Last Time We Kissed_A Second Chance Romance

by Nicole Snow

  “Good. Didn't mind showing up to your reception there, but fuck if that place doesn't still make my skin crawl,” I say, straightening my jacket. I sit next to the tiny cabinet where I've stashed a couple bottles of whiskey, motioning. “Drink to celebrate?”

  “You know I normally don't. But since this is technically a day off...”

  My brother shares my smile as I pull out two glasses, a little ice, and splash gold scotch over the rocks. We clink glasses, then see who can knock back their shot faster.

  I win. No contest when I've done a whole lot more of it than he has lately.

  “I'll miss the old place,” he says, settling into a chair next to me while I refill his glass. “I know you had a tougher time there than me, but it'll always be part of us, Luke. You can't deny it.”

  “I can, and I will. I'll bury those fucked up memories as deep as I need to if it means getting on with my life. I don't remember what it was like before mom died, or before dad's demons took him to hell. What I remember, history or not, doesn't do shit for me, bro.”

  “Fine,” he says grudgingly, tipping his glass to his mouth. “Speaking of the past, we ran into someone familiar on the set. You remember Robin Plomb, right?”

  “Of course. I kind of have to see her every day, considering her role as my kinky secretary while I'm playing Miles Black.”

  “Kinky secretary...Christ.” He chuckles, shaking his head. “I'm not sure how you're pulling this thing off with a straight face.”

  “That's why you got the brains for development, I got all the talent, and Grant got...well, whatever the hell he's got. It's called acting. I take it seriously. Believe me, I'm not oblivious to the jokes on the late night comedy shows and the bullshit in the tabloids – same ones who tore you a new asshole not so long ago over Penny and the fake baby mama drama. This isn't porn, Hayds. It's a service to millions of women around the world I'm grateful to get wet. If it makes my star fly a little higher in the end, everybody walks away happy.”

  He smirks for a second, but then it disappears. “Fair enough. You respect what I do, and I'll return the favor. Seriously, though, why the hell didn't you say anything about Robin?”

  Because if I told you our history, Hayds, you'd lose your shit, I think. You'd either throttle me with your bare hands for covering up the truth about our old man, or you'd punch me square in the nose for my stupidity, leaving her behind.

  Hayden and Grant have both done well for themselves with serious careers raking in tons of money. Hayds, however, is looking like the most serious one of my older brothers period because he's settling down. The family man he's becoming doesn't need more baggage.

  “I forgot,” I say simply, downing more whiskey. “There's a lot on my plate lately. Hell, you were barely home much in the years she was with us. Didn't think you'd care what some employee of dad's has been up to since she rolled out the family gate.”

  “Care? It's a small fucking world! Don't you think it's an insane coincidence you're getting naked on the screen with a girl who used to work for us? I mean, what are the odds?”

  “It's crazy,” I concede, trying to figure out the bewildered look on his face. “But I'm not sure what you're getting at.”

  I mean it, and I want it to stop. He can't start digging into corners better left forgotten.

  The past can't be changed. Won't do him any good knowing dad was a boozing, lying piece of shit who might've done something unforgivable to Robin's mom. I'm not completely convinced by his confession years ago.

  “You put her up to this, didn't you?” he says, laying a brotherly hand on my shoulder. “Shit, Luke. I used to hear her singing, or practicing her lines in those plays years ago whenever I'd come home and sit by the gardens.”

  “Yeah? And so?”

  He smiles, exhaling slowly. “So, I think you've done something amazing for this girl, pulling on your connections to get her in, and you don't want the credit. Whatever, I'll let you play modest. Just know that you're less of an asshole than I thought, and I'm happy about it. There were times when I thought you'd never figure yourself out. Thought you'd either take off with a biker gang, or wind up in the same place as mom, flying where you shouldn't on the wrong night because you've got nowhere to call home.”

  I stare him dead in the eyes. “You're the one who used to cage fight with the fucking Grizzlies,” I growl, not sure I like the direction this is going.

  He still sees me as a kid, one who'd take off with an outlaw motorcycle club or some shit, instead of just playing with them like Mr. Older and Wiser did.

  “Guilty,” he says, straightening in his seat. “I'm not here to patronize, and I know you don't need my approval. Still, I just wanted to say, besides the movie role...it's things like what you did for Robin that makes me proud we're family.”

  “You can't be proud unless I kiss ass and do public charity?”

  “No. Fuck, this is coming out wrong,” he says, eyeballing his whiskey and slamming it on the table. “I'll be honest. Grant and I watched dad self-destruct after the plane crash. We worried he'd left us something genetic, something that'd rub off in the worst ways. We got over it when we found our careers, but for you, our little brother...we were scared, Luke. But today, when I'm sitting here, I'm goddamned glad you're proof we were wrong. We had no reason to be. You've got more sense and a bigger heart than dad at his best ever had.”

  “Thanks. That's big of you, Hayden.” Using his real name for once instead of the pejorative makes him smile. Inside, I'm annoyed, but only one response makes sense: shut up. I'll let my older brother think I'm becoming a little more like his perfect ass if it means keeping the truth about Robbi and what happened with dad under wraps.

  His phone pings. He reaches into his pocket, pulls it out, and sighs. “Looks like Penny found Harkness. I'd better go make sure she's all right. Just between you and me, I hate letting her out of my sight while she's living for two.”

  “Congrats, again. Can't wait to meet my niece in the next few months.”

  He thanks me one more time, and heads for the door. I open it for him, but he stops, reaches into his jacket pocket, and pulls out something else. “Almost forgot. While we were cleaning out the house, we found a bunch of old security tapes.”

  “Tapes? I thought the systems were wired to show the feed to security, without recording?”

  “Nah. Dad was a lot more paranoid than anybody thought. There's footage, Luke, boxes upon boxes going back about ten years.”

  “Christ. No wonder he knew to chew me out every time I snuck out of my room in high school.”

  “There's at least a couple boxes from your wing of the house. Don't know what to do with the damned things. The cleaning crew found this gem sitting on top of the crates. I thought you'd want to destroy it yourself.”

  Dread fills my gut. His eyes say it all. There's either something very private or very fucking embarrassing on the small black tape in my hand.

  “Thanks, I guess,” I tell him, preparing to close the door.

  “You're welcome. That's what we do in this family. Look out for each other.”

  He's gone. I tuck the ghost on tape in my pocket, wondering if I have an old camcorder and a cable laying around so I can find out what the hell had his eyes shining like he's seen too much.

  Later, on the way home, I swing by a media conversion place that tells me how to connect the old camera I've rented to the TV. I know I'll probably smash the tape after I see what's on it. Still, there's a part of me that's curious, and I can't resist the urge to look back through time.

  It takes a second for the screen to lose its green intro color. Then it's there, my younger self sitting at a desk in the library with mom's letters. I must've pulled them out of their box and brought them on a rare journey outside my room. I watch myself turning over her letters from the old box, the one that's now stashed in my storage vault in LA.

  Fuck, there's sound. My ears prickle. My younger self hums the last of my edgy ballads before
I left that phase of my life behind. I close my eyes, remembering the bitter, hopeful words.

  If you ever loved me, bleed.

  Just don't bleed like her.

  Leave me a smoking crater before you leave for good.

  As long as you open your heart.

  As long as you love.

  Then bleed.

  Amazing how shitty lyrics stay with you for years. It's the last summer I lived with dad, shortly before the heaven I had with Robbi became hell.

  When I hear the knock at the door on the screen, I open my eyes. “Come in!” My younger self says.

  It's her. Dressed in black and grey, the modest clothing she wears on her evening shift.

  My younger self stands, moving out from behind the desk to greet her. Robbi walks straight into my arms, a smile on her face, wiped away a second later when I take her lips. We kiss like I hadn't had her lips every damn day I wasn't on a cargo plane. I kissed her harder every time in the long, teasing build up to the lone night we had together.

  The kiss hasn't broken when I grab the remote. I punch the off button, having seen enough, even though it's basically over with my young self taking her arm, leading her outside. Probably into the gardens, where we used to walk together, talking about our dreams.

  Enough. I don't wait for the screen to turn black before I walk to the balcony door, tear it open, and step outside for fresh air.

  She's getting to me, and I know it. No, not just her, but the past itself.

  Everything I tried to ignore, torch, and smolder. That's the thing about love. It's a vicious, indestructible parasite. It sinks its hooks in, crawls into your skin, and only lies dormant until the slightest breeze of memory wakes its thirst for blood.

  Did I say breeze? Fuck, more like a hurricane.

  Every day I'm plodding through new scenes with her hits me in the face, storms into my blood, reminds me I can make all the lofty, secret promises I want, but it's useless.

  She was right the night we sat down weeks ago over wine. We can't go on like this.

  After seeing the tape, watching the happy ghosts moving on the screen, I have to take action. As soon as I've refreshed my lungs with cool Chicago air, I go inside, tear a page from my notebook, and find a pen.

  I haven't put this much thought into writing anything since those crap ass pity songs in my youth. These words will move her.

  If they can't win her back, then they're damned sure going to make her cry.

  9

  Here It Comes (Robin)

  It's an easy week. Too easy.

  I work with Harkness on scenes with the Senator most days. Ali Evers earns his trust, discovers secret leads on the trafficking cartel he's working with, and, of course, falls even deeper in love with her broody, spank-happy billionaire foil.

  But I haven't filmed the next parts with Luke yet. He's nowhere to be found around the studio, which should be a relief.

  It isn't. Actually, his absence leaves me unsettled, and I can't for the life of me understand why.

  The next scenes are going to be horrible, and I think we both know it. I've looked over the final script. He's due to strip me naked, haul me into bed, and take my virginity in the hottest scene the family friendly groups doing the film's ratings will allow.

  It's worse than reliving what we had, and lost. In character, Miles Black is supposed to knock me up.

  I should be relieved he's gone. But a restless part of me just wants to get on with it, get it the hell over, and move onto the final action scenes so we can do our wrap up, and never have to see each other again.

  I'm coming home from coffee with my agent, Bebe, when I see the small manila folder slid under my door. Seeing his crabbed, familiar writing in a black pen hits me in the gut. There's no name on it, but I'd know his handwriting anywhere.

  READ IT, the words scratched on the front say. My fingers tremble when I slit the edge with a knife. I catch myself, annoyed with my nerves, and slam the utensil on the counter.

  Christ. It shouldn't be this bad. I'm shaking like a junkie who's just picked up her latest fix after swearing off a bad trip.

  It's not such a terrible analogy. For me, Lucus Shaw is that bad trip. And whatever he's trying to say in this letter promises nothing but another walk through the seventh circle of emotional hell.

  I could ignore it. Rip the thing up, throw it in the trash, and forget about it until we see each other again for our baby making torture on camera.

  Yeah, and maybe I'll become stronger than a heavyweight boxer with special forces training tomorrow. Sighing, I pull out the contents. It's a single sheet, surprisingly.

  Robbi,

  You're killing me, and we have to talk. I know I walked out on you at the wine bar. I know I did wrong. I know you think I'm enjoying it every time we get naked, kiss, or pretend we're in love for the screen.

  Guess what? Everything you know is fucking wrong.

  We have to come to terms about the past. If we don't, somebody's going to walk from this film before it's done, and it'll probably be me.

  I told you the first time we saw each other after our break you were strong. You've only proven it the last few weeks we've worked together. I'm man enough to say it. Admit you're maybe a little stronger than I am when we're out there on the set, living the lie the script says.

  I know you've got your limits, though. Know you let your pain out privately, drain the wound when you're alone in the shower, fucking your fingers and screaming my name like you've missed me more than life itself.

  I can't continue playing games, and neither can you. We have to get our shit together.

  We met when you heard me asking my dead mother if she still bled for me, wherever she is.

  Next time we meet, I want us bleeding together. Let it the fuck out. However angry, dark, and therapeutic it needs to be.

  I'm taking my plane on a joy ride over Lake Michigan tomorrow evening. I hope you'll show up. There's no better way to re-connect and find your basic humanity than when you're freed from gravity. Let's talk.

  Yours, L.

  I'm done.

  Done, done, done, done, and done with his crap. The paper crumples, tears, and screams in my hands with a noise like the world I've known coming apart.

  I toss it across the room before I hold my hands over my face. Dramatic? Yes, and I don't fucking care.

  I'm giving him another chance to make this right when the outcome couldn't be clearer. Letting him drag me into another heart-to-heart thousands of feet in the air will end in ruin for the plane or my emotions.

  I'll do my job. I'll smile for the cameras and put my lips on his when I need to. Yes, I'll even rub my clit behind closed doors and howl his name through clenched teeth if that's what it takes to keep my sanity.

  Luke won't break me. I'm not giving him the chance.

  Okay, I lied. It's less than twenty-four hours later, and the chase is on.

  I'm in my car, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turn white while I'm flooring it to the airport. The one thing that will make me feel like an even bigger fool than racing to see him against my better judgment is if he's already airborne.

  The dream last night changed my mind. I re-lived the past. Woke up in a cold sweat, wide awake after seeing Luke next to me our first and only night together.

  How gorgeous he was laying there, a rare smile on his lips, his strong arm around me. I laid there late in the morning, an hour after he'd fallen asleep, just listening to his heartbeat with my ear against his massive chest.

  We'd made each other happy, once.

  Why did it stop? Why, five years later, do we bring ourselves nothing except endless pain and frustration?

  If the dream wasn't enough to make me re-think my visceral reaction to his letter, the questions are. They suffocate my heart because I can't answer them.

  Maybe I'm about to make the second biggest mistake of my life, getting in his plane. But I'd rather land on solid ground again in a mess of tears than wo
nder without answers.

  It takes half an hour to get through the airport, out to the private section of the tarmac he's given me. I'm over ten minutes off the takeoff time he listed. I don't know whether he's taken off yet or not.

  At first, I don't recognize him standing next to the big silver jet. When the sunlight hits his eyes, turning ocean blue to sky, I'm not sure how I ever missed him.

  He's breathtaking in pilot mode. His leather bombardier jacket hugs his wide shoulders, billowing softly in the breeze, just like the dark crop of hair framing his strong face.

  My heart skips a beat, and I hate it. The dream last night has nothing on seeing Lucus Shaw in the flesh again when he's at his finest.

  He's standing next to the plane, waiting past his takeoff time. If I didn't know better, I'd say he almost looks disappointed. He thinks he's delayed his flight in vain, waiting for a no show.

  I hesitate, waiting for him to turn and start heading up the short staircase to the plane's cockpit before I shove the glass door open.

  Last chance to back out with your ego intact. No, it's not even an option.

  “Wait!” I call, running several yards, waving.

  He turns around just in time. “Robbi?”

  My smile vanishes about as quickly as the surprise on his face. The fact that I'm climbing up the stairs means it's really happening, and I'm not sure either of us expected it.

  “Glad you could make it,” he says, stopping when we're both on the top step. “Even if you're so late I was two minutes from leaving without you.”

  “I'm here to talk, Luke. Talk, just like you said in the letter. Don't pull anything that makes me regret it.”

  It's only talk. A negotiation seeking an understanding.