Continuum (The South Beach Connection Trilogy Book 3)

by A. R. Hadley

  Ben's cries became background fodder.

  Annie didn’t stop. She kissed Cal more and more and more, wetting his cheeks with her tears, licking just the inside of his upper lip, and then she cracked a smile, stopped, and looked at him. Cal returned the grin.

  They both knew she had to go to Ben, and so she went.

  He waited for a moment and collected himself, and then he followed Annie into Benjamin's room, tiptoeing behind her. He stood just outside the door of the dark room, watching his beautiful wife with his beautiful son.

  He stood for several minutes, observing her without them noticing as she held Ben against her chest, patted his back, and moved about, dancing and humming.

  When Annie finally saw Cal, her eyes opened wide, and her entire body buzzed with energy. Smiling, she acknowledged two outstanding qualities fixed in his gaze: love and patience.

  The replete look of a man who had gained an existential satisfaction in being a first-time father. A man falling in love all over again with the mother of his child.

  Later that night, after falling asleep, Annie dreamt about Cal in a way she hadn’t been able to for months.

  Cal stood in the lobby of a hotel in L.A., talking business with a few of the people he’d traveled there to meet. The week had almost passed. Tomorrow he would get on a plane and then see his family. The men had eaten dinner, and it was late, yet their conversation went on and on.

  Cal’s mind wandered.

  He could see the bar across from where he stood. A few patrons lined its counter like animals at a trough. Then a woman passed by the circle of suits, coloring his eyeline.

  Red dress. Long legs. High heels which made her shapely limbs look like they were the perfect length to hold a man in place while they scraped his backside.

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  He tore his eyes away from her body — she had wide hips and an ass begging to be struck — and turned his attention to the men. The woman entered the bar.

  He wasn’t thirsty, but fuck him if hadn't suddenly found himself thinking of a million fucked-up reasons why he needed to have a drink.

  And now.

  The gentlemen finally bid one another a good night, and Cal rode the elevator up to his room. Once inside, he stood in front of the huge window, hands raised over his head, palms on the glass, and looked down into the city below. It was dark but full of flickering lights.

  Nothing could take his mind from the drink, the legs, or the fuck-me attitude, the heels he wanted her to leave on while he...

  He began to invent excuses to visit the bar. I can’t sleep. I’m thirsty. Maybe I left something downstairs… Until he believed he did want a drink. He needed it. Sure. He deserved one.

  He pushed all the thoughts — one choice can fuck up your life; haven’t you learned that lesson a thousand times? — telling him it was a bad idea aside, and then he went back down intent on having:

  Only. One. Fucking. Drink.

  His heart raced, and perspiration slicked the back of his neck.

  Before he entered the bar, he stood at the entrance a moment and looked at the faces and body language of the people.

  There was a loneliness. A sadness.

  He could feel the energy around him, yet it was disguised as something else … because the patrons tried to mask their sadness with alcohol. Or with the intention of leaving the bar with a stranger, wishing to fill a hole in their soul that could never truly be filled — not with a million drinks, not with an orgasm.

  He dragged his palm over his face.

  What the fuck was he doing?

  He didn’t belong here. But he was here. On the outskirts. On the fringe. And he wanted a fucking drink. Jesus. He also desperately wanted to run his hands over a woman's body… but he mostly wanted a drink.

  He walked to the counter and took a seat, hoping for what he denied. The woman who’d passed him in the lobby sat a few stools to the right. Her short, straight, dark hair partially covered her eyes and — Jesus — her legs looked even more incredible up close, winding down to the ground satiny and smooth.

  She turned her head in Cal's direction between sips of wine. But he pretended not to notice as he swallowed Crown.

  It wasn’t her face.

  She wasn't the most attractive woman he’d been with, but she had a confidence about her, or maybe she faked it. Most importantly, though, she was a woman, and she had a body with everything on it Cal needed. Tits and ass and legs. Fuck. He hadn't even realized how much he missed the contact. How much he needed a woman beneath him, spread out and open, wet and ready. Fuck. This was a bad idea.

  Still, a part of him felt flattered because, after all, he did want attention — not just sex. He did need some fucking attention, and he’d come down that elevator knowing damn well the kind of attention that might be waiting.

  Miles of legs. Lips willing to give and suck. Someone to listen or say nothing at all.

  But there was something else lurking beneath his vanity and needs.

  He eyed his nearly empty glass, tilted it forward, and stared at the minuscule amount of liquid in it, watching the amber slide around the edges.

  Sure. The something else...

  It was shame.

  He felt it creep over him slowly now for even considering the idea of fucking another woman. Had he considered it really? He’d toyed with it, and he didn't play fucking games. He either did something, or he didn't. He made choices.

  Cal chose to order a second drink, hoping to drown out her legs and the way they looked in his imagination wrapped around his body, and as he did, the woman got up and moved toward him. Fuck. He would just continue to ignore her. He wouldn't look in her direction. He would act as if she weren’t even there. Except some women liked that kind of nonsense.

  "I saw you earlier," she said with an easy confidence, taking a seat right next to him. "I was hoping you would come, but I didn't think you would.”

  Yeah, she said the word come just the way she meant it. This was too easy. He was slightly amused at how simple it would be to bed her, but he didn't let it show on his face.

  "I came down here to have a drink." He finally looked at her dead-on, trying to keep the smile from his eyes.

  He’d managed to say those words like he really needed the drink and not her. Or so he’d hoped.

  He needed to fuck.

  Could she hear the desperation in his voice? Probably. The predators always could.

  Looking back at his glass, he finished its contents as the woman sat forward, causing her tits to spill out of the low scoop of her red dress.

  "Really?" She smirked. "It's almost midnight. You left. Came back. You expect me to believe a man like you rode the elevator back down to the hotel bar for just a drink."

  He wanted to wipe that smirk off her goddamn face with his cock. And maybe she was right, but that was the man he used to be. Hearing the words out loud made him feel strange. A man like him. He stared straight ahead at the bottles lining the shelves.

  "You have no idea what kind of man I am." He kept his gaze front and center on the alcohol and not on her tits.

  She looked at his profile and smiled. "You're the kind of man who isn't getting laid." She leaned closer, brushing her shoulder against his. "Or you wouldn't be here right now, having a drink with me." She gulped some of the wine, set down the glass, and swiveled in her seat until her entire body faced him.

  He met her calculating eyes, but what he really wanted to do was put his hands on her knees and spread them. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He could feel the beads of sweat on the back of his neck, the twitch of his cock, the whiskey coating his veins — all of it telling him it was okay.

  "You're married, right?" She glanced at his ring.

  Fuck. God. Yes. He was married, and he wanted to be married. He wanted his fucking wife. Not her. Not an impostor. Not a predator. She would say anything to get what she wanted. This woman was a snake.

  He was pissed at himself for wanting her, pissed she was
throwing herself at a stranger. He was pissed at the emptiness driving them both.

  He ignored her satirical question and motioned to the bartender for his check. Then he pulled out some cash, slapping the money onto the counter.

  This was it. Do or die. Fuck. It would be so easy. She would give him something. He could be rough with her. Bruise her. Take her pussy every which way. She would allow it. He could drown out the reasonableness of no reason. There wouldn't be any bullshit between them. It could just be sex.

  Except it could never just be sex.

  Not anymore. It didn’t matter if it was different.

  It was the same.

  Sex was never the panacea he wanted it to be, no matter how good it felt, how much he needed it, no matter how beautiful the girl or even how much he loved her.

  The panacea was love.

  Real love.

  Unconditional love.

  The kind that gives without asking and refuses to take. The pill he’d chosen all those years had been empty. A placebo. Empty like the feeling in him when the sex was over, carving out a hollow inside him. Empty like the feeling inside him now.

  He used to think sex could always fill up that empty place, but it never truly did. The emotions he was trying to be free of always came back to haunt him. He thought he could just have sex and not feel, and that used to be its appeal, but now he wanted nothing more than to feel. He wanted to feel it all — everything.

  If it meant he could feel the love, then he also wanted to feel the motherfucking pain.

  "First of all, I am married," Cal finally said in reply to her query. "Second, I'm not here with you." He had to stop himself from growling the words into her ear.

  As the woman put her foot on his stool, her skirt inched farther above her knee, and her fucking legs jumped out at him.

  "No," she said, tossing her hair, "but you could be … with me. Now. Up in my room."

  He dropped his head and grinned.

  "Is there a third?" she asked, an index finger on his chin.

  That did it. Her touch. It was the opposite of comfort. There was no spark. Nothing. And even if there had been, it wouldn't have mattered. Only one woman could set him on fire and breathe life into him all at once.

  His lips formed a hard line. His face became stolid.

  The woman obviously noticed the answer written in his eyes because she turned her body back toward the bar without speaking, then awkwardly took a drink.

  Cal paused, feeling a twinge of sadness for the loneliness in both of them. He opened his mouth, ready to speak, but instead, he closed it and walked away without another word. He let out a deep breath as he exited the bar without a hard-on in his pants or a guilty conscience.

  Cal rode the elevator to his room.

  Alone.

  God, how he’d wanted Annie to come to L.A. with him. He’d asked her to come along. He put his hand on his forehead and dropped his chin, staring blankly at the ground.

  How could he have come so close to fucking a complete stranger?

  The idea repulsed him.

  It could never fill his void.

  It would only drive him further from Annie.

  Oh, Annie.

  Cal loved her. Needed her.

  He wanted to take all her pain away. He wanted to take care of her, but she wasn’t letting him.

  When would this nightmare end?

  Cal rode the elevator up, up, up, feeling down, stinging, and raw. He wanted nothing more than to be with his son and with his Annie.

  His heavy.

  His family.

  When Cal walked through the front door, the record player was loud, speakers sounding from each room. The voice of Michael Hutchence even traveled down the staircase.

  The girl who hadn’t been wanting noise stood in their living room, Ben on her hip, spinning in circles to the beat of INXS.

  Ben giggled repeatedly, and Cal’s heart swelled.

  After another twist and turn, she almost tripped as she met his eyes from across the room.

  Her breath caught at the sight of him.

  Cal wore a suit.

  And a grin.

  But the suit...

  Dark gray. A white button-down shirt underneath the jacket. And a vest and tie.

  She’d didn’t think she’d ever seen him look so astute. Even at their wedding, he’d pulled off casual ... with his open blazer and no tie.

  “It’s Daddy, Bennie boy.” She lowered the volume and bounced him on her hip. “Never Tear Us Apart” had ended. “Mystify” was starting up.

  Cal joined them, the widest smile still on his face, and took his son — who had been stretching his hands forward and squealing with delight — from her arms. He plied Ben with kisses over the entirety of his face, then he lifted him in the air and attacked his little stomach.

  Benjamin’s sounds were the best music.

  “You’ve been dancing,” he said, a glint in his eye. He kissed Annie’s cheek, then eyeballed an end table where her Nikon sat. “And taking pictures.”

  “Yes.” She linked her arm through his. “You’re home early.”

  “I changed my flight.”

  “Why?”

  “I needed to see the two of you.”

  “Something went wrong?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He sat on the love seat. Annie planted her bum on the floor and crossed her legs.

  “I was reminded of someone I used to be and never want to be again.”

  She opened her mouth to speak and Cal interrupted.

  “Leave it at that, Annie.”

  She cleared her throat dramatically and raised an eyebrow, trying not to giggle. “A woman came on to you?”

  He did a double take. Her eyes were amused, glittery moons. She wasn’t blinking. He fought a scoff or a growl, scratched his head, and bounced Ben on his knee.

  “You think you’re so hard to read.” She laughed.

  “You think it’s funny?”

  “You’re funny ... and apparently hot.”

  “Annie...”

  “I like your outfit.”

  “My outfit.” He looked down at himself like he was an alien from another planet.

  “That’s probably why you got hit on.”

  “Fuck,” he mumbled.

  “What was that?” She cupped a hand to her ear, feigning innocence.

  “So...” He looked at his son. “You’ve been playing my records, huh?” Ben babbled and smiled. Cal kissed his chubby cheeks. “You like this music, Bennie? It’s Daddy’s. And it’s old … like him.”

  “Your daddy’s not old, little man.” She pinched Ben’s waist, and he laughed. “He’s still getting attention from women.”

  “Dammit, Annie.”

  She sported a winning grin, rolled her eyes, and stood. The tripod leaned against the wall by the slider, and she grabbed it and set it up.

  “I’d like to get some pictures. Of the three of us.”

  “Let me change.” He stood.

  “Cal ... you look handsome.”

  “I haven’t even showered.”

  “Please. It will always remind me of us. Of this moment. Our clothes and everything.”

  Annie had on an aqua cardigan and jeans. Gone were the sweatpants and soiled nightgowns. She’d even put on a pair of earrings, but she had to be careful — Ben liked to yank them.

  After they’d taken a few photographs — Ben loved the ten-second countdown, and each time Cal took it as a challenge to see how much he could make his son laugh — Annie readied the space ... for just one more.

  It would be of the three of them on the floor. Cal had been making funny faces and connecting Mega Bloks. A pile of them were scattered about. He’d been telling Ben each color.

  “Okay. Ready.” Annie pushed the button and ran over and sat next to them, Ben in the middle, Cal leaning toward her with a palm flat on the wooden floor.

  “Look at the camera,” she said through her teeth, trying to maintain he
r photogenic smile.

  But Cal didn’t take his eyes off her face as she counted, “Five ... four...”

  Ben was banging two blocks together.

  Annie pulled hair from her mouth and turned toward Cal. And when their eyes locked, the camera made a click, and Ben made a coo.

  It captured what they’d seen on the staircase ... the very first night. Their souls were speaking to each other. And nothing could’ve interrupted the connection.

  Not depression.

  Not panic attacks.

  Not worry or pain.

  Not death.

  They were forever.

  A family.

  Lovers.

  Parents.

  Friends.

  Soul mates.

  Now they had tangible evidence.

  He woke to a familiar sound. One he wished would soon be a distant memory. But Cal knew life meant tears. And for some, it meant many.

  “Annie,” he whispered, and she froze. Her body stopped shaking. But the tension she now held made her look like a statue.

  “What is it, baby?” he said moments later. It was exactly three o’clock in the morning. “Have you slept?”

  She exhaled. Her body trembled. Her back was to him.

  “I’m a good listener ... remember.”

  She nodded and swallowed, then took in a deep breath.

  “He’s growing up so fast. I’m missing it.” She had been crying so hard she was mildly hyperventilating.

  Cal reached out a hand, almost grazing her backside, and then he retracted it. Several times.

  “You’re not, baby. You’re with him every day.”

  Chest suctioning and sniffles were her only response.

  He fell on his back and pressed a palm to his forehead, his eyes wide at the ceiling.

  The day had gone so well.

  But Cal was still adjusting to the concept that depression could be one step forward and two back. Climbing an icy hill in high heels. Not that he’d ever tried to walk in the damn things. But he had an imagination.

  An excellent one.

  She shifted so that they were both side by side, flat on their backs, looking up at the knockdown.