Last Time We Kissed_A Second Chance Romance

by Nicole Snow

  This is what I came here to do. Annihilation is in progress, with many more tricks to come, but I'm slow to leave the house, bounding out the front door to my waiting ride.

  There's one more vicious thing I can't get out of my head.

  The whole reason I'm dragging myself out feeling strangely hollow, despite the crushing victory. It has everything to do with the other presence here tonight, which wouldn't leave my thoughts while Jace was dragged kicking and screaming to justice.

  Amy Kay. Precious.

  The reason there isn't a wicked grin contorting my face. No matter how much I hurt him, it won't get her out of my head.

  I return to my room and sleep like the dead. Tossing and turning becomes second nature in long, dark dreams.

  I wake up to a voicemail on the landline tied to the room. A man from the front desk, telling me something about a message. I sit up, panic surging through my veins, wondering if something went wrong with the next round of fun waiting for my enemy. But I never gave the guys putting it in motion this number.

  I tell them to bring it up, waiting. It's a huge let down when I see the faded envelope, my name scrawled on the front in a small, wavy blue script. Or is it?

  Tearing it open, the first line hits me square in the gut.

  I hope you go to hell, Trent Usher.

  Buy yourself a nice long ticket and enjoy your stay...

  My eyes devour every word.

  I'm grinning like a man with a hard-on for punishment by the end because I can just imagine her saying every word, and only half-meaning it.

  How could I have forgotten? It's obvious why leaving Jace a shaken mess left me so hollow. Why giving him hell won't save me from my own.

  Vengeance can't be satisfying alone. Not with the loose ends we left hanging in a wrecked elevator.

  Just like Pops said, what could one more detour hurt?

  9

  Homecoming (Amy Kay)

  The autumn rain pounds the window next to the little nook where I'm reading my book. Seattle's infamously rainy season has started with a bang, and an unusually violent one. Several heavy storms cause such a commotion at the airport I don't bother listing myself on any flights.

  I'm a nervous flier. Always have been. Also despise being stuck in one place, helpless and waiting.

  Kind of like where I am right now.

  I've spent two days in my room walled off from the world.

  The hotel will never feel like home. I never thought I'd be here and feel so homesick for Spokane. It's an older city without Seattle's sleekness and ocean side charm, but it's where I've staked my life after Trent, after Jace, after my parents' retirement.

  Speaking of which – a text loudly announces itself on my phone. Annoyed, I fold a page in the Cormac McCarthy book to hold my place, tapping the button next to my screen.

  I'm relieved it's not an unfamiliar number. I've blocked Jace, ever since he kept hounding me. Can't put it past him to use another line to keep pestering me, but he's been weirdly silent for the past thirty or so hours.

  There's another name: DAD. Asking when I'm coming for dinner.

  I swallow. Then sigh. There's no escape, is there?

  As much as I'd love to exit this huge mistake of a trip without the awkward pleasantries or seeing the monolith of bad memories where I grew up, I know I'm screwed. A good daughter doesn't pop into town without seeing her parents once.

  Firing off a quick message, I let him know I'll be here at least a couple more days.

  God. At least.

  We'll set something up soon, I promise. Don't worry about anything fancy, I say. Life at the Chenocott homestead is the irrational exuberance I've tried like hell to get away from, almost by default.

  Nothing fancy still means catering, or else something cooked to perfection by our maid, right out of a Blue Apron kit. Or whatever the multi-millionaire equivalent of gourmet-by-mail order food is. Right now, I could really go for another burger, fries, and shake from the room service menu. But if I don't get some greens today, I'm afraid I'll start mooing.

  I'm flipping through an app on my phone for food delivery, searching for delis with salads, when the landline in the room goes off. I walk over, press the receiver to my ear, and hear a tin voice from the front desk.

  “Visitor for you, Ms. Chenocott. Would you like me to send him up?”

  “Him?” My stomach knots.

  It's got to be Jace. My brother has some nerve, thinking he's entitled to bully me in person over the stupid decorating job after I've cut communications. “No. Please, just...let him know I'll be right down.”

  I hang up, grabbing my coat. I'm already hangry.

  I'm sure I'll be ravenous by the time I've made it clear where he's welcome. It takes me a while to get down the stairs from several floors up, but it's too soon for elevators.

  I'm slightly winded once I hit the main floor, annoyed how out of shape I've gotten. The inn business takes up too much time, and I haven't wanted much to do with long walks since leaving the coast behind. They remind me too much of dad, which sends my mind to very dark places.

  Like the one I'm staring at up ahead. It can't be!

  But it is. After what happened before, it's time to stop doubting and just believe my own eyes. They wouldn't hallucinate the smirking hell that's in front of me.

  I almost whip my heels around and head for the elevator. I think I'd rather face the trauma than deal with Trent. But he's too fast, on me before my reflexes kick in.

  “Aw, Presh, are you really so surprised?”

  I sigh. No, of course not.

  Leaving this city and the mess my brother wants to throw me into without encountering my ex would be too easy. “How'd you find me, anyway?”

  “Cashing in a few of the many favors I'm owed.” He speaks without a shred of hesitation. “Should've given the front desk an alias after you checked in if you wanted to be left alone.”

  “Oh, that's totally not suspicious. No thanks. I'm not interested in being looked at like a criminal.” Not like you, I want to say, but I hold my tongue. Barely.

  “Ah, yes. None of that 'dirty, evil stuff,' I'd gotten into, right? It'll have to...how did you put it? Just 'play itself out?'” He's using my own words against me.

  It's hard not to cringe, hearing lines from the hate note quoted.

  If I have to face this hell, it's worth remembering I invited it.

  “You read it,” I say numbly.

  No question. I'm standing red-cheeked beneath his hawkish blue eyes, stating the obvious. Owning up to what I wrote, or trying to.

  “Devoured every word, Precious. Deserved it, too.”

  He – what? Deserved it? That's not what I expect.

  Nor the shifty glint in his eye, holding the envelope up, eclipsing his strong jawline.

  I take a step backward, unsure what new game he's playing. “After what you did to us, I only wish I was harsher.”

  “Me, too. You've got yourself a lovely way with words, woman. Weren't you trying to be a writer before things went to shit?”

  My stomach cramps, another broken dream clubbing my hunger to death. “What's it to you? We both know how things played out. Reality's what counts.” Merciless reality, like being trapped together the other day. “There's no time for dreams when you're living disaster.”

  “Do I look dead to you, Presh?” He cocks his head like it's a serious question. I shake my head, hating this more by the second. “That's what I thought. Because if I recall right, we both walked off that damn elevator breathing, no thanks to me. Not my definition of disaster, darling.”

  My breath lodges in my lungs. “So, that's what this is. You wanted to torment me a little while longer with your guilt trip. Go ahead. I'll give you five minutes.” I spread my arms.

  “You asked me if I believed in coincidences. Fate, remember?” Like I could ever forget.

  He comes closer, backing me into the marble wall by the potted fern. “Nothing's changed. But our little reu
nion the other day got me thinking...and then this letter made me think some more. We've got history, you and me. A long, dark shadow that just won't fade, no matter how hard we try dragging ourselves to the light. It's the reason we both came home. Same reason why we hit each other head-on. It's why we're standing in this lobby, me holding in the roughest hate fuck I'm ever likely to get with my clothes still on, and you with that wide-eyed stare, begging me to wipe it off your pretty face.”

  Don't you dare! My hand twitches.

  He's not doing this again.

  If he tries kissing me this time, there'll be consequences. I won't be caught off guard a second time, especially when he's eyeing me like this, like –

  “It's too late for love.” Damn. Like magic, he says the very thing I'm fighting with my all to ignore. “I'm not stupid, Amy Kay. That's not why I'm here. A little truth, though, that shit never hurt anybody. While we were busy arguing over consequences, fate, life, I forgot the one thing we've both got in reach.”

  Shaking my head, I look away, ignoring his withering gaze. Without much success. “If you came here to talk, forget it. I said everything I'll ever need to in that letter, Trent.”

  “You told me to 'move on.' That's all I've ever tried to do and it's the reason I'm back here, making your brother's life miserable. But what about you? Wasn't time for many pleasantries on the elevator. I've done my homework since – looks like your whole life's the travel biz. No husband. No kids. No alma mater. You quit Stanford due to Jace, and that's far more fucked up than anything.”

  “I quit because of you.” Catching my voice going up an octave, I look around, a reminder we're in public. Even if this is a secluded spot. Good thing, too, or I might just slap him without any provocative kiss. “You, Trent. And the asshole moves you made, which I've spent the better part of a decade trying to forget.”

  “Regardless, that hasn't gone very well, has it?” He touches the rumpled envelope's edge to my cheek, curls it to my chin, and applies a soft pressure. “Look the fuck up, Presh.”

  Jesus.

  I didn't have a nasty thought in my brain, but he's making me feel like I just got caught looking at him the way I did as a kid. “Get to the point,” I warn.

  “Reason I'm here, basking in your eyes, not caring if they're full of murder, is because you deserve the truth. And so do I, Amy Kay. I'm here to tell you what really happened that night.” There's a soft, honest waver in his tone, like he's about to dredge up something brutal.

  Too honest. I can't fall for this again, whatever it is.

  “Not interested,” I say, tearing myself away from him, staggering back a few feet. “I'm not in the mood for more lies, Trent. No more games. Just turn around and go.”

  He stiffens, straight and broad shouldered and painfully gorgeous. “You still think I'm lying? Ridiculous. I'm giving you exactly what you've waited for. What you wanted me to say when we were stuck together, not knowing if we'd live or die or –”

  “I didn't ask for anything – none of this! You're sure you read the letter?” I swallow, hating how bad the rock forming in my throat hurts. “Because if you did, you missed the important part: don't come calling.”

  His mouth opens, ready to twist me up all over again, but I don't give him the chance.

  I'm on the offensive, in his face, trying not to shout, banging my hand against my thigh to keep from lashing his very deserving cheek. “We're not doing this. You want to talk truth? Fine. Time to listen: I'm done with the past. Done getting between battles. Done telling Jace you're here, trying to screw him over. That's all I told him, and all I really care about. Because as soon as this rain stops splattering itself all over this city, I'm on the first flight for Spokane. Going home. Leaving this behind. Everything, Trent, once and for all. Especially you.”

  He reaches for my wrists. Smart move because both palms are so, so ready to strike fire on his smug, hatefully sexy face. “You can't fight your way out of this with words. Be honest: we've had enough of those, Presh, and I've only got room for a few more. I want to sit down and tell you everything so we can finally walk the hell away. Exactly what you want. Or is it?”

  Bad enough his vile eyes strip me naked. Worse because they cut through the bullshit, straight to my soul.

  Of course I want to know his version.

  I want the full story.

  I want to sit here like a teary-eyed fool with my mouth trembling, heart racing so violently I'm almost passing out. So fucking ready to hear the sorry excuse that should've come out six years ago.

  “I want peace. I want a life again. And to find either one of those, I really need you gone.” His grip relaxes, letting me yank my hands away.

  “That's fucking anticlimactic. I'm not leaving till you listen. Don't you get it? I came to clear the air, Precious, not poison it more. If you'll just calm down and –”

  “Just leave? Right. You haven't left me a better option.”

  The next few minutes are the first time in years I've felt this alive.

  I slip away before he can strike back, rush up the stairs. He's left speechless, for once, and he's still standing there when I march past him ten minutes later, luggage rolling behind me. I head for the front desk to check out.

  I feel his eyes on my back. Wanting to approach, wanting to chase, but the steely-eyed guards in the front of this place would give anybody pause. A place this expensive has a direct line to the Seattle Police Department.

  I'm a little disappointed he doesn't try once my business is done and I'm outside, an Uber summoned on my phone. It would be so satisfying watching Trent Usher hauled away in handcuffs.

  Too bad. I'll just have to settle for the stormy look he gives me through the hotel's window, it's spotless perfection tainted by his fingerprints as he raises his arms, like he's trying to keep me there, prisoner for his mind games.

  It doesn't hit me until I'm halfway through the ride where I've seen that look before: only in my dreams.

  They're not the playful, all powerful eyes of the bastard who broke my heart.

  They're haunted. Tortured, even.

  They're exactly how I want to imagine he looked that night he left Washington, and knew he'd never be coming back.

  They're guilt gone nuclear, but they can't change my mind. I'll suffer endlessly if it finally ends this.

  If it just rips me away from Trent long enough to finally heal.

  This room. This house. This look.

  I wish I'd just checked into another place downtown. Coming home tells me I traded one pit of emotional quicksand for another.

  I expect mom and dad, but Jace is a surprise. An unpleasant one.

  No sooner than I'm through the door, he's in my face. Shouting about the screw up with the firm, how none of this would've happened if I'd just shown up three weeks ago like a good little sister.

  Good little servant is what he really means.

  “What the hell did you tell him, sis? Where I lived? Where I spent my off hours? Where Lindsey and I had trouble? Shit, did you hand him the keys to the company's fucking tax returns and charge accounts?” Jace backs me against the glass door overlooking the old boathouse, belting out question after question.

  Then I remember.

  I'm way too old for his crap. I slap him against the chest, so hard I hope it reverberates in his ribs. “Get off me! I didn't do anything. Trent found this stuff out on his own. I'm sure it wasn't hard. And what do you mean trouble with Linds?”

  He winces, like my blow did more damage than it did. “Asshole knew how to hit me where it hurts, and how. He had to learn that somewhere. Fuck.”

  He staggers backwards, rubbing his face. At last, he stops, stands his ground, and looks at me. “I'm sorry. Maybe I was too quick to point fingers.”

  “Far too quick, asshole.” I sigh. “I'm on your side, Jace, as big a dick as you've been.”

  Something sour hangs in the air around him. I smell an acrid stink on his breath and wrinkle my nose. Whiskey. He's been dr
inking again.

  Drinking a lot.

  No wonder he's so off balance, slurring his words.

  “Then how?” He stumbles backwards after I whack him again. I don't like the nasty look shining in his eyes.

  “How? He already knew everything, Jace. He's been planning this for a long time. Probably watching you – watching us – for weeks, months, years. I don't know. It just so happens we ran into each other while he was on his way to spring the trap. I spent God knows how many hours with that man, stuck in the elevator, and I hated every second. I didn't feed him anything.”

  That isn't really true. I didn't hate how his lips crashed into mine, but my brother is the last man on Earth I'd ever spill the complexities of Trent Usher to. Also no point in telling him our latest encounter is what drove me here.

  “You had a chance to stop him and you didn't?” He tilts his head. Light catches his eyes, revealing the dark circles around them.

  A thin sympathy runs through me, but I know it'll be short-lived as soon as he opens his mouth. “Christ, sis. Why didn't you call the cops? If you'd done the right thing, I wouldn't be staring into a black hole. He'd be in jail. Maybe my life wouldn't be shot to fuck.”

  He rips himself away from me, staggers to the breakfast bar. I don't notice the bottle until he sits down, overflowing his glass with amber whiskey.

  “This isn't the end,” I tell him, laying a hand gently on his shoulder. “Look, I don't know the details. Don't know what he's done to you or why. But he really believes what happened years ago is your fault.”

  “Fuck Usher. Fuck him straight to hell! It's been a long time. Nothing's changed. Dad should've sent detectives down to Oregon years ago to nail his prick to the wall.” He knocks back another shot, muffling a belch in his elbow. Then he slumps. “Forget it, Amy Kay. None of this matters now. It's already lost. Way past fucked.”

  “Wrong. It matters if he's coming after family.” I gingerly reach for the bottle, wrap my fingers around the long neck, and slide it away. “And you need to lay off this stuff. It's no good, especially now.”