by J. L. Mac
***
I rifle through my bag for the best outfit, finally deciding on the last clean sundress I brought with me. As if I have any other alternative. I don’t have time to go shopping and just about every other option is either dirty or not suitable for this short trip back to Atlanta.
I pull the linen coral A-line dress over my head and smooth it down. It has an empire waist and a ‘50s kind of flare to it that has always made me feel a little Grace Kelly-ish when I wear it. The hem is scalloped and falls just below the knee, which makes my cork wedge sandals look even better paired together with the simple but elegant dress.
“Shit,” I mumble to my reflection when I realize that I didn’t bring my hair dryer since I knew I’d be staying in a motel that furnished one.
I see Zander come into view in the doorway of the bathroom. His blue eyes examine me head to toe, sending goosebumps spreading across my skin.
“Wow,” he mouths.
“Oh, stop it,” I shake my head, smiling bashfully down at my makeup bag as I zip it up. My makeup is done in my usual way. My perfume is sprayed in all the right places. My hair will just have to work this way. It will air dry and hang like a wall of brown down my back.
“Ready to get out of here?”
I take a deep breath, giving myself another look in the mirror. “Yep. Let’s burst some tabloid bubbles.”
Zander smiles, but I can tell that he’s tense over me being tossed into his world. It’s intimidating as all hell, but neither one of us needs a bunch of lies and bullshit being plastered everywhere. I’m no secret mistress. I’m no knocked up girlfriend. I’m not a transvestite prostitute. I’m Alexander McBride’s friend who will be his date tonight. At least, that’s the story the media will be spoon fed.
***
“I can officially check ‘fly on a private jet’ off my bucket list,” I say to Zander as we board the small aircraft. It’s small but opulent and impressive. It works to ratchet up my nervousness a little and I consider jumping back onto the tarmac to suck down one of my emergency cigarettes or at the very least, wash down one of my anxiety pills. I decide against both and try to focus on Zander. He sits across from me in the small cabin. I settle into the plush beige leather seat and buckle myself in. Zander doesn’t buckle in and it makes me feel like the newbie that I am. “The cool kids don’t use seatbelts?”
“Nah,” he waves his hand dismissively, “it’s a pretty short flight. I’ve been on this thing plenty of times.”
“I see,” I say as I lean over into the aisle and peek into the cockpit, where the pilot is doing all kinds of stuff with a million different switches and knobs and toggles. I grimace a little as my nerves run away with me.
“Hey. You ignoring me?” Zander taps my foot with his, drawing my attention back to him and I’m thankful for it.
“What if I am?” I jest.
“Well…I guess I’d do my best to get your attention,” he says seductively as he leans forward, prowling closer to me, his blue eyes smoldering.
“Nuh-uh. No way. This tin can is way too small,” I murmur, shaking my head and wagging my finger at him simultaneously.
Zander smiles a crooked grin and sits back in his seat. “Fine, but you can’t hold out forever,” he says with a devilish wink.
Fuck. He’s hot and sexy and charming and sweet. I swallow hard, doing my best to ignore the warm tingling that is growing between my legs.
“Okay. Time for more twenty questions,” he declares. I think it’s his way of keeping me distracted for the duration of this flight.
“Okay.” I nod. “You go first.”
“Will you ever try sculpting again?”
“I would, but when the creativity, the inspiration, isn’t there…it just isn’t there. There isn’t an on and off switch for that. Wish there was,” I explain. Some days I think a little flicker of creativity is trying to grow, but then it dies and any desire to sculpt again dies with it. “I don’t really have a studio anymore anyway.” I shrug, ready to change the subject. “What kind of music do you like?”
“All kinds. It really just depends on my mood. You say anymore. What happened to the studio?”
“I trashed it like a maniac. It was right after Jake died. I just…I was so angry and I felt like just destroying something. So my studio got the worst of it.” I make my admission shamefully. “It was an irrational thing to do, but it felt good at the time.”
Zander studies me carefully, reading me so easily. It’s unnerving.
“If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be?” I ask him.
“Who I was before,” he answers immediately. “I didn’t deserve another chance. I’d sleep better at night if I felt like I deserved any of this, if I felt like I deserved to be right here, right now with you.” He turns away from me for the first time since we boarded the plane and pretends to look outside at the clouds that are now just below us.
When I asked that question, I assumed he’d say something trivial and silly. I didn’t expect that. My heart aches for the handsome, kind man sitting across from me. I unclip my belt and smooth the back of my dress as I move across the space between us and help myself to his lap. “Don’t say stuff like that. You’re amazing,” I say, taking his defined jaw in my palms and forcing him to look at me. The regret I see in his eyes mirrors my own. Right here, in this moment with Zander, I can feel the connection between us strengthening. Whatever I am, whatever he is, we are one in the same. Two people who have been so very lonely and awful and live with guilt that refuses to fade. If anything, with every passing minute of solitude, the guilt, the sadness—it grows.
Zander searches my eyes like I search his. His mouth comes down on mine in a passionate kiss that spells out his gratitude and his need. I open myself to him, letting him plunder my mouth, taking whatever he needs from me. He kisses me hard then breaks away, leaning in and resting his head high on my chest.
“I miss you,” I mumble with my chin resting against the top of Zander’s head, swathed in his perfectly tousled cinnamon locks. It’s the truth. I miss him even when I’m right there with him. It’s an odd emotion, one that I’m not yet familiar with. I never felt like this with Jake. With Zander it seems that I’ll never get enough. Not ever.
“I’m right here,” he reasons.
“I know.”
“I’ll always be right here, Sadie.” One of his hands drifts up my thigh under the fabric of my dress. His fingers squeeze and knead at my flesh. “I need you. I want you,” he whispers, his lips brushing lightly against my chest. The way he said those words makes me wonder just how much is behind them.
I spend almost the entire 55 minute flight in Zander’s lap, holding him and letting him hold me. He took what he needed and so did I—soft touches, lingering kisses, and meaningful looks. So much about him feeds my soul. So much about Zander soothes the frayed parts of my heart.
I find companionship in him. I find comfort. I find chemistry. I find that something that is terrifyingly similar to what home feels like. It’s a sensation that makes me deliriously drunk on the idea that I could be happy again.
Happy with Zander.
At the same time, it scares me so much. I’m not ready to let go of Jake. How could I possibly have enough room in my heart for both men? I know that I can’t. I have to pick. Someone has to go and no matter the choice, heartbreak is inevitable. It’s either me with the broken heart because I’ve moved Jake out of that sacred shelter forever or it’s Zander who get’s left in that lonely beach house to live out his life in the little private prison he has made for himself. Tormented tears threaten to spring up in my eyes as the captain announces our descent into Atlanta.
“Buckle up, baby,” Zander orders softly, scooting me from his lap.
I scoot back in my seat and watch Zander get on one knee to adjust my belt and buckle it for me. His eyes meet with mine and remain there for a long moment. A plea can be seen in those blue eyes. It’s one that I know he would never say o
ut loud. He doesn’t think he deserves to even ask it of me, but then again, he doesn’t have to. I can see it crystal clear.
“Make room for me,” his eyes urge.
Without looking, he pulls the strap snug across my lap and leans in. I take his handsome face in my hands and kiss him, doing my best to relay a message of my own.
“I’ll try. Don’t give up on me. I’ll try,” I convey to him with only my lips on his.
I hope he reads me like I read him, because I can’t say my words aloud either. They only remind me that someone’s going to get hurt soon and quite frankly, I’m not sure that either one of us are in any condition to endure any more than we already have.
We are the forlorn consoling the sorrowful, neither one in a real position to help the other, but wanting to nevertheless.
Chapter Nineteen
Easy Concessions
Sadie
The jet taxis right up to a black Lincoln with heavily tinted windows. We jar slightly, coming to a full stop, and Zander wastes no time getting us off the plane and into the waiting car that is obviously for us.
A beefy man opens the back door then stows our bags in the trunk. Zander’s hand on my lower back ushers me forward into the leather bench seat. I smooth my dress and take a deep breath. I’m startled to see the back of another man’s head sitting in the front passenger seat of the Lincoln.
“Hey, Trav,” Zander mumbles.
“Zander. How you been, man?” The man he called Trav turns around in his seat to face us.
“Travis, this is Sadie Parker. Sadie, this is Travis Casin. He works for dear old Dad,” Zander explains, buckling his seatbelt.
I turn my attention to the middle-aged white man in the passenger seat. He’s handsome. Well-dressed, from what I can see. Unassuming. Salt and pepper hair that’s more pepper than salt. I smile courteously and lean forward to take the hand that he offered.
“Nice to meet you.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, ma’am.”
“So what’s the plan for tonight and in the days after, Trav?” Zander asks, all business.
“Well, we didn’t have much notice, so we’ve been doing some damage control as far as social media and public knowledge. There’s nothing much to cover, though, so it’s been pretty to the point. We’ll just feed them the information and nothing else. It’s important that she not give them any reason to take photos or chase her. Low profile. You know the drill.” The man in the front seat rambles on at a rapid pace, his head facing forward.
“Travis,” Zander growls with a clenched jaw.
“I’m sitting right here. You can talk to me, you know,” I interject, sparing no insolence.
Travis holds his hands up in mock surrender but doesn’t look back at either one of us. Nor does he apologize. “Ma’am—” he begins.
“Sadie. Call me Sadie.”
“Okay. Sadie, is there anything damaging that the media could dig up on you?”
“Fuckin’ bullshit,” Zander mutters rubbing the bridge of his nose with his eyes squeezed shut.
“Define damaging? Like am I a crack whore? High school dropout? Do I fib on my taxes? What are you getting at?”
“Anything. Drugs, illegal or otherwise. Peculiar hobbies. Known associates that may be of questionable background. Anything like that.”
“Wow. Uh, no. None of that. My life is boring.” I decide to skip on telling him anything about the anxiety meds. It’s none of his or anyone else’s goddamn business anyway.
“Let’s just go home. Fuck ‘em. Let ‘em write what they want. I’ll keep you safe. I’ll handle all of it,” Zander urges tersely, his Georgia drawl more prevalent now that he’s anxious and pissed. My mouth hangs open just a little thinking about his choice of words.
Let’s go home. Home. Is Tybee home? Could it be? Would it be if I’d let it?
“Zander, don’t be melodramatic,” Travis cuts in. “I’m only trying to do my job. I’m trying to avoid trouble. We’ve gone around in this same circle more than we should have, right?”
“You’re being a fucking dick!” Zander snaps. “Don’t talk that way in front of her and for damn sure not to her. Get me?”
Travis lifts his hands again and I subliminally re-label “Travis Casin” as “asshole.” It’s no wonder Zander wants nothing to do with all of this crap. I’ve only been involved for all of ten minutes and I’m ready to tell Travis and the rest of them to kiss my scrawny ass on their way to hell.
Who are they to pick apart and scrutinize Zander, or me, or anyone else, for that matter?
Zander laces his fingers with mine, but his eyes focus on everything zipping by outside his window. He’s tense. I can feel it. My guard has gone up and I don’t like what all of this has done to Zander. He doesn’t deserve this.
***
Thirty minutes later, we slowly approach a set of gates. I crane my neck enough to look beyond the driver and out the windshield. The beefy driver flicks his fingers in a little salute to a man in a small red brick security booth at the gate. The wrought iron gates part and slide open sluggishly to retreat behind a huge brick wall that appears to encircle the property. The driver takes us further down the smoothly paved driveway. Huge trees drip with Spanish moss, giving the place the old Georgia charm that is so unique to this part of the country.
A multilevel red brick house that looks more like a stately building comes into view. Windows with navy blue shutters ornament the front. Huge white pillars line the front of the house, creating a porch as wide at the house itself. The white pillars contrast against the red brick, creating a look that keeps my eyes locked on in admiration.
The car comes to a stop and Zander finally looks at me. “Welcome to the Governor’s mansion,” he muses dryly.
“Crossing ‘go inside a mansion’ off my list,” I joke, using air quotes, hoping that I can garner even just a little bit of a smile from him. The shadow of a grin plays at the corner of his lips and I inwardly tally a point for myself.
The foyer is just as grand as the outside of the house. The entire place oozes political royalty, from its crystal chandeliers to the red carpet runners up the split staircase. There’s pristine white trim, dark, glossy-varnished antiques, rugs that are probably worth more than my car, waxed tile, and wood floors. The place is a mini White House. It’s impressive, but nowhere near comfortable. I feel like I’ve been holding half a breath since we got here. I much prefer the cozy, inviting warmth of Zander’s house over this joint.
“Oh, Alexander, honey, so glad you decided to come,” I hear a female drawl in full-on Steel Magnolias style.
Jesus Christ. Images of a beauty salon full of self-proclaimed Georgia Peaches discussing shades of pink for a wedding comes to mind. I shake the distraction away just in time to see a beautiful, well-groomed older woman practically glide across the wood floor right towards us.
“Sugar,” she coos into Zander’s ear as she takes him into a hug.
He kisses her cheek when she angles her face expectantly. “Mama,” he says in an autopilot sort of greeting.
“Mhmm,” she appraises me, letting her eyes roam freely over my body.
I tense, feeling like a goddamn steer on the auction block. Zander takes my hand and squeezes reassuringly.
“Alexander, honey, are you going to introduce this young lady to your mama or should I do it myself?” She chuckles halfheartedly.
“Mama, this is Sadie Parker. Sadie this is my mother, Virginia McBride.”
Mrs. McBride scoffs as she reaches forward, hugging me lightly. “Mother. You know I positively loathe when you call me Mother.”
“Sorry, Mama,” Zander corrects himself right on cue. I can practically see the eggshells that he’s walking on in this place and it makes me sad and overly protective of him. When a person comes home, they should feel like they are at home. Poor Zander is standing here in the main foyer of this mansion being scolded by his uber-conservative mother about which title he should use to refer to her.
Zander sighs heavily then ushers me toward the Governor’s office, I presume.
“Wait. Wait. Should I—I mean, maybe I should wait in the other room or something,” I offer feebly, working at avoidance.
“Do you want to meet him now?” Zander asks calmly.
“I—well, maybe later tonight when there are a lot of other people around,” I explain.
“Okay.” Zander leans forward and kisses my forehead. “Sit tight. Don’t go anywhere. This won’t take me long,” he instructs, directing me to sit in a fancy chenille upholstered chair that’s resting against the wall with one other chair exactly like it.
I take the opportunity to call Mom and bring her up to speed. She’s going to faint. The phone rings twice before she picks up.
“Hey, stranger! Are you home now? Dad wanted to get over there today to change your air conditioner filter before the heat of summer sneaks up,” she jabbers on in her typical fashion.
“Mom. Mom. Mom!”
“What?” she squeaks.
“Yes, I’m back in Atlanta but I’m—shit.” I pace in small circles. I don’t know how to even begin to explain.
“What? What’s wrong? Are you in trouble?” Worry fills her voice.
“No. Nothing like that. Um, listen, you wanna swing by my house in about an hour?” Maybe talking to them in person is the best choice. There’s no real way to wimp out then.
“Yeah, we can do that,” she answers with a sigh, though I know she’s on high alert. This is the first time I’ve really initiated what appears to be an important conversation. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
