Those Nights in Montreal

by Beverley Kendall

  “You didn’t call me.”

  “I swear, Mom, I was just about to.”

  She snorts lightly. “I’m the least of your priorities right now.”

  I click the speaker button and sink onto the bed. “Well we arrived safely.”

  We chat for a few minutes. I ask how things are going at home, namely the job she can barely tolerate but won’t leave because it pays well and she’s accumulated six weeks of vacation she doesn’t want to lose by starting over somewhere else. She asks about the place. By the time I finish describing it, she claims to be dying of jealousy. She’s not. That’s just my mom talking.

  “Thanks again for the money, Mom. The second I make enough money, I’m going to send you on the vacation of your life.” And I’m not just saying that. Last year she gave me the money for my trip to Paris—which wasn’t cheap—and now this. When my mom told me she could finally afford to buy a house for us, I knew we were doing a lot better financially, but it was only when she insisted I go on the trip to Paris with my French class did I truly believe our financial situation had really changed.

  “Listen, honey…”

  Uh oh. She using the I-have-bad-news-for-you-tone.

  “About the money. That actually wasn’t me.”

  “What do you mean it wasn’t you,” I say, half laughing because she’s not really making sense.

  Dead silence filters across the cell tower to me. Then I hear a weighty sigh and I know my mother is about to say something I’m probably not going to want to hear.

  “Your father is the one who’s paying for your trip.”

  My first instinct is to deny I have a father, again. On second thought, I decide not to waste my breath.

  “Why?” I ask calmly.

  “Why what, sweetie?”

  “Why would he pay for my trip? No, I know the answer to that one. He’s trying to buy me like he’s been trying to do since I was sixteen. What I really want to know is why didn’t you tell me?” That’s when something else occurs to me. “Wait, did he pay for my Paris trip too?”

  A pause and then, “Yes he did.”

  Okay, things are finally making sense. “And the house?”

  Another heavy sigh gives me the answer before she does. “Fifteen years of back child support.”

  I nod to myself. Yep, that seems about right.

  “Did you think I’d refuse his money or something? Is that why you didn’t tell me?”

  “To be honest, sweetie, I had no idea how you would take it. You don’t like to talk about your father.”

  Damn, I wish she’d stop calling him that.

  He’s not my father. He’s a stranger, the guy who vanished from our lives before I was born. He doesn’t get to be called my father simply because he contributed half of my DNA.

  “Well I don’t feel bad about the money. It’s the least he owes you. The least he owes us.” John Reardon isn’t some poor slop eking out a living in a trailer park. No, he comes from a wealthy family who has the kind of clout to help their son evade his financial obligations. Don’t ask me why after all these years, he suddenly decided we were worthy of his time and his family’s money. Asshole.

  “I’m relieved that’s the way you feel.”

  I can tell by her voice just how relieved she is.

  “I hope he’s helping to pay for my school too.” In high school, academically, I’d done pretty well so I was able to get a couple of grants but I thought the rest of the tab for college was being picked up by student loans. I know I’d filled out the paperwork but my mom had taken care of the rest.

  “Yes, that too.”

  A beat of silence goes by. “Can I ask you a question, Mom?”

  “Anything, sweetie.”

  “Why is he doing this? What’s changed?”

  Something major must have happened. I mean life-changing because the John Reardon I grew up not knowing wasn’t about responsibility. Not when it comes to me and my mother. He was all about evading, dodging and neglect. He’d never given two hoots about me.

  “I think he’s changed since he married. Since he had more kids.”

  I can’t believe my mom. She’s softened toward the man who left her to raise a child on her own on an administrative assistant’s salary. I think she’s actually forgiven him.

  I snort. “Those poor kids.” The half-siblings I’ve never met. Two girls and a boy, their ages ranging from six to ten.

  “He really wants to see you, Becca. To get to know you.”

  I know my mom can’t see me, but I’m frantically shaking my head at that, my hair flying wildly about before settling disheveled over my shoulders. “I don’t want to see him. I don’t care how much guilt money he throws at me. I don’t want to have anything to do with him.”

  “Sweetie, I think—”

  “Mom,” I say, my tone resolute and cold. “I. Don’t. Want. To. See. Him. Not, now, not ever.”

  I can hardly believe this shit. My mom is taking his side, pleading his case to me. She’s essentially deflected to the enemy camp. And that’s not me being all melodramatic. It’s the truth. It’s how I feel.

  “Okay, sweetie, if you don’t want to see him, that’s your choice. I’m not going to pressure you. But I hope you understand that people change. Your father has grown up. He’s not the same man he was twenty years ago.”

  Oh he must be good if he’s managed to hoodwink my mom again. And after all he’s done. Well he’s not fooling me. John Reardon can make do with the family—the kids—who helped bring about his remarkable “change”. He blew his chance with me a long time ago.

  “I’m not going to change my mind. And you can tell him that so he’ll stop calling.” Not that I’ve answered his calls. Okay, I did the one time when I didn’t recognize the number, but once I realized who it was, I told him never to call me again. He didn’t listen and that’s when the gifts and cards started coming on my birthday and Christmas. Persistent jerk. It’s like he was trying to make up for the first fifteen he’d missed.

  “Listen, I don’t want to spoil your trip so let’s talk about this when you get home.”

  “There’s nothing to talk about. I’m not going to see him or talk to him. I didn’t exist to him for the first sixteen years of my life. Well now he doesn’t exist to me.”

  By the time we finally say goodbye, I’m in a mood. And not a good one.

  Perched on the edge of the bed, I’m staring down at my cell when I hear the door creak behind me. I spin around to find Scott standing in the doorway. My heart jumps as my head jerks back with a start.

  Without saying a word, he closes the door and walks toward me. “Was that your mom?”

  Something in the tone of his voice and the way he’s looking at me tells me he heard all or part of the conversation. “Yeah.”

  “Do you want to talk about it,” he asks, soft understanding on his face.

  “No.”

  Something flashes in his eyes but is gone so quickly, I can’t place it but if I had to guess, I’d say it was hurt. Guilt blooms in my chest. “Honestly, there’s nothing to talk about,” I say quietly in an effort to soften the sharpness of my reply.

  After a beat of silence, he holds his hand out to me. “Okay then. Well come on downstairs. The food’s here and Olivia and April won’t let us eat until you’re there.”

  Relieved that the moment has passed, I gladly take his hand.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SCOTT

  I was told October in Montreal is the beginning of cold season and that ain’t a lie. I didn’t think there was any place colder than upstate New York in the winter. I was wrong.

  Because of the freezing cold temperatures outside, Zach kicked the heat up high inside. It’s warm enough for me to sleep comfortably in what I usually wear to bed: pj bottoms. I throw on a t-shirt since I’ll be sleeping with Becca and I have to abide by her rules.

  Sleeping with Becca.

  After showering and changing in the bathroom we’re sharing with
April and Troy, I make my way back to the bedroom, which is dimly lit by one of those low wattage fluorescent light bulbs. Becca is lying motionless on the bed, her hands clamped firmly on the thick covers as she watches me, her gaze taking a slow, meandering tour up and down my body. I know that look.

  I suppress a smile, pleased to know I won’t be the only one suffering. And she’ll be happy to know, she won’t have any problems with me despite the hard-on I’m getting just thinking about lying next to her.

  “You took the right side.”

  She shrugs, a faint smile on her lips.

  As I approach the left side of the bed, I turn and look pointedly at the lamp on my nightstand. “Want me to turn that off or you planning on reading?”

  My girlfriend is a reader. The girls I used to go out with did a lot of things, but reading for pleasure wasn’t one of them. Becca, I learned early on, is a romantic down to her red toenails. Seriously, to the core. I think I’m the only guy my age who can name six Nicholas Sparks novels, knows the meaning of the term new adult and was forced to watch the “classic” romantic comedy, When Harry Met Sally three times in as many months.

  She shakes her head and gestures over to her nightstand. “No. Plus I have my iPad so I won’t need the light.”

  “Oh yeah. Okay.” When I used to visit her in Nevada, she didn’t have one. Didn’t want one, she’d claimed. Swore up and down she was a die-in-the-wool print-book girl. Yeah, so much for that.

  I lift the covers and crawl under the blankets. The first thing that hits me is her scent followed by her body heat. Immediately, I go from semi-hard to-falling-asleep-next-to-her-is-going-to-be-torture condition. The whole time I’m settling in beside her, she barely moves, just watches me.

  When I lean over to give her a quick kiss goodnight, her head jerks back and my lips hit nothing but air. What the hell? I stare at her in confusion. Had she really just dodged my kiss?

  She gives a nervous laugh. “We’d better not.”

  I sit up straight. “You’ve got to be kidding. I can’t even kiss you goodnight?” Seriously, what the fuck?

  “It would just be easier if we didn’t, you know, do anything in bed.”

  I huff in disbelief. “I was going to kiss you goodnight, not make out with you.” Not that that hasn’t crossed my mind a dozen times since dinner.

  “Just to be on the safe side.”

  The one thing I learned from my dad, who by the way is an excellent poker player, is that you never reveal your cards. Never. And I’m not talking in the most obvious way but in how you act, your expression, even something as little as the flicker of an eyelash. Becca might as well have laid her cards face up on the table. She’s hanging onto her will by her fingernails.

  Don’t get me wrong, I knew this whole “no sex” thing was taking its toll on her too. Becca loves sex. With me. That much is obvious. What I didn’t know is just how difficult she’s finding it. If she’s afraid she’ll cave from one little goodnight kiss in bed, she’s much further gone that I would’ve guessed. Which is good to know.

  “Am I allowed to kiss you out of bed or when we’re out of the bedroom?” I ask as if this isn’t the most asinine conversation we’ve ever had. What the hell is she trying to prove?

  At her quick nod, I reach over and switch off the light before settling down to sleep. “Kay. Night.”

  The silence that follows is deafening. That’s what shock does to a body. And right now, she’s in shock and rendered mute. But it’s something she’d never admit to. I can feel her eyes boring holes into me. True to form, she quickly recovers and mutters, “Um, night,” pulling the covers up and over her shoulders.

  When everything is still, the room silent, I stare up at the ceiling wondering how long it’s going to take for my hard-on to go down and how long before I fall asleep.

  After twenty minutes of listening to her breathing go from agitated to even, I’m trying to forget what she looks like naked, or how good she feels, and trying to ignore how good she smells.

  Then she moves.

  Nothing huge, just stretches out her leg. Minutes after that, she turns so she’s facing me. I can see the shadowed planes of her face. Her eyes remain closed. Then in an abrupt move, she flips back over but now she’s lying closer to me. A minute later, I can feel her leg brushing against mine.

  She wiggles like she’s trying to get more comfortable but the movement inches her ass closer to my hip. I immediately roll onto my side. A couple more inches and she’d have had a pretty good idea where my thoughts are at. She would have been able to feel it.

  By now, I’m almost positive she’s still awake. I’ve slept with Becca enough to know she doesn’t toss this much in her sleep. She definitely doesn’t wiggle her ass in her sleep. Not unless she’s in the mood.

  I don’t move a muscle. In fact I barely breathe. That’s how we remain for the next half hour, inches apart with only desire and body heat between us. But I’m just as stubborn as she is so that’s exactly how we finally fall asleep.

  REBECCA

  At some point during the night, Scott and I ended up spooning because the first thing I feel when I wake up is him. His warmth all around me and him hard against my butt. My panties immediately grow damp and before I can stop myself, I push back firmly against him—it.

  A soft sleep-like moan rumbles in his chest.

  The only word I can use to describe myself at that exact moment is horny. I must have been stark raving crazy to have insisted we continue with the no sex edict on this trip. What the hell was I thinking? Just sleeping with the one and only guy who can make me moan and beg for it is beyond ludicrous. Sheesh, we’ve been back together over a month. I’m going to say right now, that that’s as slow as I think we should go. Time to speed things up. I’m ready for some morning sex.

  I make my desire known with another nudge against him. If he’s not awake now, then he should be pretty soon. Tense with anticipation, I relish the prospect.

  I know the moment he’s awake. The arm that had been lying on my waist stiffens, his breathing changes and he grows ominously still against me. I give him another nudge without so much as glancing back at him.

  His hand slowly moves up until he’s holding tight to my hip. He lifts his head from the pillow and I expect to feel his mouth on my neck, nuzzling me. He knows how sensitive I am there and how much it turns me on.

  But what I expect isn’t what I get. Instead of his hand on my hip pulling me closer, grinding me against him, he uses it as leverage to push me away. And my neck? The poor thing remains unnuzzled.

  “Sorry about that. You’ll have to excuse the morning wood. It’s just part of the male condition,” he says in that sexy, still-half-asleep voice as he practically scrambles out of bed. I’m left more than a little shocked, horny and confused.

  I think I’d made it clear that I’m in the mood. But my pride smarts over him excusing away his erection as part of the “male condition”. Is that his not-so-subtle way of telling me that I have nothing to do with it? Stiffening my chin, I try to hide the sting of his words. “Sorry about taking over your side of the bed,” I say as though I hadn’t been deliberately rubbing up against him trying to get something started.

  When I glance over at him standing by the side of the bed, his body is angled away from me so I can’t see what’s going on in the front of his pajama bottoms.

  “I’m going to hit the shower.” The words are barely out of his mouth, before he’s gone. Through the door so fast, I’m pretty sure he left skid marks.

  It’s only at the sound of the door closing that I allow my emotions to show on my face. Logically, I know what he’s doing. He’s removing himself from temptation, determined not to break my no-sex-until-I-think-we’re-ready rule. I mean the one thing I’ve been secure in is the knowledge that Scott wants me. Wants desperately to have sex with me.

  But what if I’m wrong is the thought that pops in my mind as I flop down on my back. What if he’s not interested anymore
? I mean, short of actually telling him—which I’d feel like a fool doing—hadn’t I been obvious enough about what I wanted? And if he wanted the same thing, wouldn’t he have—?

  Argh! I’m going to drive myself crazy over-thinking the whole thing. I explicitly told him no sex during this trip and he’s just abiding by my decision. If I want to change the status quo I have to man up—or in my case woman up (if there is such a term)—and tell him if he’s not getting the hint.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  REBECCA

  After I make the bed, I give myself a final once-over in the dresser mirror. Blue jeans and a cream cable-knit sweater is as good as it’s going to get wardrobe-wise. This morning, however, I did put a bit more effort and time into my hair. Don’t ask me why as it’ll be plastered to my head ten minutes after we get to the slopes.

  My hair is super thick so the most a half-hour with a curling iron can do is give me loose wavyish curls, but that’s enough. Turning my head, I view myself from several different angles and I have to say, all-in-all, I’m satisfied with the results.

  When I open the bedroom door to leave, I give a little start when I’m met with a wall of solid chest.

  My chin goes up and I’m staring into Scott’s vivid green eyes before treating him to a full body perusal. He’s not wearing anything special, just your typical jeans and a gray cotton sweater with a quarter-zip collar. But God does he make them look good.

  I inhale deeply through my nose. His scent, an intoxicating combination of soap, cologne and warm male skin, has me thinking of forgoing hitting the slopes today in favor of the sheets.

  His lidded gaze runs up and down me a couple times before settling on my face. “You look good. I like your hair,” he says using the bed-sex voice, all throaty and low.

  My body reacts like it always does, beading my nipples as a fire starts to burn low in my stomach.

  “So do you.” My voice is thready, more breath than sound.

  Shooting a quick glance at the door, Scott’s mouth curves into a faint smile when his attention returns to my mouth. “Can I kiss you now that we’re not in the bedroom?”