was one of the groupies he’d somehow amassed here, he just wouldn’t answer. Yanking on a pair of black pajama pants, he heard another knock. It was slightly firmer this time.

  “Hold on a damn second,” he muttered under his breath. Thankfully his door had a peephole. As soon as he glanced out of it, he realized he must’ve already been asleep. Clearly he was dreaming.

  Stella Jo Chandler stood on his small wooden porch looking like a wet dream come to life.

  Van opened the door without a word. He just propped on it and waited for her to tell him what in the actual fuck she was doing there and why she wanted to kill him. Surely she knew how he felt. He’d thrust his rock-hard cock against her during one of their last encounters for God’s sake. So showing up like this, in a tight-ass dress with fuck-me heels on was obviously an attempt at his undoing. It was working.

  Eyeing her long bronze legs and that perfect spot between her thighs where the skirt ended—the one he wanted to explore with his hands, tongue, and his dick—was rapidly destroying him. He was mere seconds from falling to his knees and begging her to tell him what he could do to make any and all of those fantasies a reality when she spoke.

  “I don’t want you to be alone in your corner.”

  Van tilted his head as if looking at her from a different angle would help that make sense.

  “I get it now. It’s…it’s a fight. A battle. I don’t want you to fight alone in your corner.” The words came out slightly slurred. So she’d been drinking. Well, if alcohol lowered her inhibitions and loosened her lips, he’d take what he could get. He wouldn’t be acting out any of his dirty thoughts as long as she wasn’t in her right mind to decide, but he’d take an inebriated Stella over no Stella at all.

  “I see. Would you like to come in?”

  Hesitation flickered in those beautiful eyes. “It might not be allowed,” she whispered like they were little kids with a secret.

  He whispered conspiratorially as well. “It probably isn’t. But I’m thinking it’d be safer to talk inside instead of risking someone seeing you on my doorstep past your bedtime.”

  “I don’t have a bedtime, silly.” Stella giggled as she stepped inside, and Van was pretty damn certain it was the sexiest sound he’d ever heard. His dick had taken notice as well. Great. This was going to be an exercise in restraint. Those were always fun.

  “Uh, I’d offer you something to drink, but all I have is bottled water.”

  Once she was inside, Stella seemed to realize where she was. Her cheeks darkened past pink to crimson. “I’m not thirsty.” Her eyes met his and she licked her lips.

  He had no idea what had gotten into her, but he wasn’t one to complain.

  “So what can I do for you, Miss Chandler?” He had some ideas. But he figured it was best to let her say whatever she wanted to get off her intoxicated mind.

  “I’ve been unfair to you and…” Her gaze shifted off of him and on to some unidentifiable point in the distance. “And no one’s guaranteed tomorrow, right?” Before he could agree, she rushed on. “And I don’t know what to do because I’m so screwed up and I don’t want to put that on someone in rehab who already has enough to deal with. You know what I mean?” Her eyes met his in search of understanding.

  Van
scratched his head. “Can’t say I’m completely with you, cowgirl. But I’m trying to keep up.”

  She huffed out a breath the way someone on the verge of a hissy fit would. Like that temperamental horse she liked so much. She was pretty damn cute when she was drunk.

  “If you say you’re not engaged, then I should believe you. Because who am I? It’s not like my opinion matters so much that you’d waste all that energy lying to me.” A worry line appeared between her eyebrows. “But that girl looked like…like she belonged with you. And I look like, like…” Helpless eyes met his, and he felt the roaring flames flaring in his chest.

  Her opinion doesn’t matter? Her opinion was the only one that mattered. When the hell had that happened? Using a finger to tilt her chin up, he stared into her eyes until he’d penetrated the hazy layer of her buzz.

  “I am not engaged. And for the record, you look like the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid eyes on.”

  There it was. That little gaspy, mouth-opening thing she did.

  “Van.”

  “Stella.”

  A small fit of laughter burst from her. “Van and Stella. VanStella. Vanella!”

  He rolled his eyes and shook his head before stepping farther into her personal space. “Babe, I can guarantee nothing we do together will be vanilla.”

  That sobered her laughter immediately.

  “They say you’re a madman,” she breathed, unfiltered panic lighting that gorgeous gaze. “You break stuff, trash hotel rooms and tour buses, and—”

  “I know what they say, sweetheart. Some of it might be true. Question is, do you believe it? And how much do you really care?”

  Exposed vulnerability poured out of her eyes when she returned his stare. “I believe you could wreck me. I believe you could make me feel things, things I’d never want to stop feeling. And then…my heart. I’m afraid you’d trash it just like those hotel rooms and tour buses.”

  He had to pull every ounce of inner strength he had to his core to keep from stumbling backwards.