Shine: Book One of the Wild Love Ménage Series

by R. L. Jameson

  Oncology? Shit.

  I’m not sure if the floor is still there, because it feels like there’s a huge gaping hole in the room.

  I want to hit the doctor. Just stand up from my uncomfortable plastic chair and slap him across his round cheek. I know he’s doing his job, and I know it is better to be cautious rather than put life to chance. I know it. But I still want to hit the smug little bastard.

  He leaves shortly after, and Bethany stares at me, her face ashen, her vivid blue eyes dull. “Fuck.”

  I squeeze Bethany’s hand all the more, not sure what to say to that.

  “Well, now you have to do anything I say, don’t you?” she says.

  I must look confused because Bethany gives me a funny grin.

  “You have to do anything I tell you to do now that I just got that news, don’t you?”

  I smile, trying to be brave like her. “Yeah. We’ll have girls’ night tonight. I’ll get ice cream and margaritas. Maybe chili cheese fries too. We’ll sit around in our PJs and watch all your favorite movies.”

  Bethany laughs. “No way. Not now. Jane, you’re going to juggle these three boyfriends of yours and you’re going to tell me everything about it.”

  “There’s no way I’m leaving you alone tonight.”

  Bethany crosses her arms. “Who said I’ll be alone tonight?”

  I blink. “You don’t want me to be with you?”

  “No, sweetheart, I’ve got a date. A hot one too.”

  “You’re going on a date?” My voice cracks. I wish it hadn’t.

  She squeezes my hand. “I’m scared shitless after that fuckwit told me I have to get tests done….oncology…fuck. But that just gives me more reasons to live my life the loudest I can. This is my one little life, and what Dr. Shit-For-Brains just said means I’ve got to live it to the best of my abilities. And, missy, that means you too. You’re going to juggle these dates of yours.”

  I narrow my eyes. “No, not unless you tell me more about your hot date.” I didn’t know she was seeing anyone or even interested.

  She narrows her eyes, mimicking me, but with a small smile on her pretty face. “Fine. But only after tonight. You have to first figure out how to juggle all your boyfriends, tell me about it, then I’ll tell you about mine.”

  “Why don’t I know anything about him?” I hate myself, but I’m whining.

  She reaches for my cheeks. “Because, my lovely friend, I’ve been ashamed. I’ve been too ashamed to do anything about this guy. But fuck that, right? I’m not going to live with shame. Not now.”

  “Then why can’t I know about him?”

  “Because otherwise you won’t tell me everything about your three, count them three, boyfriends.”

  I sigh. “You drive a mean deal, missy.”

  She smiles triumphantly. “Oh, and don’t call tonight. I—er, might not get the phone. But call me tomorrow and tell me everything.”

  I giggle. “Might not get the phone, huh?”

  Pointing a finger at me, she says, “And I hope for one of those guys, if not all of them, that you might find yourself too busy to call me tonight too. Oh, can you imagine all of them? At once?”

  I try to laugh again, but I don’t know how to stop from worrying. Maybe I should be worrying about the men in my life who all seem to have the impression that I’ll meet them tonight. I can’t, though. Not now. I’m thinking about Bethany. I can’t lose her. I really can’t.

  7

  After pushing the button on my remote to the garage door, I sit in my car and wait for it to open. Twilight is ascending through the sky. Soon the dark glow of the glooming will swallow me whole. I can’t have anything wrong with Bethany. I know that sounds irrational, maybe even childish. Because I know I can’t control her health or what happens to her.

  It might not be cancer, I keep trying to tell myself.

  It could be anything else. Why did I jump to that conclusion? The doctor didn’t say anything about cancer. However, the specialist recommended is an oncologist.

  I really need to calm down about what might be wrong with Bethany.

  But I worry.

  I know that sitting in my driveway and ruminating is a defense strategy, thinking of the worst-case scenario. That way if Bethany does get bad news, I’ll feel more prepared, ready to fight this diagnoses. More in control.

  But I’ve been here twice now. And there’s nothing that can prepare you for that word: cancer. I looked it up when Anne was diagnosed because I wanted to know why the Greek word for crab grew to mean the disease I hate so much. It’s because ancient Greek physicians thought the veins around a tumor looked like crab’s legs.

  Bethany doesn’t have crab’s legs for veins. The doctor didn’t say so. She doesn’t have cancer. She doesn’t.

  I’m going to cry. I’ll just go in my house and take a long shower and cry in there. Maybe get drunk too, because I’m not sure if I can handle the uncertainty of Bethany’s swollen throat. Why doesn’t she want me to hang out with her? Who is she seeing? Why didn’t she tell me about him? Doesn’t she trust me?

  I trust her with…almost everything.

  Shortly after being fostered by Anne, she had me see a colleague of hers. I had therapy for six years. If I hadn’t felt like a freak before, then I certainly did after. No, that’s not true. The therapy helped. But it was like peeling off a scab every single time I went.

  Dr. Betsy Tucker said I didn’t have to tell anyone about my past. She said my past didn’t define me. I could be anyone I wanted to be. So I chose to be an academic. It was also a way to snub my father and uncle. I was smart and flaunted it. However, my uncle’s curse that I would never marry a man who would want a smart girl backfired on me. Oh, Tim liked that I was smart. He said so. I just don’t know if he ever loved me for it. Or if he ever loved me at all.

  A loud rapping erupts on the car’s window, and I not only jump but scream.

  Gabriel, Gabe, winces, then says through the window, “Sorry. But you were just sitting in your driveway…I didn’t know what to do.”

  I’m clutching at my heart, panting, trying hard not to cry. Plastering a smile over my scare, I roll my window down. “Hi.”

  “Hi. Sorry.”

  I shake my head, looking at the two huge grocery bags he has in his arms. Leafy greens and a baguette poke their way out.

  “You okay?” he asks.

  He’s here to cook for me. I’d forgotten. I forgot everything in my panic to figure out how to bastion myself from Bethany’s uncertain diagnosis.

  Gabe’s blue eyes are compassionate. His dark brows do the cutest thing and turn up in the center, a mark of his concern. He shaved and I wish he hadn’t. I liked him with his black whiskers. I want to kiss him, tear my clothes off and his, and have him in my bed. I know I want this because I want a distraction.

  Bethany can’t have cancer.

  I shake my head. In a blur, I get out of my car and rush for him, throwing my arms around his neck. He drops the groceries and makes a grunting noise catching me. I meant to kiss him, fondle him, get him hot. But I clutch onto him, burrowing my face into his shoulder. He smells clean and male. Slightly outdoorsy.

  When he puts his arms around me, I nearly sob.

  “Hey. Hey,” he lulls. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  I clutch at him more, lifting on my toes, squeezing him as hard as I dare.

  He caresses up and down my back. “Something happen?”

  “My friend Bethany,” I say before I can stop myself. “She—I went with her to a doctor’s visit. She choked the day before yesterday, and the ER doctor wanted her to get a checkup after. So we went. I thought it was just routine, but she’s got something wrong. I can’t lose her. I can’t lose her. I don’t have anyone else. I can’t lose her.”

  He holds me harder. “I’m sorry. Do they know what’s wrong?”

  I sound irrational, I realize. The doctor just found an anomaly. But I jumped to a conclusion, and I probably sound crazy becau
se of it. Still, because Gabe is who he is, and I feel instantly comfortable around him, I can’t stop myself from blurting everything out.

  “No, they don’t know.” I sniff. “I lost my husband to cancer and my f—mother. I can’t lose someone else to cancer. I can’t. Not Bethany. I love her and she—she puts up with me and how weird I am, and she knows all my crap and she still loves me.”

  “She sounds like she’s a good friend.” He massages my neck with one of his hands and I’m putty.

  “Yes. She’s my best friend.”

  “I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath.

  I like feeling his chest against mine. He’s so firm and warm.

  After a beat, he says, “Well, the good news is we don’t know yet what’s wrong.”

  I look at him, wanting to smack him, even though I know he’s trying to give me sense.

  He rubs up and down my arms. “When we find out what’s wrong, then we’ll fight it. Whatever it is. We’ll figure this out.”

  We. We’ll. It’s been years since I’ve heard those terms. Tim only used them when we were first married. Maybe I should have known he was fucking around because he stopped saying we. It’s such a small thing. Such a small word. But there it is. Or there it isn’t, in my case.

  Gabe is probably saying things like this to stop my craziness. He’s just being nice. But, oh, how I like it when he says we. And I hate how I have a little hope he means what he’s said. That he doesn’t break promises and vows. That I’ll never have to go to the doctor, humiliated, because he’s had unprotected sex with who knows how many women.

  I take a shaky breath.

  He smiles at me, notices my lips for two seconds longer than usual, then says, “Maybe we should get drunk. I’ll cook after I get you good and drunk.”

  I shrug. “I have a little vodka, I think.”

  His grin widens. “I brought plenty to get you plastered.”

  I laugh. “You’d planned on getting me drunk?”

  “How else am I going to get into your pants?”

  “I remember you looking down my pants. Without my permission, by the way.”

  “You looked down my pants. Without my permission, Jane.”

  “I also remember you saying you were going to do right by me.”

  He keeps that smile on his face, the one that makes my heart tattoo a pattern into my breastbone. “I knew I shouldn’t have said that. But see, I was thinking after I left your place last night, that life is short.”

  “Life’s short, huh? Carpe diem and all that?”

  His eyes are twinkling with the early evening’s blue luminescence behind him. “Now, you’re thinking.”

  “So that means you’re going to forget doing right by me for getting me drunk. And there’s something about getting into my pants?”

  He looks down my body. “The problem is you’re wearing a skirt today.”

  “I am. That put a stop to your plans?”

  “Nah. I’ll work around it.”

  I’m not sure how, but we gather the groceries, put my car in the garage, then he picks me up and carries me inside. The part I’m not sure about is how he gets me to laugh. I wonder if Gabe is magical. I know he’s not, but he obviously has some sort of magic over me. I’m spellbound. I’m relaxed. I’m more myself than I should be. I’m vulnerable. God, I hope he doesn’t know how vulnerable I am with him.

  He pours me a white wine, while he gets to work on dinner and I change. I have no idea what to wear. He’s sexy as hell in dark blue jeans and a black t-shirt. He’s casual, his flirting is casual, as if he doesn’t mean it. Or like he doesn’t want me to think he means it. But deep inside those eyes, I wonder if I do see heat. He stares at my lips for long moments. Before I said I’d change, his gaze skimmed down my body and he said, “Sure do like those shoes of yours. And are those pantyhose? Or stockings?”

  I never answered but giggled and raced to my bedroom to labor over what to wear. Finally, I settle on light blue shredded jeans, a lacy camisole with a thick heather-colored cardigan. There’s a very slight wave that my usually stick-straight hair never gives me. See? Even my hair likes Gabe.

  I’m in big trouble with him because I already feel compelled to tell him everything. This will end badly. How do I know? Because everything ends badly.

  When I leave my bedroom, my house smells exquisite with garlic and rich cheeses. He’s making a risotto with artichoke hearts and steak.

  “I hope you’re not vegetarian.”

  I sneak a crumb of the asiago cheese he’s grated. “And if I am?”

  “More steak for me, sweetheart.”

  I smile. “I’m not a vegetarian.”

  “Darn.”

  “Darn? Do you really say darn? Or are you censoring yourself?”

  He smiles and then snags me by my waistband, pulling me hard and fast against him. His lips are on mine, pushing, moving, urging me to open for him. Taking the nape of my neck, he angles my head and I finally open my lips. He tastes of the sweet white wine, and his tongue penetrates deep.

  “This is what I’m like when I’m not censoring myself with you, Jane,” he says then returns to kissing me.

  “Oh, but I think I like you uncensored.”

  He chuckles then feathers his lips against mine again, this time softer. “I’m trying to be a gentleman. You shouldn’t encourage me to do otherwise.”

  Then I take his nape and force the kiss to escalate, pushing my tongue in his mouth, thrusting, arching my back so my beading nipples skim across him.

  “You shouldn’t have worn that top under your sweater,” he growls, his hands vise my waist.

  “Why not?” We keep kissing between our whispered words.

  “It’s driving me crazy.” He squeezes my waist even more. “I want—I want—” He pushes me away and takes a healthy step back. “Jesus, you—how am I supposed to be a gentleman when you kiss me like that?” He glances down, and I hope my braless nature has gotten his attention. His nostrils do flare, then he licks his lips.

  I’m thinking of telling him I want him crazy. I want him uninhibited. I want him. I’ve never talked like that. Out loud. I’ve wanted to. But I thought Tim would laugh at me. I don’t think Gabe will.

  But then my doorbell chimes and I swallow, hoping it’s Bethany. Maybe she’s changed her mind and wants to be with me, after all. It looks like Gabe has cooked enough for several people, so I could invite Bethany to eat with us.

  The doorbell sounds again.

  “Going to get that, Jane?” Gabe gives me one of his rare breathtaking smiles. And I suddenly realize it’s probably the last time I’m going to see it.

  I’m fairly certain I know who’s on the other side of the door, and Gabe won’t like him. Actually, I’m not sure which him it is, but I’m guessing it’s Paul.

  After savoring Gabe’s smile for a second, I reluctantly amble toward the door, reminding myself this is why mortals don’t kiss more than one man at a time. I knew it would catch up with me. If Paul is on the other side of the door, he’ll humiliate me. Gabe will leave angry and I won’t blame him.

  Well, it was fun while it lasted, I tell myself. As if I’m not disappointed. So disappointed I want to cry.

  I open the door to not just Paul but Chris too, both smiling at me like I was expecting to see them.

  “Hello, honey.” Paul breezes into my house, kissing me quickly on the cheek. “Look who I found.”

  I’m shaking by the time Chris says, “Hey,” then also sweeps down and kisses my cheek. Like we do that kind of thing. Like we’re all good friends who only kiss each other on the cheek.

  “Whatcha got cooking, honey?” Paul walks past my foyer and into the house where I once loved how everything was so open. So easy to spot a strange man cooking in my kitchen. Paul turns and smiles at me. “It smells wonderful. And who do we have here?”

  8

  I’m shaking and can’t answer Paul. When Chris walks past the foyer, I’m utterly shocked to hear Gabe greet h
im.

  “Gabe!” Chris says in return. Happily, I might add. There’s not a note of possessive male jealousy in that welcome. And he walks quickly out of my eyeshot.

  Paul turns and arches a dark brow. “Hiding?” he whispers.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He narrows his eyes. “I’m making things better. You’ll see.”

  But I can’t see anything except for Gabe and Chris fuming in anger and storming out of my house, never to be heard from again. I worry, too, about Paul. If he’s set this up so I’ll only date him. If he’s that manipulative. If I’m that stupid to think I could have dated three men.

  Paul hooks his elbow out, like he wants me to hold his arm. “Oh, ye of little faith.”

  I point at my chest, silently asking—Me?—while I vaguely hear Chris and Gabe talk about their respective jobs.

  “Yes, you, Jane.” Paul’s starting to look impatient with me, but I don’t want to leave the safety of my foyer, where Chris and Gabe don’t have to see my cheeks which feel brand-iron hot.

  Paul shakes his head. “You have no faith in me, do you?”

  “To do what?”

  “Why, work a miracle, honey.” He’s teasing me. His dark eyes are twinkling. In the spectrum of teases, is he just being cute? Or is he proving a lesson to me?

  All the same, I don’t see any point in leaving the foyer. After all, soon enough everyone will walk through here to exit.

  Paul sighs and steps closer. “You’re afraid?”

  I don’t know how to answer him. I wish I was witty right now, but I’m panicking and I want the night over. I want to be alone. For the men to have stormed out like I’m sure they’re going to, and me left reeling, maybe getting drunk on my own.

  “Oh, hey,” I hear Chris say, “This is Paul Reddick. He works with Jane.”

  At the mention of his name, Paul turns his back to me.