I pull back just enough so I can look directly into his eyes. “You say you’re doing this to protect me, but what you’re really saying is that I’m not worth the risk.”
He flinches, and for a second, I think he’s going to crack and let down his walls. But he takes a shuddering breath and doesn’t say anything.
And I shatter inside.
“Goodbye, Dylan,” I whisper into his lips.
He leans his forehead to mine, and his reply comes out hoarse. “Goodbye, Jasalie.”
He walks me out to the town car that’s waiting in the driveway, puts me and my bags inside, and he’s gone.
I catch the anguished look on his face in the rearview mirror as he turns away, and I suppress a sob.
Dylan Wild loves me. I know that as surely as I know my own name.
But he left me anyway.
Our fairytale—like my heart—is crushed.
And somehow, like when I was a child, I need to pick up the pieces and put myself back together. No one else is going to do it for me.
I have to lean on myself.
But this time, I’m not four years old and utterly alone. This time, I have people in my corner.
I text Rosita from the car.
As soon as I step out with my bags, she’s running toward me. Two minutes later, we’re inside my apartment and tears are coming down my face.
“Sit down, honey, and tell me what’s going on with you.” She takes a seat on my couch and pats the empty space next to her.
As soon as I sit down, I’m crying on her shoulder.
I tell her about the deal Dylan and I made. I talk about our romantic nights in Arizona, about his house in Malibu, and then how he ended things so abruptly. Without giving too much detail, I fill her in on how he blames himself for a previous breakup. And I tell her I love him so much it hurts.
“Why does it have to hurt?” she asks me.
“I don’t know,” I say truthfully. “I truly don’t know. But Dylan made that choice. I opened up my heart to him, and he decided I wasn’t worth it.”
“I think he got scared,” she says as she hands me a pack of tissues from her purse. “Scared of losing you for good, and after what happened in his past, he thinks he’s protecting you.”
“And I feel like the door was slammed in my face all over again. It’s like I’m still lost in this one moment. The moment when I lost my mother. I just relived the pain once more.” I wipe my eyes with the tissue.
“Sounds like this is quite different.” Rosita narrows her gaze at me.
I look away.
“Sounds like the two of you found something people spend a lifetime searching for. I don’t blame you for being upset, honey. But I wouldn’t give up on this boy just yet. He thinks he’s doing this to watch out for you. And I don’t doubt it broke his heart as well.”
I sigh heavily and lean my head on her shoulder. “I know. But I couldn’t stop him.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Dylan
I wait until Jasalie disappears from my driveway, and then I barely make it inside the front door before I drop to my knees.
The tears fall harder than I can remember crying in years. I don’t typically lose control of my emotions. Part of being an MVP quarterback is staying calm in all situations. Part of being a good public figure is never letting your feelings show.
But right here, right now, in the private confines of my home, I fucking lose my shit.
I bawl like a baby at what I just did. I curse loudly as I stand up and hurl my sweatshirt through the foyer, followed by the football lying on the ground. It narrowly misses the window, but I don’t stop there. Not until I’ve torn apart the entire living room, and tossed couch cushions and pillows and anything in my path, do I collapse onto the chair in exhaustion.
Then I rewind in my mind what just happened in here, less than an hour ago, when I broke up with the love of my life.
What you’re really saying is that I’m not worth the risk.
That fucking crushed me.
Jasalie’s expression was filled with pain when she said those words, and I felt it, too. My father never thought I was worth the risk, and I know she suffered far worse in her own childhood. To think I cut her that deeply destroys me.
But the way she said it was so calm, the way a league scout would announce that his team had decided not to draft me. Except I was drafted high in the first round, and I wasn’t disappointed with any part of that day. Draft day was the fulfillment of my dreams.
I’ve always prided myself on being able to accomplish whatever goal I set out to achieve. But my dream of turning this affair with Jasalie into something permanent? That hasn’t worked out so well. I screwed up in the worst way possible—I ended things with the only person who makes me feel whole. And it’s all because I put her in the line of fire with the weekend photo ops in Tucson. Yes, I did that for my charity, not for some selfish motivation. But using her like that, even if it was a mutual pact, was the greatest mistake I ever made. I made her vulnerable to the public, and that’s something I can never forgive myself for.
I’ve lost the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And fighting for her isn’t an option right now. I can’t give her what she deserves—a life that’s safe and secure—and so I can’t have her at all.
Once I’ve pulled myself together, I drive into downtown and pick up enough stuff for the next couple of weeks. I send a group text to my cousins letting them know I’ll be off the grid for a while. I confirm with my security team that Jasalie got home safely, and Dale assures me he’ll guard her with his life. Then, with security following me closely, I head home to Malibu. I need to hide out and think. The only woman I’ve ever loved just walked out my front door, all because I asked her to, and I don’t have a fucking clue what to do next.
Jasalie
“So what’s this all about?” Lilla asks me the next morning as we meet for coffee before work.
“Dylan and I had a fight. A big one.” I lean my cheek on my hand. “We broke up.”
“What? Why?”
Glad I cried out all my tears last night, I stay calm as I tell Lilla about the death threat. “And so now he’s decided I’m better off without him. He ended it.”
“Shit. I’m so sorry, Jase.”
I glance out the window of the coffee shop and glare at the security detail waiting for me to emerge.
Yes, Dylan kept true to his word about hiring protection for me. The guys freaking follow me everywhere. Last night when I left the apartment for frozen yogurt, this morning when I stepped outside my door to get the mail, and now…as I sit with Lilla and try to talk about him, his damn security guards are stationed feet away. They can probably lip read and are deciphering everything I say about their boss.
Well, fine, they can decipher this then.
I turn my attention back to Lilla. “The issue is that Dylan and I both have to put our hearts on the line, or it won’t work.”
“Because you love him?” she asks me.
“Yes.”
“What?” She stares at me in shocked silence. Then she starts to yell. “Oh, my God! You love Dylan!”
She reaches over and throws her arms around me.
I push her off of me as best I can. But I’m weaker than usual. I didn’t sleep all night, and I’ve hardly eaten. At this rate, I’m going to be completely strung out on coffee by the time I get to work.
“This is like a fairy tale,” Lilla squeals. “A fairy tale with the perfect ending.”
“Did you miss the part where he dumped me?”
“No, I heard you. But I don’t buy it. Dylan can’t stay away from you, Jasalie. Mark my words—he’ll come crawling back and beg you to forgive him. Give it a few weeks.” She glances out the window. “He’s still staying close to you right now through his security team. They’re probably supposed to report back to him at least once a day, so make sure you keep a happy face in their presence. Men hate it when we thrive in their absence.
Makes them come back even quicker.”
“Well, Dylan will have to have one hell of an apology speech planned if he’s even thinking of contacting me again. I told him that dumping me was essentially saying I wasn’t worth the risk.” I remember his expression when I said those words to him. “He hated when I said that part. He broke up with me, but something about what I said broke him. I wish I knew what it was.”
“Is it like some football insult?” Lilla asks.
“Maybe, but I imagine it goes deeper than that.”
“You know what—maybe you should show up at his house, possibly in only a towel—oooh, that might do the trick…” Her eyes glaze over.
“Lilla, I can’t do that.” I swallow down the rest of my coffee. “Dylan Wild made his choice. He chose himself. So now I’m going to choose me. Anyway, now I have plenty of time to focus on my art.”
We leave for work, but the whole walk there, with security trailing closely behind us, Lilla suggests idea after idea for how Dylan’s going to try to woo me back into his life.
“He could have a DJ play you his apology with a love song,” she suggests. “And he could be standing outside of your door when you forgive him.”
“This isn’t Hollywood, Lilla.”
“Au contraire, Ms. Gordon,” she says. “We’re in the middle of Hollywood. And I think this deserves a major happy ending.”
A happy ending? I’ve stopped believing in one.
When I arrive home after work, I remember Lilla’s advice and wave politely to the security car parked streetside by my apartment. I keep my head held high and a smile on my face as I walk past and head for my building.
As soon as I step inside my apartment, though, I drop the façade. My head hurts from sadness and lack of sleep, and the aching in my chest feels like it may never disappear. Keeping people at a distance for most of my life was far easier than losing someone I love. I broke my own rule by getting so involved with Dylan, and now I’m paying the price.
Desperate for a distraction, I head for the closet and take out all of my sculptures. I lay them on my living room rug, one by one. All but my most recent pieces are already fired and painted. The Tucson sculptures and the one I did at Dylan’s are the only ones unfinished. They’re rough and uneven.
I look closely at the sculpture of death, the one I made just before Dylan broke up with me. It’s like my soul knew something was about to die in my life when I instinctively sculpted this piece.
I box up the pieces and go research what to do next.
Three hours later, I have lots of information on how to start a business selling my art. Exhausted, I head for the kitchen to boil some water for pasta.
While I’m eating dinner in front of the television, Dylan shows up on my screen in that same deodorant ad. As soon as I get a glimpse of his face, I’m hooked. I’m starved for the sight of him, and every nerve in my body is a live wire. I grip the remote as I desperately flip through the channels. It takes me all of five minutes to find him again. I know I can always count on those sports shows.
Even though it’s offseason, one channel is airing a special of important football moments from last season. A top ten list is part of the show.
Dylan’s in four of the top ten. One of them isn’t a positive for him—a linebacker sacks him at the one-yard line. The rest are his top three heroic moments.
It’s not until the show goes to commercial that I realize I’ve moved off the couch and am sitting about one foot away from the TV screen. I come to my senses and return to the couch.
But as soon as I see another quick shot of Dylan throwing the football, I’m back on the floor, my eyes glued to the TV.
When the show ends and he disappears off my screen, I’ve got one hand wrapped around the remote and the other on the necklace he gave me. Even though we broke up, I haven’t had the heart to take it off. He said we could be each other’s home, and I wanted so much to believe him.
I fight back the tears that threaten to come. Searching for something to look at other than the TV, my gaze lands on the letter from the casino.
I walk over to the table and pick it up. This letter is what brought Dylan and me together in a way. And according to him, it’s what drove us apart—our pact to have a “public” fling brought danger to our lives.
So now we’re both safe. But lonelier than ever.
“What a fucking mess,” I mutter as I fold the letter back up and slip it into my purse.
I know what I need to do next.
Bill’s on a high because Hal Cotton officially signed the Cougars on as a client, so I won’t catch any flak from him about taking a personal day tomorrow.
Which is good because tomorrow is the day that I’m finally going to do the thing I’ve wanted to do for twenty-three years—I’m going to see my mother.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
As soon as I walk out my front door the next morning, I march over to the security guard stationed out front in his car.
I try to tell him that he has the day off because “I’m going out of state, and I’m sure your boss doesn’t pay for you to leave California.”
He smiles kindly like I don’t have a clue what I’m saying. “I’m Dale,” he says as he extends his hand to me through the open window. “And I’m coming with you. The boss will kill me if I let you out of my sight.”
I roll my eyes.
“In fact,” Dale continues, “he told me that if you decided to go to Tucson, he’d like to lend you his plane.”
My blood starts to boil. First, he breaks up with me, and then he has the nerve to think he can control the way I travel?
“You tell that boss of yours he can suck it,” I say.
Dale chuckles. “I’ll make sure to tell him you said so.”
“Good. You tell him I said exactly that. And do me a favor—when you check in with him tonight, don’t tell him I was in Tucson.”
“It’s company policy not to share personal information.” Dale gives me a reassuring wink. “Your road trip is your business, ma’am.”
Relief fills me, and I flash him a smile. “Thank you.”
I turn away from his car window and head for my own vehicle. Knowing Dale is behind me the entire time, I’m much more conscious not to go over the speed limit.
But I avoid rush hour both when I leave L.A. and when I enter Tucson, and I pull onto my mother’s street feeling fairly calm.
I thought about trying to find Marianne Gordon once before. When I was thirteen and Julie Morse threw me into the mud in front of the entire class for not having “real parents,” I thought about finding my mother and kicking her ass like Julie kicked mine.
I park across the road from her house again and spend a moment in my car looking in the mirror. I apply more lipstick, more blush, and way too much eyeliner. Shit.
I desperately try to rub some of the makeup off, but it doesn’t look much different. Finally, I give up. I grab my purse, checking to make sure the money’s inside, and I get out of the car, locking the door behind me.
Dale is parked a half block away, and I know by now, he won’t get out of his car unless he senses trouble.
I reach the front door of the house and stare at the doorbell. I ignore the trembling of my finger and hold it with my other hand to make myself push the bell.
When somebody actually answers, I don’t know what to do. I hadn’t thought past this moment.
Except one thing’s for sure…I recognize the woman in the open doorway.
She’s tall, not quite as tall as I am, but she has the same blond hair. Her smile, pleasant but guarded, is what makes me sure. It looks like mine.
“Can I help you?” she says politely.
Part of me hoped she’d squeal with delight and throw her arms around me, recognizing me immediately as the daughter she hadn’t seen since she was four.
Of course, none of the above happens. She has a cold. She sneezes all over me and then grabs a tissue from under her shirt sleeve and blows int
o it.
“Sorry,” she mutters. “Bad cold.”
I wipe my cheek where she hit me with her sneeze and straighten my shoulders.
“Marianne Gordon?” I say to be sure.
“Yes. Who’s asking?” She gasps. “Are you with the casino? Come back to collect your debt? I told you already—I don’t have the money. If I did, I’d sure give it to you.”
“I’m not with the casino.” I take a deep breath. “Mom. It’s me. Jasalie.” My mother reels backward and has to grab onto the doorframe to stop from falling over.
“Jasalie.” Her eyes go wide and her face turns white as a sheet. “Wow. You’re all grown up.”
I want to remind her that’s what happens when you don’t see someone for over twenty years, but I stop myself.
“May I come in?” I ask her.
“Oh.” She starts. “Yes. Come in. Don’t mind the mess.”
But I can’t help from ogling the place as she leads me into the living room. Crap is everywhere. Clothes are strewn around, and takeout food containers are lying out half-open. I don’t remember this part of living with my mother. Maybe she wasn’t as messy back then.
I glance out the back window of the living room. The wide deck leads onto a small yard, but the view is what gets my attention.
Mountains fill up the expanse. All I see are mountains.
“What a beautiful view,” I say softly.
She glances where I’m looking.
“Isn’t it gorgeous? That’s what sold me on this place. I wanted to pass it down to you you know. You’re in my will. Despite…” She trails off. “Well, you know.”
“Despite the fact that you left me with social services?” I say.
Her eyes fill with emotion. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I could swear I see remorse.
“Was our house like this?” I ask her as she gestures me to take a seat.
I move aside a pile of coats and sit down gingerly on the edge of the couch.
“No, you never lived here,” she answers, misunderstanding my question.
“No. I know that. I meant, was our house messy like this?”
Dylan (Wild Men) Page 27
