Love Me Always: A Romance Anthology

by Peyton Banks

  A nervous chuckle escapes me, and I run my hands down my chest, smoothing my favorite waist coat.

  “He’s an ex,” I say lamely, and clear my throat at the expectant looks being sent my way.

  “He was an intern in my final year of residency. There was no future, no expectations, just a few months of...” I trail off, unable to find an adequate word. There isn’t just one word to describe Zion and the few months of unbridled passion I’ve never experienced before or since.

  “It was a moment in time, and that moment passed.”

  “Well, don’t look now, but your moment is heading this direction,” Mandy observes gleefully, and angles her body so I can look at her and see him over her shoulder.

  Something must show on my face, because my team rallies around me.

  “You’ve got this,” Zoe champions, as if I’m a teenager coming out of the closet, instead of a proud out Black man in the prime of his life. But then my stomach drops as Zion closes the distance between us, and I realize maybe I need the pep talk after all.

  “Tremelle,” he intones, and he grips me by my shoulders, leaning in to place a quick kiss on my cheek. His hand trails down my arm as he pulls away, and his fingers skim my waist coat.

  I have to fight the shudder caused from his touch.

  The boy I knew would never have been so affectionate in public, and it’s another blow to my gut how much he’s changed in the five years since I’ve seen him.

  “Z,” I say, genuine pleasure in my voice, “it’s so good to see you.” It is, despite the surprise.

  He smiles at me, sticking his hand into his suit so his thumb rests outside.

  “Zion, please, if you don’t mind. At least while we’re in public.” His voice is deep and assertive, caressing me with every word.

  While we’re in public insinuates that we’ll be speaking in private, and anticipation builds at the base of my spine.

  “Hi, I’m Liam,” comes from the side, and Zion turns his attention to my boss. “Medical Director of East Side Medical.” Liam reaches his hand out, and Zion takes it with a firm grip.

  “Zion King, Fellow at John Hopkins, Surgical Oncology.”

  “Impressive,” Liam congratulates him, and I can’t help but silently agree. There are few better fellowship opportunities out there then John Hopkins. I should know, that’s where I did mine.

  It’s a shock to hear his specialty. He’d been leaning towards following me into cardiology when last we spoke.

  But then, why should he have chosen his specialty simply because that’s what I wanted for him.

  “Oncology,” Zoe preens, “that’d be me.” She steps into his personal space, giving him a closer once over as she offers him her hand.

  Zion shakes Zoe’s hand, then slowly makes introductions with everyone in my company. From behind him, when they’ve left his line of sight, Zoe and Mandy give me a thumbs up. If I was in any other situation, I’d rub my head in exasperation. As it is, I can barely keep my calm façade in place.

  “What track are you here for,” Sami asks, and I’m grateful one of us has the wherewithal to keep a conversation going.

  Zion looks at me, hand back in his suit jacket, before turning his direction to Sami and answering the question.

  “Radiology for the Non-Radiologist,” he says, and he and Sami continue on in this vein, her asking generically probing questions, and Zion looking at me before he answers.

  “You look good, Z,” I say when there’s a lull in the conversation. I’ll admit, him approaching me, hell, even seeing him, threw me off my game a little. But I’m a surgeon, nothing messes me up for long.

  He smiles at me, slow and sensual, and looks me up and down in a way so obvious its bordering on rude. A shiver runs up my spine.

  “So, do you, Tremelle. I’d heard you’d landed in New York.”

  “From whom?”

  “Nah,” he replies with a mischievous smile on his face. “I don’t think I’ll reveal my sources. I may need them again in the future.”

  Zoe makes a choking sound over his shoulder, trying to swallow back her sudden laughter, but Zion doesn’t take his gaze from mine. The silence stretches, before he seems to shake himself out of his reverie. “I better go. I’m only a fellow. I have years of ass kissing to do before I can stand around looking pretty like you schmucks instead of working the room.”

  He makes a turn around the group again, shaking hands and exchanging cards, setting a time aside to sit down with Zoe while he’s in town, before he winks at me and walks away in the opposite direction. His back is straight, his shoulders pulled back, and I swear there’s a sway in his hips as I watch him leave. My stomach swoops at the brazenness of his actions. That is not the boy I remember.

  “So, what’s in your pocket,” Zoe asks, not making any attempt at hiding her amusement.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, trying to reclaim at least some of my dignity.

  “Uh-huh. I’ve played this game before. I recognized the move. Pull it out. Let us see.”

  She’s grinning at me, licking her lips in an obscene gesture that sets the rest of the group off in giggles again.

  My hand, which had automatically risen to cover my pocket, as if it could protect the object hidden from view, moves to slip my fingers inside. I pull out a business card, name and title raised and embossed against the thick card stock.

  “It’s his card.” I say, hoping to leave it at that. I should know better by now. She makes a twirling motion with her hand, the universal signal to continue. I flip it over, and of course, they’d all already seen the writing on the back by the way I was holding it in front of me.

  Moron.

  It has his cell phone number, what I can only assume is his hotel room, and a time.

  9 pm

  Mandy and Sami reach out and high five each other.

  “Remind me to have Logan tell you about his last conference hook up,” Liam says, and the entirety of my friends break into laughter at a joke I don’t understand.

  He tilts his wrist to get a look at his watch.

  “Guess you get to cut out early, after all.”

  I look at my own watch, and see it’s a little after 8 p.m.

  I need another drink.

  2

  Tremelle

  It’s almost 9:30 when I knock on his hotel room door. This is a bad idea. It’s a really bad idea. It broke something inside of me to leave him the last time. To see such a proud man brought so low, all because of my actions.

  But I tell myself, even if I can’t right those wrongs, even if I’d do it again, maybe now we can both get some closure.

  That’s what I use to straighten my spine and give myself the courage to make my way up to his hotel room. Closure. It’s not like me to lie to myself like this. But whatever I have to do to get the job done.

  There’s a pause between my knock and his answer: so long I’m on the verge of turning back, convinced he got tired of waiting on me and left. Or, perhaps, disgusted with my rudeness and tardiness to a meeting of his design, Zion has decided not to open the door after all.

  But eventually, the sounds of the lock releasing and the handle turning echo in the silence of the hallway. Adrenalin floods into my nervous system, and years of training are the only things that keep my hands steady and my knees from quaking in my designer pants.

  Then he pulls the door open.

  The air rushes from my lungs—a sensation I quickly realize I will become familiar with tonight—as I take in the sight of Zion wearing nothing but a towel. He’s decent, as far as these things go. But my gaze devours his bare chest, cataloging the changes and memorizing the new vision in front of me. His skin glows under the light from the nearby lamp, and I eagerly count the indents across his torso from hard-earned muscles.

  The towel around his waist is a bright bleached white, which only accentuates the dark tone of his skin, and the coarseness of the hair sprouting from his chest. His feet are bare, and I remember how boney they
were, and how, when he got cold at night, he always twisted them up with mine.

  “I didn’t think you were going to show.” His voice is bland, sedate. Neither accusing nor encouraging. It’s his doctor’s voice, stating the facts without letting a hint of emotion sneak through. It’s obvious I’m being handled, manipulated to move in a certain direction. The calmness of his persona, however, and the smoothness of his voice, settle my overworked nerves anyway.

  Honesty, I decide, is the best way to play this game.

  “I didn’t think I was either. Seeing you again, it threw me off my game.”

  Zion’s eyes twinkle with determination.

  “Good. I’m going to hop in the shower. Make yourself comfortable. There’s a bottle of Hennessy on the table. Pour me a glass, would ya?”

  At that, he leaves me standing there on his doorstep, as he turns and shuts the bathroom door behind him. Taking a fortifying breath, I pass over the threshold, shutting the hotel door behind me.

  The room, while nice, is simple. A table and set of chairs, a flatscreen tv mounted low above a dresser. A king size bed, with matching end tables on either side. I let my eyes skim over the bed, shutting down wayward thoughts about the strength of the mattress and the padding on the headboard. Zion has always been meticulous, and his watch, phone and wallet sit neat and tidy on a bedside table. A bottle of water and a paperback join them, and I resist the urge to pick it up and check out the title.

  I debate, for a moment, about taking off my suit jacket, but decide that, for this meeting, comfort is more important than decorum. After all, Zion opened the door wearing nothing but a towel. I don’t think I’ll lose much of my dignity removing my suit jacket.

  Still, after I hang it on the back of a chair, I smooth my hands over my vest, making sure everything is in place for the coming confrontation. If that’s what this is. An interview, maybe, between two former lovers, long separated by time and space.

  I shake my head at the ridiculous path my thoughts have taken, and grab a second glass from the dresser, bringing it to the table and pouring a generous helping of the cognac inside, before repeating the process with the glass already there.

  There’s a clatter from the bathroom, as if Zion dropped something, and it forces me to think about what he’s doing right now. Naked, under a stream of hot water. Steam has probably built up in the bathroom, fogging the mirror and giving the appearance that he’s alone in the world. He was always a pretentious little shit, using a scrubber with a loofa on one side and firmer bristles on the other. Right at this moment, soap is probably beading down his body: bubbles leaving trails of clean skin, perfectly ready for a greedy tongue.

  I close my eyes, exhaling in a long push, and take a swig of the amber liquid. I don’t usually drink this much, and I chugged a bottle of water in between our first encounter and this one, to clear my head. Now, I’m thinking, maybe I should have come to his room drunk. It would have made the whole thing easier.

  The shower stops, and my nerves ricochet around in my gut again.

  “Get your shit together, Tremelle,” I mumble to myself, before forcing my body into a more relaxed pose. My knees spread and I rest one arm on the table, leaning back slightly against the chair. Any other time, it might look natural, like I really was waiting for a lover to finish getting ready for a date. And not, by some twist of fate, waiting for the one who got away to come within my reach.

  The door opens and I fight the urge to turn and watch his approach, instead bringing the clear plastic cup back to my lips. Presenting a façade of calm, I’m nowhere close to feeling.

  A façade that shatters when I see Zion is still wearing nothing but that towel. Drops of water slip down his torso as he runs a second, smaller towel over his head. Turning to face me, looking me in the eye, he runs the towel over his arms, his chest, his stomach, then drops it to the floor.

  Zion, the man in front of me, is everything and nothing like what I remember. He causes a chink in the metaphysical armor I’m wearing to break off and fall to the floor.

  “You’re awfully bold tonight,” I comment, forcing tranquility into my voice. He grins at me, a masterful, naughty smile that lights up his face, then drops the towel from around his waist, reaching into his suitcase and pulling a pair of joggers up his legs.

  “It feels like a night for boldness,” he returns, settling the elastic band around his hips before joining me at the table.

  Unlike me, who’s radiating nervous energy, Zion seems completely at ease. He smiles at me and I smile in return, quietly sipping on my brandy.

  “To old times,” he says, lifting his glass in a toast.

  “To old times,” I repeat, doing the same.

  3

  Zion

  I’ll admit, I was nervous as fuck when I checked into the hotel this morning. I’ve had an aura of nervousness and excitement following me around since the day I saw the AMA convention this year would be hosted by East Side Medical.

  The second the location was announced, I began to make my plans.

  I simply wasn’t expecting to feel so...at peace, when I finally laid eyes on him.

  I’ve followed Tremelle’s career since he chose it over me. Knowing, in my head, it was the right thing for him to do. But since when do our hearts ever listen to our heads?

  I spent the first few years studying, working around the clock, determined to be better than he ever was. Aching to get the chance to prove to him I was worthy of his love. I wanted to show him what he gave up by leaving. Sometime in the middle of my residency, I finally believed it myself, and the ache, deep as it was, lessened just a little. When I rose to the top of our class, and the offers started coming in, I realized, maybe for the first time, that I would have done the same in his position.

  As a physician in our field, you can’t give up everything you’ve worked so hard for, for something as fickle and intangible as love.

  There have been other men since he left without looking back. Men I’ve almost loved. Men I thought I could build a life around. Every time, however, every time I got close, it made me think of him, and the relationships faded away.

  When I walked into the ballroom, set up for mingling before the conference begins in earnest tomorrow, I was as prepared to see Tremelle again as I was when I took the MCATS. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was left to chance. I planned for weeks, for months, the way I would flaunt my feathers then leave him in the dust. I wanted, no needed, to prove to myself that I was completely over him.

  All that went out the window the second I saw him across that room.

  I saw Tremelle first. Long before he noticed me. Of course, I had the benefit of knowing he was there. Time has aged him like a fine wine. He’s everything he was before: tall, handsome, built like a linebacker. Only now, there’s a grace around his presence that says he is the man, and he knows his place at the top of the food chain.

  I watched in fascination as he pretended to puff on an imaginary cigar, and smiled at the memories it brought flooding back. I used to laugh at him and his cigars, since no smoking is the number one rule of cardiology. Once a month, though, he’d sit at the window of whose-ever apartment we were at, and puff away, blowing the smoke through the opened glass.

  Just like that, my desires changed.

  My plans for the night shifted from Get Back at Tremelle, to Get Tremelle Back in Your Bed.

  If the way his eyes devoured me when I walked out of the shower is any indication, it won’t be much of a chore.

  “So, tell me, how’s life been treating you? Boyfriend? Husband? Girlfriend?”

  I throw the last on, just to watch him smile at me. He doesn’t let me down.

  “No, to all of the above. But somehow I think you already knew that.”

  I shrug, trying to play coy, but knowing deep down I don’t want to play games.

  “I knew you weren’t married, yes. I assumed you hadn’t switched teams since we’ve last met. I had no intel on your dating life, however, ou
tside of what Google and Instagram could provide for me.”

  His eyebrow arches at my words, and he swirls the liquor in his cup as if it’s the finest brandy in the clearest glass at the swankiest bar in the city. Instead of a clear dixie cup of box store brandy from the drive through.

  “I followed you,” I tell him honestly. “Your career, your life, so much as I could. Maybe it was to torture myself. Maybe to prove to myself that you were miserable without me. You aren’t, obviously, but watching you today, I find I don’t mind it as much as I did.”

  He’s silent for a long moment, taking in the gravity of my words. I bring the glass to my lips but return it to the table without bothering to take a sip.

  “I was,” he says finally, his voice grave and deep. “I was miserable. But I had to go. I’m hoping that you realize that. John Hopkins wasn’t an opportunity I could let pass me by. I owed it to myself, and to you, to take every chance I could and run with it.”

  I don’t have a response to that. Nothing that doesn’t come off sounding petty, or even worse, hurt, so I raise my glass in another silent toast, letting the liquid burn its way down my throat.

  “You’ve done well,” he says, pride lacing his voice. “Oncology at John Hopkins. I couldn’t be more impressed if I tried.”

  Emotions crash through me, pride warring with disappointment, that he hasn’t been following my work like I have his.

  “I could tell you were surprised when I told you earlier.” I sound bitter, some of my well-earned nonchalance finally wearing off.

  “I was,” he replies. His voice is soft, earnest, as if he’s trying to lessen the blow. “I couldn’t look back Z. If I wanted to be a success, I could only look to the future. And looking back at you would have made that impossible.”

  I get that. Now, more than ever. Maybe the concept was beyond my grasp five years ago, but no matter what happens tonight, I’m going to leave this hotel room in the morning and go back to my life. One without him in it. At long last, I realize that leaving me truly was the only choice he had.