“He can’t see.”
“Are you sure?”
“Reasonably.” He found a radio station and turned up the volume of Green Day’s “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.”
Through the dark interior, his mouth found hers, and there was a sort of desperation in his kiss that she’d never felt before. A sort of need and greed. Like he wanted to eat her up. Consume her, right there in the back of a stretch Hummer.
She was leaving in a few short days, and so was he. She’d never see him again, and having sex while speeding through Vegas was a lot better than thinking about going home, alone. The car sped away from the curb, and Billy Joe’s voice filled the limo. As he sang of loneliness and shallow hearts, Autumn straddled Sam’s lap and placed her hands on the sides of his face. She kissed him long and hard as his hands crept up her thighs because this was Vegas, and apparently she didn’t have a problem with sex in a limo. Not even with only a reasonable assurance that the driver couldn’t see. Nothing was real there. Not the façades, nor the fake canals and volcanos. Not the promise of easy money or the feelings threatening to overtake her good intentions. Certainly not the affair that had nothing to do with love.
Sam’s big hands slipped over her hips and up her sides. He tugged at the top of her dress until it was around her waist, and her bare breasts rested in his palms. His thumbs brushed across her hard nipples, and he said things.
“I need you,” he groaned. “I need you to fill me up.” He said other things. Dirty things. Things about what he wanted to do to her and how. Things about what he wanted her to do to him. Things that only a man like Sam could get away with saying.
He reached between her thighs and pushed her thong aside. He touched her and did those things he said he was going to do. Later, in her hotel room, she did things to him that made him groan and beg her not to stop. Things that brought a smile to his lips.
It was good to see him smile.
The next morning, she woke alone. She didn’t know whether to be sad or glad. She turned over and went back to sleep. At noon, Sam called her room to tell her to meet him in the lobby at six and to wear something comfortable but not flip-flops. She wondered what he had planned, and when the time came, she wore a jeans skirt, white tank top, and leather sandals. He wore jeans and Clint Eastwood T-shirt, and they ate Chinese and drank Tsingtao.
“What’s left on your to-do list?” Sam asked, and took a long pull from the green bottle.
“A lot. I haven’t done half the things on it.”
“Yeah.” He smiled and lowered the beer. “Sorry about that.”
“You don’t look sorry.”
He shrugged. “You should thank me. Your list sucks.”
She gasped. “No, it doesn’t.”
“I’ve never seen a suckier list. It’s like you got out Frommer’s and circled things you wanted to see.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Fodor’s online.”
“Same thing. I wasn’t on your list. Sex in a limo wasn’t on your list. Hell, you’re in Vegas, and you don’t have one damn strip club on your list. Not even a male review. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a nun.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I really have no desire to see men dancing around with their wieners out.”
He blinked. “I can’t believe you just said ‘wiener.’ ”
She ignored him and glanced about the Chinese restaurant to make sure no one was listening in on the conversation. “I don’t want some guy’s balls flying around my head, and if one of them actually put his… penis… on my shoulder, I’d freak out.”
He tilted his head back and laughed. Long and loud and attracting attention. She didn’t care. He had a great laugh, and she wished he’d laugh more.
“I cannot believe you’re the same girl who jumped on me in the limo last night.”
She couldn’t either.
“And you didn’t seem to mind my balls flying around your head last night.”
She bit the corner of her lip to keep from smiling.
He lifted one hip and pulled out two tickets from his back pocket. He handed them to her.
Her mouth dropped open. “Cher?” She looked up into his face. “How did you get tickets?”
“I got my ways.”
“Are you going to Cher with me?”
“That’s why there are two tickets.”
He hated Cher. “But you’re not gay or desperate to get laid.”
“That’s true.”
“You don’t like Cher.”
He grinned. “I like you.”
Oh no. She was in trouble. Big bad horrible trouble with blond hair and smiling blue eyes. Her throat got tight, and the air left her lungs. Her heart felt like it was expanding in her chest, and if it didn’t stop, it would burst. Right there in Beijing Noodle No. 9. Her eyes watered. This was horrible. From that very first night, she’d known he was the kind of trouble she should avoid. She just hadn’t realized he would overwhelm her and make her fall for him.
“Don’t cry. It’s just Cher, and they are nosebleed seats. No big deal.”
It was a big deal. Huge. She swallowed hard, past the big lump in her chest. She didn’t care about Cher. She’d only wanted to go because she was in Vegas, and it was a farewell tour. She wiped the tears beneath her eyes. “I don’t know what to say.” And she didn’t. Despite knowing better, she was developing dangerous feelings for him. It was stupid and rash and real. It felt real, but she didn’t know if he felt the same way.
During the concert, she wrapped her arm around his and watched the bright stage show and Cher’s parade of costumes. She liked it more than she thought she would, but when Sam started to snore, she woke him, and they left early. They moved to the casino and played blackjack and craps and roulette. Mostly he played and she watched. They drank free booze until about 1:00 A.M. Autumn felt light and hazy, and as a joke, she bought Sam a Cher T-shirt. They’d both laughed like it was the height of hilarity when he put it on. And when Sam decided that they needed to find an Elvis impersonator, she thought it sounded like a great plan. “Elvis impersonator” was on her list, but unfortunately, the only one still awake was at the Viva Las Vegas Wedding Chapel.
Even years later, she was never quite sure how they’d arrived at the chapel or whose idea it had been to go inside and watch Elvis marry people, but what was clear, what had always remained clear, was standing outside the chapel, looking up at the marquee and the bright flashing names of the most recently wed. In big orange letters: Just Married, Donna and Doug.
“We should get married.”
She looked at him, the orange light bathing his face and glowing in his blond hair. “Are you kidding?”
He shook his head. “No. It just feels right.”
Her heart pounded boom boom boom in her chest, and her stomach got all light and queasy. “Sam…” She swallowed hard. “I don’t think—”
“Don’t think.” He pulled her against him, and his mouth swooped down to take hers in a full, wet kiss that sucked out her breath and overwhelmed what little wits she had left. She loved him. Somehow, she’d fallen in love with Sam, and she wanted to be with him. Maybe it was fate. Meant to be. Love at first sight. Right?
He pulled back. His lips wet from the kiss, he looked at her from beneath lowered lids. “Say yes.”
“Yes.”
He smiled, and within an hour, they were Mr. and Mrs. Samuel LeClaire. He’d paid for the Hound Dog Special, which in hindsight was apropos given Sam’s hound-dog ways. But hindsight was always twenty-twenty, and that night the Hound Dog Special meant goodies that included four candid wedding photos, roses, and a plush Hound Dog keepsake. Once outside, they’d watched their names flash in bright neon, and instead of rings, they got their names tattooed on the other’s body. By the time they made it back to the hotel room, the sun was just rising over the desert. They ordered room service and made love without a condom. At least she thought it was love. She’d felt it in every part of her body, incl
uding her heart.
She woke just after noon, alone except for her stuffed Hound Dog. Sam was gone, but she wasn’t worried. He’d come back. He always did, and they were married now. Their future was together. He’d never come right out and said he loved her, but he had to. He’d pursued her since that first night at Pure, and last night they’d promised to “love each other tender.” She smiled and stretched. The wedding had been impulsive and rash, to be sure, but she didn’t regret it.
By three, she got a little concerned, and by four she was worried that something had happened to him. She didn’t have his cell number and called the front desk. She asked to be connected to his room and was informed that he and the rest of his party had checked out.
Checked out? She slid her feet into a pair of flip-flops, grabbed her room key, and headed to his suite. Except for the maids changing beds and vacuuming, the place was empty. No suitcases. No Sam. He must have checked out to move into her room. So where was he?
She’d spent the rest of the day and night waiting for him to come pounding on her door. Every time someone passed her room, her heart stopped, but it was never Sam. She couldn’t believe he’d left her without a word. She was confused. Where was he? As she stared at the photos of them, standing before the Elvis impersonator, she told herself that he’d come back. He would. He had to because they were married.
She told herself he’d be back as she waited and worried and watched the news for any report of an accident. She even stayed an extra day, waiting, but he never even called. By the next afternoon it became clear that he wasn’t coming back, and she boarded a small plane to Helena.
She arrived home a few hours later, numb and hurt and confused. Had anything that had happened been real? It had sure felt real, and her heart ached like it had been real.
The wedding certificate was real. Sam had turned her head, broken her heart, and knocked the wind out of her, and what was she to do? He’d married her and left her in a hotel room. She didn’t know if she should fly to Seattle and talk to him. He probably wouldn’t be that hard to find. She didn’t know what to do and felt like she was living in a fog. When she did finally hear from him at the end of the next week, it was through his lawyer, demanding a divorce. He’d left her stunned and her heart crushed. Too bad that hadn’t been enough for him.
A month later, when she’d informed his attorney of her pregnancy, she’d been so scared and alone, and she’d hoped—hoped even though she knew better—that he’d tell her it was okay. That he’d be there for her and the child. That he’d help her out so that she wasn’t totally alone. Instead, he’d demanded a paternity test.
The next time she laid eyes on him again was the day she’d put Conner in his arms. He’d had tape across his nose and one of his eyes was black-and-blue. Her heart had squeezed, and her throat had hurt from holding back emotion. He’d looked at her as if he really didn’t remember her, and any love she’d felt for him turned into a deep, burning hatred. Right there in his lawyer’s office, and she’d wished she’d been the one to punch him. If he hadn’t been holding her son, she might have.
Autumn shut the notebook on her desk and rose from her office chair. Now she felt nothing. Peace settled across her heart as she walked from her office and moved upstairs. Life was good. Her son was in the bedroom asleep across the hall from hers. Her business was great, and she didn’t hate Sam. She was sure that he would always do things to make her mad. He was selfish and couldn’t help himself, but she didn’t hate him. Her heart didn’t ache; nor did her head feel like it was going to explode when he walked into a room. When she’d opened the door that evening and seen him with Conner in his arms, she’d just felt relieved that her son was home. Safe.
She was free from the hot and cold emotions. Free from the push and pull of love and hate. Free to feel nothing for Sam.
Nothing at all.
Chapter Eight
Any Man of Mine:
Isn’t Ninety Percent Testosterone
Sam stood in the tunnel of the Joe Louis Arena and waited to hit the ice. He hated playing in Detroit. Hated the stinking octopus.
He stood behind Logan Dumont and in front of Blake Conte. Captain Walker Brooks hit the ice first amidst a wall of booing Red Wing fans. Sam had always found jeering crowds amusing. He fed off all that passion, and no one was more passionate about a sport than hockey fans. When it was his turn to step onto the ice, he stuck his glove under one arm and skated across the ice, waving like he was a conquering hero. He looked up at the filled seats and laughed. He might hate playing at the Joe Louis, but he loved playing hockey. He’d been on the road for over a week and was exhausted and jet lagged, but the second the puck dropped, that all went away. Adrenaline pounded through his veins and rushed across his skin. He dominated behind the blue line, using his body to agitate and intimidate. He closed firing lanes and spent four minutes in the sin bin for cross-checking and hooking. The latter was complete bullshit. It wasn’t his fault that Zetterberg got tangled up in Sam’s stick. He should go back to Sweden and learn how to skate like a big boy.
Pansy ass.
The coaches sometime bitched about stupid penalties, but they all knew that was just the way Sam worked. It was the cost of doing business, and when the Chinooks won, like they did that night against the Red Wings, no one bitched. He drew his paycheck—and these days it was a big one, with lots of zeros—for hitting hard, shutting down goal-scoring opportunities, and making plays for the wingmen. He had one of the hardest slap shots in the league and one of the hardest right hooks. He liked to think he used both judiciously. Of course, that wasn’t always true. Most of the time he started shit to intimidate and make his presence known. To make an opponent hesitate. To make a mistake, but sometimes he just started shit for the sake of starting shit. Sometimes he went toe-to-toe because he liked it.
It wasn’t as if he fought as much as Andre; but, as Mark Bressler repeatedly pointed out, Andre was the team enforcer, and fighting was his main job.
After the Detroit game, Sam and the rest of the Chinooks boarded the team jet and flew home. He spent a week in Seattle before heading out for Phoenix, Nashville, and Pittsburgh. While he’d been in town, he split his time between work, Conner, and a couple of female friends. But when he boarded the jet and headed toward Phoenix, it wasn’t the friends he thought about. By the time he touched down in Pittsburgh a week later, it wasn’t female companionship he missed. He missed his son even though he’d talked to him several times on the phone. In the past, he’d always called Conner when he was on the road. Always missed him and made the effort, but this time he felt a bigger tug. Spending more time with him made him miss Conner’s silly knock-knock jokes and his drawings. He missed his questions about anything and everything, and he missed his little hugs.
That night, the game against the Penguins started out badly and went straight to hell. Everything just felt off, starting with the drop of the first hinky puck. Pittsburgh dominated down the middle, and number eighty-seven, Sidney Crosby, was on fire. The kid from Nova Scotia scored a goal and an assist off bouncing pucks from Sam’s stick. He’d been so pissed off, he’d retaliated and sat out a double minor in the penalty box. During his stint in the sin bin, the Penguins scored on a five on four and won four to three.
That night, Sam boarded the jet, turned his iPod to shuffle, and stuck in his earphones. He just wanted to forget about that night’s game. He didn’t want to think about bouncing pucks and bad penalties. He really didn’t want to think about anything. His life was easier that way.
But he’d been thinking about his sister, Ella, the past week or so. More than usual. Maybe because he was making an effort to spend more time with Conner. Taking on more of the responsibility for his son. The weight of that responsibility scared the hell out of him. It wasn’t a new weight. Just one he hadn’t carried in a long time.
After the death of his father, he’d become the man of the family. Responsible for his mother and sister, Ella. Not financially, not
back then, but responsible. He’d taken his job seriously, or at least as seriously as a kid could. His mother had been a strong, competent woman. Still was, but Ella… Ella had been lost without her dad. Lost and empty, and Sam had filled the void for her. He’d looked out for her and made sure nothing bad ever happened. When he could, he’d take her to fun places. During the summer, her shiny blond ponytail was never out of his peripheral vision. And during the school year, he’d made sure she did her homework and hung out with the right kinds of kids.
At nineteen, he’d been picked up in the first round of drafts and moved nearly five hundred miles away to Edmonton. He’d visited home as much as he could, and he talked to her almost every day. When she’d turned sixteen, he’d bought her a car, and when she graduated from high school, he took her to Cancún to celebrate. That same summer, he was traded to the Maple Leafs, and Ella moved with him to Toronto. She attended York University and graduated with a bachelor’s degree in education. He’d been so proud of her. She was beautiful and smart and funny, and her future was wide open.
Then she met Ivan, and she changed. Not long after the two began dating, she became withdrawn and sullen and secretive. The first time he saw a bruise on her face, he caught up with Ivan at his construction job. He knocked the little shit on his ass, planted his size-fourteen shoe on the guy’s chest, and told him he’d kill him if he ever saw another bruise on Ella. As a result of his interference, he saw less and less of his sister. But after a year and a half of the roller-coaster ride that was Ella and Ivan’s relationship, she finally left him. Sam moved her back home to Regina, and she lived in a small apartment not far from their mother. Sam was relieved and ecstatic. Ella got reacquainted with old friends and gradually came back to herself. The last time he’d seen her, the old, happy, full-of-life Ella shone from her big blue eyes.
He’d been at home in Toronto when he got the call that changed his life forever. It was June 13, and he’d just finished a round of golf with some of the guys and was sitting at his dining-room table, eating a peameal sandwich and chips that he’d picked up on the way home. He’d been halfway through his lunch when his mother had called with the news that Ella had been killed. That Ivan had traveled across Canada to find her, and when she wouldn’t get back together with him, he’d shot her, then himself. Beautiful, smart Ella was dead with a bullet in her head. And one of the tragedies of it all, but certainly not the biggest, was that Ivan was dead, too, because Sam would have dearly loved to kill him.
Any Man of Mine Page 10
