Regrets Only (Sequel to The Marriage Pact)

by Pullen, M. J.

  “You told the guys?”

  “No, but they knew something was going on. You left so fast, and Misty’s not exactly discreet when she’s angry.”

  But what was going on? They had flirted a little, maybe. He’d hurt her feelings and she’d folded her cards. She had walked to her cabin alone and they spent the next morning talking like old friends. Then he’d showed up to return a scarf and been a perfect gentleman last night. Now, here they were. One in the morning in a driveway in the suburbs. Like teenagers out past curfew.

  He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind Suzanne’s ear, letting his hand linger there.

  “You piss me off,” he said abruptly, and pulled her into him. The kiss was unexpected and a little rough. Then he softened, bringing up his other hand to hold her head on both sides. She wanted to pull back, to escape the confusion his closeness created. But she wanted to be closer, too. Dylan held her and kissed her for a long moment, leaning against her car, her head and mouth captive in his hands. Her heart swelled in her chest, and warmth spread all the way to her toes.

  “Sorry,” he said eventually, pulling back and breaking the spell. “I didn’t plan to do that. Dammit.”

  “It’s okay,” Suzanne said uncertainly. Was it? She thought of Misty, grinding on his lap at the cabin. And in her head, about fifty glossy magazine pictures of him with various women. She had seen them all during her research before the gala, and now she couldn’t erase them from her mind. The images spun in front of her: awards shows, parties, concerts, beaches. Dylan coiffed and styled, wearing anything from a trendy tuxedo to carefully ripped jeans to a bathing suit and naturally, the camouflage hat. Always with a crooked little grin for the camera, and always a perky pair of double-D’s in easy squeezing distance.

  She could not erase these images, nor could she reconcile them with the man standing here, leaning against her car like a lost kid and holding her hand. She felt as though the guy in front of her had, not an evil twin, but a famous one. Tonight he wore glasses, several days’ stubble, and a look of frustrated longing, clearly torn by something she didn’t fully understand. She could virtually feel his heart beating against hers, entirely and miserably human.

  But it is the same man, she reminded herself. You can’t pretend that other life doesn’t exist.

  “Suzanne,” he said, saying her real name with deliberation, sounding tortured. Not Scarlett. He lingered near her neck as though any moment he might sink into her and lose himself. “I—God—I’m an idiot for saying this…but I don’t think this is a good idea. Not now, at least.”

  She’d half-expected it, even thought it herself. But hearing him say it stung.

  She saw sadness in his eyes as he started to explain. “It’s just—”

  “Please, don’t,” she interrupted. No speech. With the exception of Jake, who had spurned her early advances in college before showing a slow-building preference for Marci, this was the first time in her life a man had rejected her, and the one thing she did not need was a laundry list of reasons.

  “I want to,” he said, almost pleading. “I need to say why.”

  “Why? How does that help?” she fired at him. “Anyway, I know the reasons. I mean, there are so many of them. They could fill up my dining room wall.”

  He snorted, nodding grimly.

  “There are the hundreds of women. No, hundreds of thousands of women, out there.” She gestured wildly in the direction of what might have been Atlanta. Or New York. But who cared? It was true in all directions. “All in love with you, and all fantasizing about what would happen if they could get you alone for just a few minutes. There’s the fact that not only do we work together, sort of, but that your sister is my one and only client at the moment. The fact that you spend half your life on the road, that neither of us could hold an adult relationship together with superglue, our age difference—”

  “We’re only seven years apart,” he protested, raising his head to meet her eyes.

  “Whatever. It’s enough. And we don’t have to talk about any of it. There’s no point, right?” Her surprising anguish was coming out as hostility, not at all what she intended.

  “No, we don’t have to talk about it, if you don’t want to. But,” he put his hand on her cheek and wiped away a tear she didn’t realize was there, “age has nothing to do with it.”

  “Only someone your age would think that,” she said sardonically.

  He smiled ruefully. Suzanne had the sense that neither this evening nor this conversation was turning out as he’d hoped. Their playful flirting over gin rummy felt like forever ago, rather than just a few minutes. He looked tired. Resigned.

  “Can I follow you home again? Please? I’ll feel better if I know you’re safe.”

  “No, thanks,” she said bitterly. He nodded. She tried to follow up more softly. “I’m fine. Really.”

  “Can I call you sometime?” he persisted. “As a friend, I mean?”

  “It seems to me you have more than enough friends, Dylan.” Starlets. Groupies. Drinking buddies. Fans. Old friends. Wait, no, only young friends. The chasm between twenty-six and thirty-three felt suddenly massive. Especially when twenty-six was active, talented, and obscenely famous and thirty-three wanted to be in bed by eleven o’clock most nights and had Junior League meetings to attend each month.

  “Well, yeah, but you’re…different. I can talk to you.”

  She could tell he meant it. Looking at him under the mercury orange of the street light, she saw not the successful singer who had capitalized on his wild streak and rebellious attitude, but a little boy trapped in a man’s body. A man’s handsome, deep-voiced, sexy body that she wanted desperately to reach out and touch. No. He’s right. No, no, no.

  “I don’t think it’s such a good idea.” She kissed his cheek, pleased with herself for this gesture of maturity. “I’ll see you at the wedding, okay?”

  Dylan grazed her cheek with one hand, sighing. “Okay. Goodnight, Scarlett.”

  #

  She spent the night on Jake and Marci’s couch, rolling around miserably and getting up to leave before they ventured downstairs in the morning. She was in no frame of mind for conversation, even the funny, Dylan-bashing kind that she knew Marci would help provide. Maybe in a couple of days.

  On the drive back to her apartment, she tried to calm herself with reasonable thoughts. She had no reason to be mad, or even annoyed, at Dylan. He had simply said what they both knew to be true. If he hadn’t said it, she would have. He had saved her the trouble. She should be grateful. Having an adult conversation about why a relationship wouldn’t work was so grown-up, instead of sneaking out under cover of darkness like she normally did. He was helping her grow as a person. Fan-fucking-tastic.

  By the time she got to her apartment a half hour later, Suzanne had run out of both mature reasonable thoughts and irrational angry impulses. The building was silent this early on a Saturday; a light drizzle was keeping all but the most hardcore runners tucked in their beds. Sleep was foremost on her mind as she put the key in her door, exhausted and a little light-headed from the last couple of days. Otherwise, she might have noticed the tiny scratches around the lock, or that the smooth retraction of the deadbolt was a not quite as solid as usual.

  Two messages were waiting on her machine when she got inside, dropping her purse and keys next to the door. Her heart leapt at the flashing red “2” as a seedling of hope sprouted, despite her best efforts to keep it down. He had called. Dylan had called to say that he was wrong and wanted to see her today. Not that seeing him was what she wanted, of course. Suzanne knew absolutely that being with Dylan was a horrible idea. And that’s what she would tell him if he had called.

  But Dylan hadn’t called. The first message was from an equally surprising person, however: William Fitzgerald. His deep, rich Southern accent had become more pronounced with time. “Hello, Suzanne. My mother said that you tried to get in touch with me this week. It’s really nice to hear from you. I’d lo
ve to catch up. It’s funny you called, because I’ve actually been thinking about you quite a bit recently. Why don’t we meet for dinner this week sometime?” He left his number. Dinner—not coffee or drinks. So he’s probably not married, then.

  The next message was not Dylan either, but Chad. “Hey, Suzanne, call me when you get this. I’ve been checking my old voicemail and there’s something I think you should—”

  The message was cut off by the startling sound of the phone ringing in the present. A quick glance at the caller ID told her it was Chad again. I’m so tired, she thought. I should just let it roll to the machine. Chad will understand. What could possibly be so important?

  Suddenly it struck her, and a cold shiver ran down her spine. It was not yet seven in the morning. On a Sunday. Her former assistant was not a morning person, and neither was she. They had generally started their work in the office at ten, and even then they barely said two words to each other before noon. If he was calling this early, it must be important.

  She had just grabbed the receiver from its cradle to answer, when it was smacked violently out of her hand, sent tumbling to the floor by some sort of object—a stick or handle of some kind. Shock and pain clouded her awareness; on instinct, she tried to bend down to get the phone rather than to look at the person behind her who had cast the blow. In seconds, however, there was a strong arm around her throat, and she could no longer move to accomplish either. A white cloth moved in front of her nose and mouth. In an instant the world went black.

  Chapter 19

  Dylan Burke paced in frustration around the studio apartment his family kept in downtown Atlanta. Just a tiny space with nondescript, corporate-looking furniture, it was designed for his and his parents’ sporadic use during layovers, meetings with non-Nashville executives, or frequent social visits to Atlanta. Of course, the eight hundred or so square feet paled compared with his place in the mountains or his parents’ home in Nashville, but lately he’d found himself here more and more often. He loved Tennessee and it would always be home, but Atlanta seemed to offer him more diversity of culture, more opportunities to reinvent himself and expand his musical sphere of influence.

  The place was small, but it had all he needed: kitchen, comfortable couches, a bedroom closet big enough to keep an old guitar handy. A couple of excellent bars and barbecue restaurants were within walking distance and it was only a few minutes to Turner Field. He had a decent view of downtown, and busy neighbors who either didn’t recognize him or were polite enough to pretend. It was one of the few places in the world he could come and go unnoticed. It was as close as Dylan could come to a normal life, and it felt as much like home as anywhere else.

  Right now, however, he wanted to tear down the walls.

  It was nearly two o’clock on Sunday afternoon. He had been doing laps around the coffee table all morning. He was mad at himself, mad at Suzanne, mad at the damn phone for not ringing.

  He had regretted what happened with Suzanne almost immediately after pulling out of Jake and Marci’s driveway. His logical brain knew he had been right, that getting into a real relationship with someone like Suzanne—and there was no way he could settle for less than that, not with her—was a recipe for disaster. Yet a less logical part of him had wanted, more than anything, to keep kissing her and walk straight into that disaster with his eyes and heart wide open.

  He had been about to turn onto the entrance ramp for GA 400 on his way back to the studio apartment when the tide turned in the battle going on inside his brain, and he decided to go back. He wanted to call, but he’d forgotten to charge his phone the night before, and it lay useless in the ancient truck’s passenger seat. He guessed she’d probably still be at Marci’s house, though, because she had not yet gotten in her car when he’d pulled out of the driveway.

  So, he’d go to her, knock gently on a window, and tell her…what? That he thought he might love her? After one kiss? Impossible. But there was something about her. He needed her to know. The words would come, he reasoned, just as they did when he’d been stuck on a lyric for weeks and they had only hours of studio time left. He’d think of something. He always did.

  Maybe she’d reject him right back, as she seemed inclined to do, and reiterate the reasons she’d already stated that things wouldn’t work out between them. Maybe friendship would be all they’d ever have. Or maybe, if she’d been telling the truth, she would not offer him friendship, even. But he was sure he had seen something behind those eyes. And she was the first new friend, real friend, he had made in ages. Whatever was going to happen, he had to try.

  Exuberant with the idea of seeing her again, and for the first time in years telling a woman the exact truth about how he felt, Dylan sang along loudly with Willie Nelson on the radio. He was heading down a long two-lane road that he thought should lead back to Marci’s house, not caring at all that it was nearly two in the morning. The directions to the house were on his lifeless phone, but he thought he remembered the basics and that he would know it when he saw it.

  After a while, he thought the scenery looked less familiar and that perhaps he’d gone too far. Alpharetta seemed to be a sea of subdivisions with lots of similar, oversized houses on small lots, broken up by upscale strip malls, chain restaurants, and pharmacies. It was difficult to tell, especially at night, whether he was covering familiar ground or not. He came to a cross street with a familiar name, and followed it for a while, feeling increasingly confused and frustrated. He passed several subdivisions that looked similar to Marci’s, and struggled to remember the name on the stone wall he’d seen on the way in a few hours ago. It was something ‘ford’, he thought. Kingsford? No, that was charcoal. Stratford? Wafford? Wexford?

  He passed a gas station that did not look at all familiar and found himself at another intersection: Kimball Bridge and Medlock Bridge. He was suddenly unsure that he had been on the right road at all. Everything seemed to be named Bridge or Ferry in this part of the world. Now he had absolutely no idea where he’d come from or how to get back. He thought about going into the gas station for help, but what would he say? He didn’t know Marci’s last name or phone number, or even Suzanne’s number. And if he had known, they were all probably asleep by now.

  There was nothing to do but go home and charge his phone and call Suzanne tomorrow. He went into the gas station to get directions back to the highway, vowing to himself that he would memorize Suzanne’s number the next day and buy a car charger for his phone.

  Today he had memorized the number as he dialed it, but so far Suzanne had not answered his calls. He’d tried her cell phone a couple of times before lunch and even managed to get her home number from an irritated Yvette. He knew she was angry, from the frosty way she’d pulled away from him last night, but this kind of avoidance didn’t seem like her style. In his experience, Suzanne had always been classy, even under duress. So he paced around the tiny living room, alternating between dismissive anger and an absurd impulse to simply drive to her apartment and confront her in person.

  He was in the middle of this very debate when there was a knock on the door. He froze. Who the hell could that be? Not Suzanne. She didn’t know where this apartment was, and he was not even sure he’d mentioned that it existed. Had she called Yvette looking for him? It wasn’t like Yvette to give out his private information, but because he’d called her looking for Suzanne this morning, maybe…

  The knock came again, more insistent. He crossed to the peephole. Shit.

  Misty’s face had a natural frown to it, which seemed emphasized by her tanned skin—unusually dark for the beginning of the summer. Her white-blonde hair was pulled back in a sporty pony tail, and she wore a tight t-shirt and running shorts, which showed off her best features: extra-large, silicone enhanced breasts and sturdy, athletic legs. He marveled at how he could appreciate these things through the peephole and feel no desire whatsoever to open the door.

  Misty, however, had other ideas. A duffel bag was slung over her shoulder. �
��Dylan. I know you’re in there. Open up.”

  He thought about ignoring her, waiting to see if she would just go away, but she persisted more loudly. “I saw your truck downstairs. I’m not leaving.”

  He knew she meant this. Before they’d started dating—somewhat accidentally—a few months before, he had known Misty most of his life. His sister Amber used to babysit Misty as a kid and sometimes brought her home to play with Dylan and Kate while Amber talked on the phone. As adults, Amber and Misty had stayed in touch and become friends.

  So Misty had known him since long before fame and fortune had struck. For this reason Dylan had found that she was more comfortable—refreshingly so at first—than most girls speaking her mind with him. He’d also found that it was harder than he expected to extract himself from the relationship once it had begun. They had hooked up after a night of drunken revelry at the mountain house, and she had more or less set up camp at his side ever since.

  At first he hadn’t minded this: Misty was obviously attractive. He’d noted with pride how other men’s mouths watered when they walked past. The press loved her, too—especially the rose tattoo on her cleavage that she showed to advantage in everything from bikinis to formal wear. She was bold and refreshingly fearless, unlike the hordes of groupies who acted as though everything he said or did was solid gold.

  But lately Dylan had been feeling that Misty’s demands for attention were becoming more frequent, more expensive, and less polite in their delivery. Amber and Sherrie had also begun hinting in front of the family, to his utter dismay, that Dylan and Misty might be moving toward marriage. He’d pleaded with them to stop adding fuel to that fire, but Amber in particular could apparently imagine no better sister-in-law than her old friend.

  Seeing her now in the hallway, arms folded across her chest in impatience, Dylan knew there was no getting around letting her in. He owed her that much, he supposed. They hadn’t spoken since he dismissed her from the mountain house the week before, and he’d been avoiding both Misty and his sisters ever since. That couldn’t last forever. Might as well take your medicine, Burke. This day isn’t going well anyway.