Burn for You (Slow Burn Book 1)

by J. T. Geissinger

  At least he had the sense to look ashamed of himself. “I know I was an idiot, but I swear I’ve changed.”

  My brows lifted. “Really? Got a brain transplant, did you?”

  Very solemnly, Trace said. “No. I found God.”

  After a beat of shocked silence, I threw my head back and laughed. “Well good for you! Hallelujah! Now get your slutty butt out of my face before I lose my temper and send you off to meet Him!”

  I had to give him credit. The old Trace would’ve been pissed about that remark. Probably would’ve made a rude comment about my butt, which he used to tell me could be “fixed” by a visit to a lipo doctor. But this Trace—whoever he was—only looked sad.

  “It’s been two years, Bianca. I swear, I’m a different man. Please, I just want to talk to you.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “I get it. This is like a thirteen-step program, right? You have to apologize to me or else you won’t get past the pearly gates?”

  He winced. “I think you mean twelve step. And no, that’s not it. I just . . . You cut me off and never took any of my calls again—”

  “I’d rather talk to a bill collector,” I interrupted angrily. “At least I know it’d be an honest conversation.”

  Then—hand to heaven, I could not make this up—the man got a tear in his eye. A big ol’ crocodile tear that sat there and glimmered and trembled like a makeup artist had just run over with a bottle of glycerin in between film takes.

  He said roughly, “I’m sorry. That’s all I wanted to say. I treated you badly, and you didn’t deserve it. I didn’t want to stalk you after we broke up, but I kept hoping I’d run into you somewhere. And here you are. So . . . I’m sorry. I really did love you, even though I did what I did. It just took losing you to make me realize it.”

  He looked at his shoes, took a breath, and then met my gaze again. Very quietly, he said, “Actually, I still love you, bumble bee. I think I always will.”

  I admit it. My heart did a major flip-flop. I got a serious case of butterflies in the stomach. Who doesn’t want the ex she was madly in love with to do a bit of groveling after he treated her like a disposable napkin?

  Unfortunately for him, the girl I was then and the girl I am now are two different Biancas altogether.

  I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and lifted my chin. “I can’t say it was nice to see you, Trace, but it was definitely interesting. Good luck to you.”

  My head held high, I walked briskly past him. I didn’t look back. I kept walking—my gait was almost a power walk it was so fast—until I got to the restaurant. Then I threw open the front door and ran inside to hide because I wasn’t 100 percent sure he wasn’t following me.

  “Um, whatchya doin’, boo?”

  Eeny’s confused voice came from behind me.

  “Making sure I wasn’t followed,” I said, peering out to the street through the blinds on the windows.

  “Followed?” She chuckled. “Your meetin’ with the werewolf went that bad, huh?”

  Satisfied Trace wasn’t about to burst through my front door, I let the blinds fall back into place and turned to look at Eeny with a sigh. “Ugh. That was a whole other disaster. Remind me to have a shot of liquor before I talk to Jackson Boudreaux again. Maybe he’ll make sense if I’m tipsy. But I wasn’t talking about him. I was talking about Trace.”

  At the mention of his name, Eeny made the sign of the cross over her chest.

  I’m not even sure she’s a Christian, but she likes to keep all her bases covered.

  “Trace! Lawd! What on earth you doin’ talkin’ to him?”

  “Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.” I walked past Eeny on my way to the kitchen. Huffing and excited, she followed right on my heels.

  “Well what did he say? More importantly, how did he look? Does he still have all those big ol’ muscles in all the right places, or did he let himself go?”

  I snorted. “The day Trace Adams lets himself go is the day the earth stops spinning.”

  “So he looked good? What was he wearin’?”

  I stopped and turned to look at her. “Eeny. Focus. The man is a liar and a cheater. It doesn’t matter how good he looks.”

  She pursed her lips. “Can you just tell me if he was wearin’ those tight jeans like he always used to that accentuated his nice big package and tight butt?”

  I sighed and turned away, headed for the kitchen. “No. He was wearing a pair of sweatpants.”

  Hello, white lie. Trace had actually been wearing jeans that accentuated his bulge and tight butt, but I wasn’t about to tell Eeny that. She’d get nothing done for the rest of the day. And I wasn’t admitting to myself that I’d noticed, anyway.

  Only I had, which was pathetic. Trace was the last man I’d had sex with, and he knew what he was doing in bed. I wasn’t sure if my lack of attraction to anyone since was due to how badly he broke my heart or a terrible suspicion that no other man would be able to make me scream the way he had.

  Either way, my dry spell had gone on so long the inside of my vagina probably looked like one of those old Western ghost towns, all tumbleweeds and abandoned buildings, mean-looking vultures picking over dried-up bones.

  “Sweatpants!” exclaimed Eeny. She made a clucking sound, like a hen. “Lawd, what a waste. That’s like hangin’ curtains on the statue of David.”

  Even though I wanted to, I couldn’t disagree. Trace might be all kinds of wrong, but I’d never seen another man as beautiful.

  If only the inside matched the outside. But, as Mama always told me, beauty is as beauty does. Some of the prettiest faces hide the meanest hearts, and smooth talk is no substitute for good character. The only way to judge a person is by his deeds.

  Like caring for a special needs child who isn’t your own, I thought pensively.

  Then I pushed the thought aside and got to work.

  Three days later I was sitting in a hospital room that smelled like antiseptic and desperation, holding my mother’s hand as poisonous chemicals dripped into her veins from a clear plastic bag elevated on a metal pole.

  My mother treated the whole thing like it was an outing in the park, chatting with the nurses, flirting with the doctor, reading gossip rags, and laughing.

  I, on the other hand, was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Mama was being filled with poison!

  Cancer-killing poison, but poison nonetheless.

  “Buck up, child, you look like you’re at a funeral!” Mama scolded, smacking me on the arm with a rolled-up magazine.

  “I’m sorry.” I sniffled and sat up straighter in my chair. “You’re right. What can I do for you? Can I get you anything? Water? A snack? Something else to read?”

  A male nurse came over, silently checked the catheter inserted into Mama’s arm, then nodded and left. Watching him go, Mama muttered, “Hoo! There’s my snack right there. You think he likes older women?”

  I had to laugh. “I think those chemicals are going to your head.”

  She pretended to be offended. “Are you saying you don’t think I could hit that?”

  I grimaced. “Hit that? Are you a rapper now?”

  Mama went all practical. “If I were, I’d want to be Jay Z. Married to Beyoncé, can you imagine? That boy has no idea how lucky he is!” She tapped me on the arm with her gossip rag. “And if he doesn’t watch out, Kanye West is gonna get all up in there and steal his woman.”

  I blinked at her. “I’d ask if you’ve been drinking, but I’m afraid of the answer.”

  “Speaking of drinking,” she said, watching me from under her lashes like she does when she has something scandalous to reveal, “I got a real interesting phone call the other day.”

  “Oh?” I said, watching an old man with a walker shuffle by the door. His blue hospital gown was open in the back, exposing his wrinkled, white butt. I looked away, embarrassed for him.

  Lord, hospitals were depressing.

  “Mmm-hmm,” said Mama. “From Trace.”

 
; My head snapped around so fast it almost flew clear off my neck. “Trace! You’re joking!”

  “I’m serious as a car crash, chère.” She pursed her lips, tilting her head to look more closely at me. “Why didn’t you mention you saw him?”

  “Because I was trying to forget, obviously,” I grumbled. “And what business did he have calling you? The nerve!”

  “Oh, don’t you worry, I gave him a good piece of my mind.” She paused for a moment, thinking. “Funny, he agreed with everything I said about him. And then he apologized.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, Mama, you know better than to listen to that snake oil salesman. You should’ve hung up the second you recognized his voice.”

  “I did,” she said, nodding. “Until he called me back and told me that losing you was the biggest mistake he’d ever made.”

  “Gag,” I said.

  “And that he’d do anything to get you back.”

  “Oh, for the love of God.”

  “Which was his other point.”

  I glared at Mama. “Please don’t tell me you believe his whole ‘I’ve been saved by Jesus’ spiel!”

  She looked at me for a long time, not saying a word. Then she lifted a shoulder. “For some people, hitting rock bottom is the only way they can start a new journey toward the top.”

  “Rock bottom! He’s a ho, Mama, not an alcoholic! Land’s sake, he slept with my best friend! In my bed!”

  That last part might have been a little loud, judging by the way the nurse walking by the open door snorted.

  Mama patted my hand. “I know he did, baby, and that was an awful thing to do. All I’m saying is . . . occasionally good people make stupid mistakes.” Her eyes grew misty. “And honestly, lately I’ve been thinking a lot about all the mistakes I’ve made in my life. Sometimes it takes something really bad to put all the good in perspective.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” I said, staring at her. “He’s put a spell on you.”

  She waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Nobody’s put a spell on me. I’m too thick-headed for it to work.” She sighed, toying with the glasses on a chain around her neck. “But after sixty-four years on this earth, I know when a man’s lying, and I know when a man’s telling the truth. And when Trace said he still loved you and would do anything to get you back, he was telling the truth.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. You saw how devastated I was after we broke up. You remember how much weight I lost and how I cried every day and how I couldn’t get out of bed for weeks, right?”

  “I remember,” she said quietly. “But I also know you haven’t even looked at another man since him. Which makes me think all those feelings you had for him might still be there.”

  Something awful occurred to me. “Oh, no. Please tell me you didn’t tell him that.”

  She pulled a face, like, Oops.

  I shot up from my chair and stared down at her. “Mama! You didn’t!”

  She leveled me with her own version of The Look. “Don’t you raise your voice to me, young lady. I am not gonna leave this earth without seeing you settled, you hear?”

  “You’re not going anywhere!” I said, horrified she was talking about dying.

  She ignored my interruption. “And I’m gonna tell you something else—your own daddy wasn’t the saint you think he was. Before we were married that man chased every skirt he saw, and when I found out, I left him flat as a penny run over by a freight train. But he begged me to forgive him, and I’m glad I did because we were happily married for more than thirty years and he gave me the best gift I’ve ever gotten—you.”

  I stared at her with my mouth hanging open.

  She continued. “Men aren’t like us, baby. They’re dumb as doughnut holes when it comes to love. But once they decide to commit—not say they’re committing, but deep in their heart actually make the commitment—they never waver. Your father didn’t waver for thirty years, even when his own parents cut him off without a cent because he married me. He didn’t waver when we found out I couldn’t have any more babies, even though he wanted a big family. He didn’t waver through good times or bad, sickness or health, for all the years after he took a vow to love and cherish me. In the end the only thing powerful enough to put us apart was death.”

  Her voice grew quiet. “And sometimes I’m not sure that did it, either. I can still feel him when I’m low. Every once in a while I smell his cologne, even when I’m in a room all by myself. Just this morning I rolled over in bed and felt a hand on my forehead, but when I opened my eyes there was no one there. I don’t know what that means, but I do know this. If your father, God rest his soul, could turn out to be the honest man and true friend and loyal husband he was for all those years, chère, there’s hope for anyone. Even a scallywag like Trace.”

  Rattled to my core, knees shaking, I sank back into my chair. I whispered, “You never told me any of that before.”

  She smiled and leaned over and brushed a lock of hair off my cheek. “I’ve never been dying before.”

  “You’re not dying,” I insisted, gripping her hand.

  “We’re all dying, baby. It’s just a matter of when.” She lifted my hand and pressed it to her lips. “I’ve had a wonderful life. Maybe better than I deserve. I’m not afraid to go, so don’t you be afraid, either.”

  I teared up, hard. “How can you not be afraid? I’m so afraid for you.”

  This time her smile was truly beautiful. “Because your daddy’s waiting for me on the other side, baby,” she said gently. “Finally we’ll be together again. Being afraid of that would just be plain stupid.”

  My lip quavered. My throat closed.

  Then I burst into tears.

  “Oh, come on now, chère,” she said, opening her arms. I buried my face into her chest and cried. She patted me on the back and kissed the top of my head, chuckling softly. “You always were such a sentimental little thing. Crying over dead goldfish and those Morris the Cat commercials where he’s lost and his owner’s looking for him in the rain.”

  My reply came out muffled. “You’re not a goldfish!”

  Her sigh sounded philosophical. “Might as well be. We’re all just here for a blip in time, riding on a rock that’s flying through space at a million miles a day in a galaxy that has a hundred billion stars. Me, Jay Z, the president, a goldfish . . . in the end there’s not much difference, chère. We come and go. We live and die. If we’re lucky, we love and are loved.”

  She tilted my head up with a finger under my chin and smiled at me. “And I’ve been incredibly lucky, so don’t you waste your tears on me, you hear?”

  I wiped my face with the back of my hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Good girl.” She looked over my shoulder. Her voice turned brisk. “Now where the heck is that male nurse? I feel in need of some mouth-to-mouth resuscitation!”

  There was nothing else to do but laugh. I laughed until the doctor pulled me into the hallway and told me in a solemn voice that Mama was going to need chemo for the next seven days straight, have a break for a week, and then another seven days, and so on for the next month . . . and each round would cost almost $3,000.

  Which didn’t include lab tests, imaging tests, radiation, or the antinausea and other drugs she’d need in addition to the intravenous chemo.

  I was going to need a lot more than twenty grand.

  ELEVEN

  BIANCA

  By the time Jackson’s charity benefit rolled around, I was jumpy as a cat on a hot tin roof.

  Doc Halloran had told us what to expect in the way of side effects of the chemo, but neither Mama nor I was prepared for the reality of it. She felt fine for the first few days, and then everything kicked in with one big wallop.

  The nausea and vomiting were the least of it. She also had massive headaches, frightful mouth sores, and fatigue so bad she could hardly get out of bed.

  I went with her every day to the hospital for the first week, th
en helped out at the house during the second, trying to get her to eat and fielding all her callers, turning them away with excuses that she had the flu. Even the poor Colonel wasn’t allowed inside. Mama didn’t have the energy to put on her face and pretend, so away he went, shoulders slumped.

  I didn’t think it was right she didn’t tell him what was really going on, but it wasn’t my place to make that decision.

  But most of all, I dreaded what would happen when she had to go back for the next round of chemo. The first was so bad it seemed likely to kill her before the cancer did.

  “Perfectly normal,” said Doc Halloran every time I called him in a panic. “It’s a sign the medicine is working, Bianca. Just let it take its course.”

  It’s so irritating when someone stays calm while the world is ending.

  In between all that I worked in a frenzy to get ready for Jackson’s charity benefit. I met with the coordinators, ordered all the meat, produce, and alcohol, and added extra shifts at the restaurant to start the food prep.

  And I avoided Trace’s calls.

  Twice he called the house. Both times I saw the number and let it ring, flipping the bird at the phone. When the answering machine came on, he hung up with a heavy sigh, like I was being unreasonable.

  I gave Mama a pass on account of her being sick, but there was no way I was gonna listen to a single word he had to say. I knew for a fact he was only calling because I’d given him the brush-off. Our time together had proven to me in a hundred ways that Trace was the kind of man who only wanted what he couldn’t have. Rejection heightened his interest. His appetite was whetted by the chase. If I’d shown the least bit of tenderness when we’d run into each other on the street, he would’ve gone on with his life without giving me a second thought, as he’d been doing for the past two years.

  In hindsight, I should’ve told him I was still madly in love with him and watched the smoke rise from the rubber burns the soles of his shoes left on the sidewalk as he fled. But my heart was still too bruised to play that game. Instead I started carrying pepper spray in my pocketbook in case I saw him again. I had enough on my plate. I didn’t need a lying, cheating, born-again BS artist to contend with.