I push hard on the buzzer once more. The harder I press, the more likely he’ll answer, right? But he’s not the one who answers.
“Hello?”
The voice is somewhat familiar.
“Hi. This is Harley. Is Cam okay? I need to see him.”
“Hold on,” the woman says, and I wait as the buzzer goes silent. I wonder who she is. If Cam has a girlfriend, or a friend, or . . . I cringe inside . . . maybe he hired an escort? Or maybe this woman works in his stable? Maybe she took over from me?
“You can come up,” the woman says, and then buzzes me in. I bound up the steps to his apartment—the entire second floor. I go to knock, but the second my knuckles touch the wood someone opens the door.
“Oh.”
It’s Cam’s receptionist; the woman with the straight blond hair in the perfect bob.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Harley.”
She nods. “I know. Tess,” she says, extending a hand to shake.
“You’re the . . .”
“Yes. I’m the receptionist, and more.”
More. “Is he okay? Because I have this gnawing feeling in my gut.”
“He has a black eye and a cracked rib.”
My heart plummets, and I clasp my hand over my mouth. “No,” I say, shaking my head, as if I can wish away what she said. “Mr. Stewart?”
Tess nods sadly. “Come in. You can see him.”
She guides me through the entryway and into Cam’s living room, where he’s stretched out on the couch, his feet propped up on a coffee table, and his arm wrapped around his midsection, like he’s holding his ribs in place. He’s watching the television, an old episode of Facts of Life on TV Land. When he sees me, he hits mute, and smiles weakly. He’s bruised and battered under his left eye, a small lake of blue ink from where Mr. Stewart must have connected with face.
Then he notices my stomach and his eyes bug out.
“Well, isn’t this a fine how-do-you-do? You been keeping these kinds of secrets from me? Who’s the daddy? Oh, wait. Don’t tell me. It’s your hubby,” he says, and pats the cushion next to him. I sit down.
“Yes, we got married on the same flight Mr. Stewart was on, but I can’t believe he really did this to you. I’m so sorry,” I say, and my chest aches for him—for him taking the hit for me.
“Well, technically he didn’t do it. Some big ass bouncer type who looked like Vin Diesel was responsible. Because if it were Mr. Stewart, I would have grabbed his bald ass, locked him in a choke hold, and made mincemeat of him. But Vinny Boy is a lot bigger and meaner,” Cam says, flashing me a mega-watt smile.
“How can you smile at a time like this? Aren’t you in pain? Doesn’t it hurt?”
“Baby doll, they’ve got these things known as Vicodin, and I fucking love them. Tess gave me two with a nice big glass of cold milk, and bam. I feel no pain,” he says, and Tess perches on the edge of the couch. Cam gazes at her, doe-eyed, and then pats her hand.
My jaw nearly drops when she slides her fingers into his, and clasps his hand in hers.
“Are you guys a couple?” I point from him to her and back.
She nods. “Yes.”
Cam turns back to me, a sappy smile on his face that almost makes me laugh. He’s so loopy right now from the meds. The fact that he’s not moaning and groaning on the floor only makes me feel the slightest bit better. But not much, because I’m responsible for this mess he’s in. “How long?”
He looks at Tess again. “Few months now,” he says. “She got me on the straight and narrow.”
Tess nods proudly.
“Really?”
“Yep,” she says, beaming at Cam with admiration in her eyes.. “He pursued me, and I made it clear he needed to clean up his act, or there’d be no Tess in his life.”
“So you stopped your side business?” I say, shocked that Cam’s no longer a pimp, and no longer a loner.
He shrugs. “What can I say? Couldn’t let a gal like Tess pass me by. I always spied her reading at the desk, and it turned out we had the same taste in books. Besides, getting pummeled in the eye does make a man reassess his priorities in life.”
Tess turns to me. “And I want to thank you for giving him that Sophie Kinsella book,” she says with a flirty bump of her shoulder against him. “We read it together.”
“That’s adorable.” I smile again, and something just feels right about this. About Cam changing his stripes. Even if he never did, I’d still care for him, because his heart is in the right place. But to see him kick his old habits for a woman is even sweeter.
The only problem is, he’s paying my debt, and I can’t let him.
“So, what happened?” I ask again, returning to the issue at hand—the damage Mr. Stewart’s heavy wreaked on my former man. “I feel terrible. This is all because of me.”
“Oh, this one was for the elephants.”
“What?” I ask, furrowing my brow.
Cam sighs deeply, holds his arms out wide, and then winces, as if he just remembered it hurts to gesture like that. “Old Vinny Boy said Mr. Stewart’s elephant charity is way down in donations since the gala. He seems to think there’s a connection between him being stood up by you last summer, and the lack of funds.”
“That’s crazy.”
“I know,” he says. “But what can you do?”
“Cam,” I press. “I need to do something. Or he’s going to keep coming around and hurting you.”
But I haven’t the slightest clue what to do. How on earth can I fend off Mr. Stewart’s random acts of retribution against Cam?
“That man’s crazy. He claimed he’d leave me alone if I shored up his failing charity, but it’s not like I have 50K just lying around. Why does he think I got into the side biz in the first place? Your old man Cam had way too much debt to pay, and I just got myself out of it. Now he thinks I’m going to hand over some blood money,” Cam says, shaking his head.
Tess reaches over and pets his hair. He leans into her touch, and pretends to purr. “Mmmm. That feels good, baby,” he says, and then takes a deep breath. But as he exhales, he winces, his face contorting, his shoulders pulling in.
Shit. I’ve done this to him. I drop my head in my hands. The past is a ghost, lurking in dark corners, hiding in alleys, silent, but dangerous. Even when you think you’ve done your time and made your amends, the past chains you up again, reminding you that you’re a prisoner to all the bad things you’ve done.
Some debts are never paid.
All this time, I thought Miranda would trip me up. That someone from my memoirs would recognize themselves, track me down, and hold my stories against me. But instead, my blood debt is to the man I left alone at a charity fundraiser. A man who loves elephants more than people.
Then my brain hits the brakes, and I swear I can hear my mind backpedal. Not to the gala. But to Miranda.
I raise my head. “Miranda,” I say out loud, her name like a hiss on my tongue.
“Your mom’s editor?”
I can see the deck of cards in front of me, the hand I’ve been dealt. All I have to do is play them right. But I know how to do this. I watched my mother for years. I saw her juggle source after source, story after story. Now all I have to do is play it on the other side. “Cam, do you still have contacts at other papers? Or news outlets? Online? Besides my mom, obviously,” I quickly add.
He blows a stream of air across his lips. “What do you take me for? A one-reporter kind of source? Hell no, baby doll. Haven’t I taught you well? I know everyone.”
“I think I know a way out of this. If there’s a reporter you trust. A reporter who wants to expose the truth.”
Cam nods several times as I tell him my plan. Then he turns to Tess. “Tess, baby, will you bring me my phone?”
“Gladly,” she says.
* * *
Within thirty minutes, the ball is rolling. Cam is juggling phone call after phone call, and pretty soon it’ll be my turn to talk. I’m bubbling over inside, gid
dy with all the possibilities, but strung out on nerves too as I listen to him prime the pump with an online media reporter who he says moves faster than a comet. He covers the phone with one hand, and mouths, “I love this son of a bitch. He’s an eager mo-fo.”
Tess squeezes his arm, proud of her man.
Then I remember my man. My husband.
I dig around in my purse for my phone, but when I find it there are no missed calls from Trey. With the way he’s been on edge for the last week, I figured he’d have checked in by now. I walk over to the window so Cam has some airspace for his calls, and I dial Trey.
He answers on the fourth or fifth ring. But he’s silent, just breathes out a hard, heavy sigh.
“Hey, I have to tell you what’s going on,” I say.
“Oh.” That’s his only reply.
“It’s about Mr. Stewart. And I think it could be good. At least, I hope it will be,” I say, crossing my fingers.
“Okay,” he says, but his voice is dead. It’s as if he’s been turned inside out with emptiness.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You sound terrible.”
He exhales, and it sounds like air leaking out of a mattress.
The little hairs on my arms rise. “What’s going on? You’re freaking me out. Where are you?”
“The Lion’s Den,” he says, and my blood goes cold. That’s what he calls his parents’ building, but only when he’s referring to the pull the women there exerted over him.
“Did something happen?”
Another long, deep exhale. “I think I fucked up, Harley. Big time.”
I close my eyes, and press my hand against the wall to steady my swaying heart. Oh god, please don’t tell me he cheated on me. I don’t think I could take that kind of damage. I’d never forgive him, either. “What do you mean? Did you cheat on me?”
He scoffs. “No fucking way.”
“Then get out of their building and come see me. Now. I’m at Cam’s house.”
“What?” He nearly shouts into the phone, and I have to hold it away from my ear. I give him the address, and he tells me he’ll be here soon.
I return to the epicenter of the apartment, to the virtual war room—Cam’s couch and coffee table. After he finishes his call, he points a finger at me. “It’s showtime, baby doll. Henry from the HuffPo wants to talk to you.”
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath before I call Henry and tell him that I’m Anonymous, the author behind the recent bestselling tell-all sex-tale, and that I was blackmailed into writing it by the editor-in-chief of the publishing house.
Chapter Thirty
Trey
I enter the building of my wife’s former pimp. Technically, this should bother me. But I am wrecked, and all I can think about are those green eyes.
Scratch that.
There are other thoughts invading my brain now, too, smashing into each other like mad bumper cars. Like the fact that Teddy is about two and a half, and the math adds up. Like the fact that she let me fuck her free-range, telling me she was on the pill. Like the fact that she said her husband never had sex with her. Like her saying Teddy is artistic, too, because that’s what Sloan and I talked about—sex and art, art and sex. She was the only one I remotely felt a thing for. She was a painter, and we had that connection, and we talked about creating.
What if we created a kid?
How fucking irresponsible can I be? Knocking up women, left and right. I deserve a million scars. I should be locked up. I need to put my dick in jail.
When I reach the second floor, Harley is holding open the door. She lets it fall shut behind her, so we’re standing in the hallway outside Cam’s home.
This is more surreal than a Dali. But then, that’s my life these days. This month. This year.
She reaches for me, brushes a hand through my hair. Her touch is so soft, so sweet, and I don’t deserve it.
“What’s going on?” she asks, and I can hear the potholes in her voice. They match mine.
I lean against the wall, bang the back of my head against it twice, three times. “I ran into this chick I used to . . .” I let my voice trail off. She knows what I mean, and she grimaces. “I saw her in the lobby with her—” I stop talking, and it’s as if I’m being cut by words. They are slicing my throat, turning me mute.
Then she gasps. “Oh my god. The kid with the green eyes.”
My jaw drops. “You saw him?”
“Before we went to San Diego. When we were having dinner with your parents and I lost my earring in the lobby. Oh my god. He has eyes just like you,” she says, and her face turns pale.
I hold my hands out wide. “I know,” I say, the desperation coating my voice. “And Sloan, she made these comments that made it seem like he was my kid. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’ve finally started feeling like I’m ready to be a father to our baby, and then this. What the hell? What if I have a kid already that I didn’t know about? And shouldn’t I be here, trying to help raise him or something?”
“Slow down, Trey. Just slow down. Did you talk to her? Did you ask her?”
“No,” I say as if that’s a crazy idea. “I just ran into her. How was I supposed to ask her?”
“I don’t know, but even if he has your eyes and looks like you, you still need to just ask her.”
“And then what?”
“And then, deal with it then,” she says, parking her hands on her hips. She no longer looks white as a sheet. She no longer seems scared. She is so strong, and I want to siphon off just one-tenth of her courage.
“But what if I’m going to be a terrible father?”
She shoots me a sharp-eyed stare. “You’re not. You’re going to be a great father. But Trey, you don’t even know if this kid is yours, and we’re standing around conjecturing, and it’s kind of ridiculous. You need to man up, and go talk to Sloan.”
I cringe when she says her name. Because I hate that Harley even knows the name of someone I used to sleep with—as if all my shame has been dug up with a shovel and tossed in front of me. “Fine. I’ll go there tomorrow.”
She juts her chin out at me. “Tomorrow? She just went into her apartment tonight. It’s eight-thirty, and she has a two-year-old. She’s home now. You go take care of this now,” she says pointing wildly to the street, making it clear I need to get my shit straightened out.
“But what if . . .”
“What if what?” She stares hard at me. “I don’t want to play ‘what if’ games. I want you to find out, and then we’ll deal with it.”
I let out a breath I barely realized I was holding. “We’ll deal with. Together, right?”
She smiles once, and shakes her head. “I’m married to you now. Yes, together. Didn’t you once tell me there’s nothing on this planet we cannot get through?”
“Yeah, when you were worried about your memoirs after I redid your ink.”
“Well, I’m taking care of my memoirs now.”
“You are?”
“I have a plan,” she says, and then holds up her index and middle fingers, crossing them as she tells me her idea, and it’s daring.
“That’s ballsy.”
“I hope it works,” she says, a touch of nerves invading her bravado.
“It will,” I say, giving her the confidence I wish I felt in myself.
“You go take care of your stuff, and you call me later.”
* * *
This time I don’t stand frozen by the elevator. I walk purposefully down the hall to her door. I shut off my brain. I tie up my heart. And I stuff any fear down the garbage chute.
I raise my fist to knock.
Ten seconds later, I can hear someone sliding the chain, unbolting the door, and opening it.
Sloan answers, with her brown hair piled high on her head in a twist, a slouchy sweater revealing a bare shoulder, and a glass of red wine in her hand.
Music plays softly from inside her plush apartment, and I think it’s
Sade’s Never As Good as The First Time. Talk about the lion’s den. More like an alligator pit.
“Trey, how are you? Do you want to come in?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
She opens the door all the way, and I cross the threshold into her home. It’s entirely different from when I used to visit her after school. Back then, her place was stark and sleek, with chrome bar stools lining the kitchen counter, and gray couches with sharp edges. Now, the masculine hardness is gone, and it’s all soft femininity—vases of fresh flowers line the table, the couch is a lush cranberry color, candles are lit, and artwork hangs on the walls.
“Teddy’s asleep. Can I offer you a glass of wine?”
“No, thank you,” I say, and it’s the first time she’s ever offered me alcohol. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since I’ve been old enough to drink. She sits on her soft couch, and folds up her long legs under her.
I follow her into the living room, but don’t join her on the couch. I shift back and forth on my feet, glancing around. “So, um, do you live alone now?”
“Just Teddy and me,” she says. “And it’s wonderful.”
“Cool,” I say, and my palms are sweaty so I rub them against my jeans.
“Why don’t you sit?” She gestures to the open space on the couch next to her. I sink down on the end by the armrest, as far away from her as I can be.
“So, how are you?” I ask, wishing there were a simple way to ask the question I’m here for.
“I’m great. I have a show at the Hager Gallery in a month for some of my paintings, so I’ve been busy prepping for that. As well as getting settled back into the apartment,” she says, gesturing broadly around her home.
I swallow. My throat is so damn dry, I almost wish I took her up on her offer for wine. “You said you just moved back in the building,” I say, repeating what she told me in the elevator simply to get the conversation started.
She nods, and then runs her long, manicured fingernails through her hair, the strands falling through her fingers. “Yes, I divorced my husband shortly after you and I were involved,” she says. Talk about cutting through the bullshit. But then, Sloan was always direct. Like the day three years ago when she told me bluntly that she wanted me, and within an hour we were tangled up in her sheets. “But I moved out for a while there, when we were in court. We recently settled and I got the apartment, so I moved back in.”
Every Second With You Page 16
