JARED (Lane Brothers Book 4)

by Kristina Weaver

Not a good I idea, I realize now as my pen hovers over the papers, my hand frozen and refusing to put ink to paper. When I’d signed before it had been hard, but after two glasses of wine and a tequila shooter I’d managed to get things done.

  If I’d cried a little and eaten half a gallon of ice cream, that’s my business and nobody else’s.

  “Mrs Blake?”

  My lawyer’s voice invades the silent pity party in my head, and I nod once, forcing myself to scrawl my name across the line with a flourish I don’t feel.

  You want the truth? Part of me, the really tragic part, had kind of hoped that Vincent would come storming at me with guns blazing, insisting that I stop my shit and come back home where I belong. I’d spent the better part of last night lying in bed, fantasizing about how he’d rip those papers up, haul me over his shoulder, and carry me off.

  He hasn’t, though, and I feel my heart die a quick death when he glances at me for a brief moment before quickly scrawling his bold signature and flicking the papers away.

  His eyes hold no emotion save for the trace of boredom as he glances at his watch before rising.

  “I’ll have your things delivered to your apartment this afternoon.”

  “Good bye, Vincent.”

  It’s all I have the strength to say as he turns on his heel and walks to the door. He pauses, his hand gripping the knob, and turns to me with a slow smile that sets my heart beating erratically, and then walks away without so much as another word.

  Chapter Thirty Four

  “You’re standing up for me, right?”

  “Of course,” I answer, adding the last touches to my last piece with a feeling of accomplishment that I haven’t felt in ages.

  In two months I’ve done what I never thought possible. I’ve completed the work Vern had been hounding me about, and now, with this last painting, I’ve managed to fulfil the promise I made all those months ago.

  I’ve finished Vincent’s landscapes. One for every month of the six I’d originally agreed on.

  “Sis, are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, Parker, I heard every word. You want me at your wedding, wearing a suit and a top hat. Have I told you yet how truly stoked I am that you guys are finally getting married?” I ask in an overly cheery voice.

  Truth is, I feel like shit as the wedding gets closer. It’s totally bitchy, but I’m green with envy that Parker has managed to get his happily ever after while I’m divorced and considering adopting the stray cat that keeps screeching from the alley beneath my window.

  It totally makes sense since I’d started leaning out in the wee hours and am now invested in an ongoing conversation about life and the evils of love.

  Sometimes I swear Marty—that’s what I’ve named the flea ball—understands what I’m saying, and once I could have sworn he even answered me.

  To be fair, I think he’d been telling me to ‘fuck off and get a life’, but seeing as that’s the only real conversation I’ve had in the two weeks since I’d offloaded my stuff on Vern, I’m just grateful I have someone who understands me.

  “I have something to tell you, something that you may not like,” he says after a beat of silence that has my hackles rising.

  Parker only ever hesitates to tell me stuff if he knows it’s gonna upset me. Like four days ago when he’d called to tell me that the police had stopped looking for Eric.

  I’m super glad I’d decided to keep Henson, the bodyguard I’d hired months ago and like so much I can’t think of firing. We play a cutthroat game of poker every Thursday afternoon when I get back from kickboxing classes.

  Keep your mouth shut, I’m really low on friends and Henson only judges me for my addiction to Jerry Springer.

  “Spit it out, Parker.”

  “Jules, well, she forgot to cut a few guests from the list we made originally, and…Christ, there’s no easy way to say this, Sis. Blake RSVP’d. With a plus one.”

  Every ounce of strength I’d fooled myself that I’d found these last two months drains away in that moment, leaving me floundering and breathless and miserably aware of the fact that despite my best efforts, I’m still sickeningly in love with my ex-husband.

  Asshole.

  “That’s fine,” I lie, grasping the paintbrush so hard I feel it snap between my fingers.

  Of course it isn’t. I can’t stand the thought of watching him saunter in with whichever tart he’s banging this month. Not when I dream about him—not every night anymore, thank God—but at least twice a week.

  It also doesn’t help any that I’ve started second guessing my actions to the point where I’m ashamed to admit that I may have thrown a tantrum and gone overboard with the whole divorce thing.

  Right now I’m almost positive that I should have taken Mama’s advice and fought Vincent tooth and nail to admit that he loved me.

  Too late now, asshole. He’s definitely moved on.

  “Are you sure, Sissy? I could maybe call him and explain—”

  Over my dead body would I allow Parker to let on how crushed I still am about the whole divorce—a girl has some pride. Plus, and it’s more than tragic, I really want to see him. It’ll be torture, but God, the painting hanging over my bed is not equal to the flesh and blood man, and I know it.

  “Get over yourself, Parker. It’s fine. I’m so over it all,” I assure him, crossing my fingers guiltily.

  At this point I suspect it would take a marriage proposal from Ryan Reynolds to get over him, and I’m not completely sure even that breathtaking wet dream would do it.

  “If you’re sure?”

  Not even a little.

  “Totally.”

  “Okay then.”

  I force myself to endure another five minutes of conversation before Parker takes the hint and lets me go, leaving me alone to stare sightlessly at the landscape I’d been so proud of only minutes ago.

  I’d felt optimistic, hopeful even as I’d made plans to wrap them all and have them delivered tomorrow with a note that said…what? How much I miss him? That some foolish part of me was hoping that maybe we could reconnect and—

  I cut the thoughts short with a deep scowl that hurts my eyeballs and glare mutinously at the painting, with its bright green leaves and baby pink cherry blossoms.

  They mock me as I grit my teeth and physically force away the moisture coating my corneas.

  I’m so fucking stupid and pathetic that I’ve spent two weeks building castles in the sky while a man I shouldn’t want anymore hasn’t given me so much as a thought.

  Well, that does it! Tonight I’m luring Marty inside. If I’m gonna be this weird, I might as well go all out!

  ***

  “Stop staring at the ceiling! You look drunk.”

  I suck in a breath and hiss at Parker, discreetly flipping him the bird from my place beside him at the altar, my legs practically wobbling like a plate of Jell-O as we stand, waiting for Jules to finally make an appearance.

  I know it sounds unbelievable, but I’m more nervous than Parker is right now. I’d spotted Vincent out of my peripheral vision twenty minutes ago when he’d strolled in, my eye twitching blearily enough that I’d yet to see his date or fully focus on his face.

  My eye’s still twitching, another reason I’d been staring at the ceiling, trying to get the thing to quit, and I really, really don’t want to give in to temptation and allow my treacherously beady eye to roam the place in search of him.

  “I wish I was,” I growl back, flicking an imaginary piece of lint from the lapel of my tailored black suit. I look H. O. T. in the little ensemble Parker had me fitted for, and so surprisingly feminine with my hair super curly and pinned in the front, the length falling down my back. Big gold hoops finish off the look, making me smile smugly, if only to myself, at all this perfection he’s missing out on.

  Handsome bastard.

  “Your mom’s waving at you,” he mutters out of the corner of his mouth.

  “I know. She’s been trying to get me over ther
e since they got here. Ignore her and she’ll quit it eventually,” I say out the corner of my mouth, stifling a laugh at his eye roll.

  “You’re a bitch.”

  “Cursing in church is blasphemy,” I sing in an undertone, and he laughs, finally relaxing the way I’ve been trying to get him to. “Good. You’re looking less like you have a broomstick impaling your balls. Stand up straighter, here comes your bride, asshole.”

  Everyone gasps at the vision making her glorious way down the aisle, and I force myself to zone out as memories bombard me, clenching my chest so tightly I struggle to breathe.

  It’s only when I hear the minister asking for the rings that I snap out of it and wink at Parker, giving him a glorious smile that freezes my cheeks. The final words are spoken in a choked whisper from Parker that makes me grin evilly.

  I decide to order a copy just to tease him every time he calls me a sap for crying when the breath mint commercial comes on. He thinks it’s because I love the baby in it. Little does he know that I cry every time I hear the word ‘mint’.

  Pathetic.

  ***

  “You look like a lesbian. A hot one,” I hear from my left, turning to mock growl at Justin and a laughing Bee as they saunter into the reception arm in arm, looking like the latest cover of ‘Couples Who Last’.

  She looks so much better—even a little chunkier than she’d been in college—and though we’re nowhere near the friendship we’d shared before, we’ve spoken enough for me to know that she is totally in love with my brother.

  “Right back at ya, bro,” I drawl, leaning in to kiss them both on the cheek. “You look great, Bee.”

  She blushes and tenses, and immediately alarm bells go off in my head, making me woozy and itchy all at once. Somehow, despite the agony coursing its way through my every cell, I manage to smile at them both with real happiness.

  “Congratulations. You’d better get a ring on that finger before she starts showing, or Mama will kick your ass,” I laugh, hugging them both with a dry-eyed determination that feels too forced.

  “Sissy…”

  “No, really, I’m so happy for the both of you,” I rush to assure. “Everything fine though?”

  I can’t help it; I’m terrified of someone else being as happy as I’d been only to have it snatched away so cruelly by a body that just couldn’t get it right.

  “Yeah, perfect,” Bee whispers, hugging me again, tighter when I shudder lightly with repressed emotion.

  “Good. Now let’s all go get a drink. Oops! Not you, of course,” I trill with a false smile. “Only orange juice or water for mama.”

  I spend the next hour laughing too loudly, giving a best man speech that’s a little too raunchy, and just generally trying to keep my eyes off Vincent while ignoring the slow ache beating at my chest.

  When I can’t stand another minute of it I start drinking, ignoring Parker’s concerned looks and my parents’ glares. By my fifth shot I feel good enough to dance with one of the groomsman, a blonde hottie from Chicago whose name escapes me.

  “We should totally hook up tonight, hot stuff. Jason likes what he sees. Wanna get out of here and go…exploring?”

  Not likely, my befuddled brain snarls from somewhere in the distance, making a bubble of laughter burble up. I’d rather explore a powder keg with a lit match, thanks.

  “Um—”

  “Pardon me, might I cut in?”

  Jason looks over my shoulder arrogantly, ready, I think, to shoot down that sneering growl, when his eyes widen and he all but bolts away, leaving me alone and wobbling on my four inch heels in the middle of the crowded dance floor.

  A set of strong arms enfolds me, turning me around for my first look at him in two months. Jesus, had I ever really thought I could get over this man?

  It’s ridiculous, I see that now, because no matter how much I hate him for his betrayal I love him just as fiercely, and odds are I always will.

  “Hello, dove.”

  I don’t know how, but I keep myself steady as I lift my eyes and meet his head on, my chin only slightly trembling when I see the soft smile curving his lips.

  “Hello ,Vincent.”

  Chapter Thirty Five

  “You’re drunk,” he says derisively, pulling me closer to sway to the eerily mournful music.

  “Tipsy,” I purr, spreading my fingers over the breadth of his muscled chest.

  Everything inside me clenches, turning my wobbly bones to liquid when he brings our hips flush and grinds himself into me.

  “Blotto,” he murmurs back, making me gasp when his slow rubbing hits me exactly where I need it. “I like it.”

  I do too. With the alcohol streaming though my blood I feel invincible, untouchable, and more importantly, unbreakable.

  “You only like what you can’t have,” I mutter, staring at his button hole with one eye to still the jumping circle. “Or, more accurately, you only want the thrill of the challenge. Or is that chase? Whatever.”

  To say that I’d lost the leash to my tongue somewhere between the second glass of wine and the tequila is an understatement. Here I am, drunk—yes, I’m blotto—and taunting a breed of very dangerous animal, just to see him react.

  “Oh well, no hard feelings,” I mumble airily, rubbing his chest in slow circles. “I should have taken blonde hottie up on his offer. I think it’s most definitely time to stop sulking and move on.”

  I’m not even talking to him at this point. Strange fact, when I get drunk I have a disgusting habit of talking to myself and answering as if no one’s there. One time I’d spent half of a New Year’s party holding an enthralling conversation about global warming.

  How do I know? Bee’s friend Jack still has the video he’d taken of the whole mess. A hot mess, but a mess nevertheless.

  “I really should. I mean, I almost had a breakdown when they told me about the baby. And what for? Just because the thought of a baby smashes my pathetic heart to pieces doesn’t mean nobody else deserves happiness. And you know what else?”

  Okay, here’s the part where I get really sloppy drunk and start saying things that I’ll cringe about later.

  “What?” he prompts when I fall silent, my mind whirling sickeningly.

  I swallow and blink rapidly, refocusing on his quietly amused face.

  “Oh, yeah. I really think I should stop talking to Marty about loving you and just get back on the horse, you know? I mean, it’s so sad to still have those dreams about you all these months later. Yeah,” I say, more decidedly than my sloshing brain should be able to handle right now.

  “I think I should definitely do that. Okay, thanks for the dance,” I chirp merrily, pulling away to skip off toward the brightly shining head of blonde hair I see ducking through the main doorway.

  I feel so good suddenly that I even smile at Beau and blow him a kiss when I skip by, already unbuttoning the top button of my jacket in an effort to show more cleavage.

  “Yo, Jason! What up, man.”

  Okay, let’s pause here so I can explain something else. Apparently when I get shitfaced drunk I also start talking like a rapper wannabe. I don’t know why, because FYI, though I’d been caught on video at that New Year’s party and one time had talked to a tree for like half an hour, this is definitely the drunkest I’ve ever been.

  “Whatsup, hottie!” he yells back, turning with a lascivious smile. “You change your mind about trying the Jason?”

  I’m about to answer with a slick drawl that ‘yes indeed, I do wanna bump all up over that shit’, when a steely hand clamps down over my shoulder, halting my forward progression, which by the way, had a lot of swagger for someone as drunk as I am.

  “Fuck off, you wanker.”

  “Hey dude—”

  “I said fuck off.”

  And just like that I lose my new fuck buddy before he’s even had the chance to prove his worth.

  “Heeeeyy! What the freak?” I yell, ripping myself away to turn and glare at my new arch nemesis. “I
was about to get my groove on.”

  Nobody should ever say anything, I mean anything, that cheesy, but hell, when you’re drunk every intelligent word sort of just vanishes.

  When I stop swaying, a feat of accomplishment in these heels, in my state, I level a nasty, slightly lopsided scowl at Vincent and shove a finger into his chest.

  “What’s your deal, man?”

  “What’s my deal?” he sneers, grabbing me roughly and towing me into a storage closet. “My deal is the fact that my wife is throwing herself at a little shite that doesn’t know his dick from his elbow!”

  That’s when every last—two—brain cell I have left flies right out the window, and I attack him like a sex-starved lunatic. Not my proudest moment, not by a long shot, but he’d revved my motor on that dance floor and now, after his Neanderthal tactics, wrecked my only chance at relieving this emptiness.

  I kiss him, crawling up his front, wrapping myself around him like a vine. When he kisses me back it feels like a homecoming, and I moan, opening myself to the insistent thrust of his tongue and the urgent fumble of hands seeking zippers.

  It takes less than a minute for him to divest me of my pants and panties, and then he’s pushing his own pants around his knees and thrusting home.

  We’re wild, kissing and going at each other like animals, and I love every second of this uncontrolled seduction. Don’t let anyone ever tell you that angry sex isn’t great, because, honey, I’m testifying that it’s awesome!

  He thrusts up and does a grinding motion with his hips, hitting me so deep my body explodes without so much as a wind up, leaving me screaming silently as he groans and pushes deeper, stilling, breathing harshly into my mouth as I feel the heat of his release bursting deep inside me.

  “Jesus, dove…I’ve missed this so much,” he groans into the heated skin at my neck, sending shivers down my spine.

  I’m still drunk—I’m not a walking miracle who has the ability to sober up instantly—but even through my booze-soaked stupor and the afterglow I hear what he says, and more importantly what he doesn’t say.

  He missed this, specifically sex, not me.