by J. L. Mac
“James Lancaster. Nice to meet you. Well, thanks again for your help.”
We shake hands and I realize that I don’t have a number to call if I do see which direction his dog went.
“No problem. Um, is there a number I should call or something if I see him?”
“Oh, oh yes,” he says, pulling a receipt from his pants pocket and the pen from his breast pocket. He scribbles the number down and hands it to me, brandishing yet another bright smile. “See ya, Sadie Parker,” he says with a wink and the way he says it has my nerves tingling with worry. James gets back in the car that he came into the parking lot with and turns back onto the main road.
He seems as harmless as they come, but something just strikes me as suspicious about James Lancaster. The creaking of brakes draws my attention from the receipt in my hand and I look up to see Zander in his red Jeep, looking concerned. He switches off the engine and hurries right to me.
“You’re late. I was worried,” he explains himself somewhat apologetically and I smile to get him to shut his lush mouth. “What?”
“It’s nothing. I wasn’t going to ditch you or anything. Some guy lost his dog. He was asking if I’d seen a black lab around here.” I shrug and hand him the receipt. He looks at it speculatively, turning it over twice.
“Black lab, huh?” Zander mutters then looks up to me with a fierce look in his eyes.
“What?”
“What did he look like?”
“What? He was, um, a black guy maybe an inch or two shorter than you, short dreads, great smile. Really nice. Too nice…” I trail off, furrowing my brows, knowing better than anyone that that man was too—too something. He was chipper, like he was in a good mood. Like he had found something he was looking for when he actually had just lost his beloved dog.
“Key,” Zander grumbles with a tensed jaw, holding out his hand, palm up.
“Excuse me?” My eyebrows rocket up my forehead.
“Your room key,” he demands with a pensive glimmer flashing in his eyes, causing every nerve ending in my body to spark to life, going on high alert.
I shove my hand into my bag to fish out the key. “Zander, you’re scaring me! What’s going on? Who was that guy?”
Zander snags the key from my hand and marches back to my room. He unlocks the door and barges right in. I rush after him, feeling scared and confused. I don’t want to be a victim. Never again. I sidle up next to him, subconsciously seeking a little comfort—safety. I feel safe with Zander.
He groans and closes his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger. “I’ll explain when we get back to my place, but you need to pack up your stuff. I’ll call Miss Dawn and take care of your bill here. You’re staying with me.”
“The hell I am!” I snap back.
“Sadie, please just trust me,” he grates, displaying a fierceness that I had yet to see from him.
I recoil at the sight of it and widen my eyes. Something in his expression tells me that he’s dead serious and isn’t going to budge, but I need answers if he expects me to just traipse over to his place like an obedient little puppy. Staying at Zander’s house has its dangers too, it’s just a different kind of dangerous.
“If I’m not safe here for whatever reason, you tell me now,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
Zander takes a deep breath and turns to face me square on. “I’ll explain when we get there. Just—please trust me.” His eyes tell me everything I need to know. He’s serious.
Zander drives like his life depends on it back to his house. It’s unclear to me if his anger is to blame for his lead foot or if it’s really necessary to drive fast. It could be a combination of the two. I hold the hem of my sundress down as the wind whips through the cab of his Jeep. He comes to a stop and quickly rounds the Jeep to help me out like he’s done since I first rode with him.
He takes the stairs two at a time and lets us into his house. I open my mouth to speak and Zander holds up one finger, silencing me.
“Gotta make a call first, Sadie.” He digs his cell phone from his pocket and punches the screen a few times before bringing it to his ear.
I walk over to his bar to sit and wait, watching him pace anxiously back and forth across his living room. His anxiety is feeding mine, or maybe it’s the other way around, or maybe it’s equal across the board, but my head is tumbling with all kinds of crazy scenarios. Sitting here waiting for answers is becoming more difficult by the second.
“Hey, Trav. It’s Zander. Yeah. Yeah, I know. Listen, we have an issue. You know I wouldn’t call unless it was something that needed handling.”
A long pause passes before Zander opens his mouth to speak again.
“I know. I know. But I made myself clear about security details. I don’t need them. I don’t want them down here. They showed up out of the blue and that shit isn’t acceptable. It’s probably their fault that Jeremiah Lancaster showed up. He tailed them.”
Security detail? Someone tailed someone else?
The way he’s talking has criminal activity written all over it. Another long pause. My eyes are a little wide and I stand up, walking closer to where Zander is pacing. He’s looking down talking to his feet with one hand holding the phone in place, the other resting low on his hip.
“I’m sure. With the fundraising event in a few days, I’m sure he’s digging for something good to splash all over the goddamn news.” His jaw tenses, displaying that twitching muscle. His cheeks flush a little red with obvious frustration. “You could have fucking warned me, Travis!” Zander bellows, making me flinch.
Another pause.
“He approached a friend of mine. He lied to her, saying his name was James Lancaster.”
“Yeah, I’m sure. She described him.”
“She’s—fuck.” He sighs, running one hand through his already beautifully disheveled cinnamon hair.
“She’s the wife of my donor,” he mumbles into the phone, like he’s ashamed.
He can’t possibly feel the same level of shame I’ve felt the last few days.
“I know.” He nods his head. “I don’t want her dragged into this, Travis.”
I chew on my bottom lip, doing my best to wait patiently.
“Right. Yeah. Guess I’ll see you in a couple days. Send Dumbass and his sidekick back down here, will ya? Of course they never left,” he adds sarcastically. “Right. Bye, Trav.”
Zander ends the call, tosses the phone on his couch, and runs both hands through his hair then clasps his fingers together at the nape of his neck, causing his white t-shirt to draw up enough to see a brown trail of hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. His blue eyes look troubled and it makes me sad for him. He’s obviously torn between telling me the truth and continuing our little friendship or whatever it is in the dark, which isn’t an option. He has to tell me what’s going on or I’m going back to Atlanta right now. I cross my arms over my chest, communicating the fact that I’m waiting.
“I’m just going to give it to you straight, okay?” he finally says, his voice so much softer than when he was on the phone.
I nod warily and wait, bracing myself for the worst.
“Daniel McBride is my father. Governor McBride. The man who you met today was a reporter who has a special penchant for putting his nose in my personal business. He’s a reporter.”
“The guys in the car?” I ask, numbly trying to play catch up.
“Security detail sent by dear old Dad himself. Security has been turned up because of the fundraising gala that my dad is hosting on Friday.”
I nod and let his confession sink in. Jake’s heart went to the Governor of Georgia’s son. I can’t believe I didn’t make the connection. I’ve heard him mentioned on the news multiple times in the past for all sorts of shit. The general consensus about Alexander McBride is that he’s a wild child who has been out of control for a long time. That’s always what I’ve heard, anyway. But Zander? He’s as calm and quiet as they come. He
seems to keep to himself as far as I can tell in the eight days since our first email.
“Wow,” I mumble.
“Yeah.” He hangs his head like he’s ashamed and I know the feeling. I’ve felt ashamed of who and what I am a lot in the last couple of years. I walk over to where he’s standing.
“That’s it?” I ask, watching him slowly turn away from me and I swear I hear him say something like “hardly” or “maybe.” I can’t tell what he said, but I know if he meant for me to hear it, he would have said it louder.
So I leave it alone. For now.
“Hey,” I say softly, easing up to him. I reach out to touch his shoulder. “What’s the big deal? So what? Your dad is the Governor,” I state the obvious, trying my best to ease the worry that’s written across Zander’s beautiful face.
“Travis had an idea,” he begins, looking out towards the beach. “The fundraiser that my dad is hosting is back in Atlanta on Friday. Two days from now. He thinks I should bring you to the fundraiser gala as my date. Best if I introduce you to the media voluntarily instead of Jeremiah writing up some inflammatory bullshit, ya know?” Zander glances at me as I absorb what he’s said.
“That guy would do that?” My voice comes out screechy; irritation over some asshole who writes shit that isn’t true has me balling my fists.
“Come here. I’ll show you. There’s a lot of shit on the web about me. Fair warning.”
Zander grabs my hand and leads the way through his house. We head down a long hall and turn going into an all masculine bedroom that I have to assume is Zander’s private space. He drops my hand and I take the opportunity to take a look around. A low profile bed with clean lines and dark stained wood is set against the far wall. The walls are painted a flat gunmetal gray with white crown molding edging the room. A tray ceiling is sort of the focal point. It is for me anyway. My eye is drawn up to admire the crisp white paint of the tray ceiling juxtaposed against the flat gray covering the rest of the walls. The nightstands on both sides of his bed are antique-looking steamer trunks with all the neat hinges, rivets and hardware. Zander’s bedding is really the only splash of color in the entire room. His duvet is a rich blue with thin white stripes oriented across the bed width wise, giving the illusion that it’s bigger than it really is. There are multiple black and white prints framed in thin, simple black frames on the wall. I walk closer to his bed to get a look at the print above his headboard. It’s in a perfectly square black frame and the print is of a mangled piece of driftwood. It’s sitting on the sand so elegantly as if someone had placed it there as opposed to tumbling ashore riding a wave. The horizon and the water is out of focus. The driftwood fills most of the frame and it’s so badly mangled that it’s almost offensive looking. It reminds me of my sculpting style. Somehow, the fact that it’s distorted is where its beauty lies. Most people would say that it’s ugly but my first thought is to wonder what is that piece of art’s history? Where has it been? Who has it seen? What did it endure to become so twisted? How did it make it ashore in one piece? How did it not just disintegrate under the elements that have obviously been so punishing?
“This is…perfect, Zander.” I tear my eyes away from the art just long enough to look to where he’s standing so that I can give him my compliment. Then I allow my attention to move back to the picture.
“Thank you. I think so too,” he says, leaving the alcove where his computer is set up to come closer to me. “My grandfather took that picture here in Tybee. He always told me stories about coming here when he was a teenager. Said it was his favorite place to visit.”
“Your grandfather sounds like my kind of guy,” I say to the picture, allowing my eyes to trace the contours of the misshapen piece of wood that, at some point, was a part of a tree. It must have been living and thriving at some point. Who knows how it ended up cast into the deep, dark, cold water of the Atlantic. Who knows how long it was adrift. Where it came from. I guess none of that matters now; I think I like it better this way. It’s back on dry land as a new version of itself. It’s reshaped, restructured, and boasts its durability like a badge of honor. I like it.
That tiny bit of me that hopes finds something else to hold onto just looking at the picture above Zander’s bed. I reluctantly tear my eyes away from the picture to turn and face Zander. He’s standing at the foot of his bed wearing an expression that makes me want to explore his handsome features with just my lips.
“Is this entirely necessary? Me leaving the motel? I can just go home.”
“That’s the worst thing you could do. He’ll follow you there then others will join him, looking for something new to print in the society pages,” Zander admits, looking stricken with guilt. “It’s my fault. I used to feed them tons of shit to write about and I’ve been flying under the radar for a couple of years. They want something to say about the Governor’s troublesome black sheep.”
“Well, maybe it’s 'cause you’re a handsome black sheep,” I offer, fishing for a smile. A small grin surfaces on Zander’s face and I feel the distinct tug of desire and victory deep in my core.
“Maybe.”
We both take a step towards each other. The air in the room thickens and seems to pulse, taking on a life of its own.
“I shouldn’t stay here. I—we shouldn’t…” I trail off, too much of a coward to actually say what I’m thinking.
“I promise to be the perfect gentlemen, Sadie.”
“It’s not you that I’m worried about, Zander.” I say the words knowing that I’m still considering his offer, even though it’s more like a demand. He has insisted that I stay with him and thinking of the possibility that maybe he feels as protective of me as I feel of him has a little trill of giddiness and a bolt of bravery streaking right through my heart. It’s a spark, an ember that promises to grow to a flame that could somehow burn hot enough and bright enough to incinerate whatever darkness lingers inside of me.
I study his face, hoping that I’m not fooling myself. I search for the glint of something that will tell me I can confess the darkest parts of my soul to him and somehow he’ll bring light to them just by his willingness to face what I believe to be my ugliest parts. My negativity. My sharp tongue. The melancholy that I’d never outwardly admit to holding on to. The self-criticism that goes well beyond the realm of what’s considered a healthy dose. My doubt. The fear that spirals a little more every day, pulling me further into my own hell, that hell born of the worry that I could let go of Jake if Zander where my truth. My promise. Alexander McBride is both my fallen angel delivering me to hell’s gate and the blinding light that serves as my guide, my deliverance to the hereafter.
“Can I tell you something?” I whisper, taking a tentative step to him.
Zander nods his response, standing in place to allow me to come to him. His blue eyes watch me closely with that look of adoration that seems to work wonders on me.
“You scare me,” I say, taking the last step, completely closing the distance between us. “You scare me so much.” I lift my hand and press my palm to his chest, the subtle thump of his heart the only thing I can hear.
“You scare me too,” he confesses.
My lips part, my heart speeds, and what little resistance I’ve kept alive by guilting myself to death crumbles beneath Zander’s powerful presence.
He brings his arms around me and I work hard to bolster whatever courage I may have somewhere inside me. One of his hands goes to my lower back and begins drifting up and down while the other goes to the nape of my neck in search of that lock of hair he twirled before. He’s doing this for me. I know he’s doing it because he thinks that it’s what I want but he couldn’t be more wrong if he tried. I don’t want him to try filling Jake’s shoes. I want Zander to claim his own place and fill his own shoes.
“Zander…” I breathe into the hollow at his collar bone and he immediately moves back from me to read my face. “Not like that.”
His eyes immediately morph into something all his own. His
gaze turns fierce and determined, driven and wanton. He doesn’t say anything, just regards me carefully, skillfully interpreting my expression, the look in my eyes.
“Touch me like Alexander McBride wants to touch me,” I encourage him. “I want you. Just you.”
Fire burns in his eyes and he brings me crashing hard against his chest. “Fuck, Sadie,” he groans. His lips press to my hairline. I wrap my arms around his waist and hold on tight. One hand tangles in my hair while his other hand cups me dangerously close to my ass.
His hands glide over my backside and come to a stop just beneath my ass. He tightens his grip and lifts me to him. I wrap my legs around his middle obediently, my body seemingly resonating the passionate demands of his own. My flip flops fall to the floor. He holds me, cradling me to him like something fragile and important, something of antiquity. I guess in many ways I am those things.
Zander plants one knee into the mattress and carefully lays me out on his bed. My legs stay wrapped around him at the waist, the thin fabric of my panties the only thing keeping my arousal covered. My dress is bunched, barely hiding me from him. His face hovers just above mine, wayward locks of cinnamon falling around his eyes, framing the glittering pools of sapphire.
“You scare me too.”
His lips come crashing down on mine and I immediately lace my fingers through his hair, taking hungrily from him and giving as good as I’m getting. My lips part, giving him access, and he does the same. Our tongues blend together in a back and forth slip against one another. We taste and explore one another unrushed. Zander’s arm slides beneath me and hauls me up the bed without breaking our kiss. The palm of one of my hands brushes against the light stubble on his cheek. My legs tighten around his waist, drawing him closer, and Zander lets out a groan from deep in his throat. His hips thrust forward, meeting mine. A growing ache at my center has me undulating my hips against the bulge in Zander’s jeans. Zander breaks our kiss and goes to work at my neck. He kisses and nips his way down then back up my neck on both sides, feeding my need to release. My heart hammers away in my chest. My cheeks are burning red and the pulsing at my center is near unbearable. God, I want him.
