Always & Only (Angels and Sunshine Book 1)

by Gabrielle G.

  I feel guilty for dragging Ian into my mess, but there’s nothing I can do about the horrible things my dickhead of an ex said about me. The fucker played the victim, and for weeks now, I’ve been the bitch-in-chief! I’m as mad as a real housewife of wherever.

  So now I’ve reached the anger stage. There will be no bargaining. My first act as Angry Jules was to release a statement early this morning. I posted it on my Instagram because you don’t need PR agents these days when you have social media. My publicist didn’t like that, of course.

  Well… Too. Fucking. Bad.

  I posted a picture of me meditating, and I said, “After being silent for months, it’s time I find my voice again. Shame, discredit, and hurt have risen from the behavior of a very talented musician. It seems cheating on me for years wasn’t enough; he also had to spread lies about me and demolish my reputation. I don’t need to come to the rescue of two of the most trusting and loving men in Hollywood, but I need to stand up for myself. To the media spreading the story, drop it. I think we’ve all had enough. To my people, thank you for your support. To Ryan, I love you, bro. To Paul, be the father I know you can be and the man I used to love. I can’t deny that I owe you a lot, but I wish with all my heart that you go fuck yourself. I know you will enjoy it! Namaste!”

  Posting that felt so liberating. Of course, Paul’s agent called me, then his lawyer. Then mine. It felt good though. I’m still angry at the fucker, but I said what I had to say to start my healing process. It’s the first time I’ve publicly said anything about the whole story, and I can’t believe it took me so long.

  The last two weeks have been an eye-opener. Ian’s little speech the night I asked him to fuck me made me realize there are decent guys out there and that Paul was the douchiest. Speaking of Ian, he’s reached out to me several times, but I’ve ghosted him. I told Ryan to pass along the message that I was fine even if the circumstances were shit and that I would be in touch soon. I certainly won’t, and Ian surely knows it, but I can’t deny that he was sweet that night and took care of me when I needed it the most.

  As if he heard me thinking of him, my phone chimes with a text notification and Ian’s name appears. I can’t help smiling. He doesn’t give up easily. Which is good, because even if I’m not ready to jump into something with him, I can’t say I don’t feel anything when I hear his name. I’m not ready for him to give up. I wouldn’t have thought twice about it twenty years ago, I would have jumped high and fast into something sexual with earth-wrecking orgasms.

  Ian: Thanks for the compliment, Jules. You are pretty trusting and loving yourself. *wink emoji*

  The first replies that come to my head are pretty explicit. It goes from, “Please, Ian, come and let’s make babies,” to “Can I lick your abs?” From that, it continues on to, “I need an orgasm, are you up for it?” or “My vagina would like to meet your penis. And more than just the tip.”

  But after a divorce and a long, shitty relationship, I’m jaded. My divorce was amicable. We grew apart after being high school sweethearts. I started a new career, walking away from my nursing years, and we became too different, too lonely even when we were together. He didn’t see me, and I didn’t want him to see me. We were done before one of us hurt the other. Then I had a few boyfriends but nothing significant until I met Paul. My ex-husband doesn’t contact me anymore. He did after the first headline about Paul cheating on me appeared, and he stopped when he realized that even though we still respect each other, we have nothing in common anymore. How could he understand I would forgive a cheater several times but wouldn’t stay with a respectful husband because I was bored and lonely?

  Sometimes, you prefer a destructive love to a safe one, especially after fifteen years with your high school sweetheart. So why I answer Ian is still not clear to me.

  Me: You did so much for me that night, I really appreciate it.

  And it’s true. I appreciate that he didn’t fuck me or take advantage of the situation.

  Ian: It was my pleasure. Do you want to grab a coffee? I’m worried about you and would love to see with my own eyes how you are. I can be free in one hour.

  When you have photographers following you everywhere, you can’t have coffee anywhere without the world knowing about it. Especially now that everybody has a phone. Nevertheless, these past months, I’ve learned that whatever you do, it’ll be spread in tabloids, and I need a new friend these days. I answer that I can be ready whenever he wants and rush into the shower. I promise myself that I will dress precisely as if I was having coffee with Ryan and won’t make any extra effort!

  One hour later, I’m in Ian’s car driving to God knows where. After a quick hello and a kiss on the cheek, we’ve stayed so quiet we can hear insects farting. I clear my throat, ready to ask where we’re going, when Ian looks at me, smirks, and takes my hand in a reassuring gesture.

  “Just bringing you to my sister’s coffee shop. It's called the Black Heart. It’s a little far away for coffee, but it’ll be private, as patrons know me there and don’t care much what I’m doing. Maybe a thirty-minute drive. Is that okay?”

  I nod, squeezing his hand. We hold hands, listening to music in comfortable silence until we pull up in front of an industrial building with flowers hanging on each side of the door.

  “I’m going to park in the back alley, and we can enter by the ‘VIP door,’ as my sister calls it. I called her, and she knows we’re coming, so don’t worry.”

  A weight lifts off my shoulders and I take a breath I didn’t know I needed. I’m nervous, or maybe I was and feel better now. I get out of the car and enter the building without looking over my shoulder for the first time in months.

  “It wouldn’t be the end of the world if someone knew we were having coffee, you know,” I tell him, shrugging. I’m lying to myself, but he doesn’t know that. I wouldn’t be able to deal with a new cycle of news stories and would stay reclusive for another few months.

  Ian looks at me in surprise. “She speaks?” he says, mocking me.

  “What? I speak! I speak to you all the time!”

  Ian lets out a hearty, sexy laugh. “Not since the infamous night. You’ve barely said two full sentences to me since then. I don’t mind, and I understand you might feel awkward. To be honest, I am surprised you said yes to grab a coffee with me today. I thought you’d never talk to me or see me again. But still, I’m happy to see you’ve kind of got your tongue back.”

  For the first time today, I take him in. He’s devastatingly good-looking in all black, his hair everywhere as he doesn’t give a shit about his image. My eyes roam up and down his body, stopping casually at his abs, then his biceps, his lips, and finally his eyes. They’re full of understanding and promises, and I smile at him. We stand facing each other, having a full conversation without words.

  I step forward and take his hand. “Let’s sit and talk then!”

  IAN

  It seems so simple. Let’s sit and talk… but I know she won’t give in so easily. Broken girls always want to jump steps to show they're healed. Even if those girls believe what they are saying, you can see in their eyes if they’re still sad or desperate or if they still harbor feelings of love or hate, trying to mend their broken souls.

  The deep insecurities created by another man are my drug. I love putting those women back together, like rebuilding a broken Lego set. I’m the stepping stone to their next long relationship. Being the rebound guy has a lot of advantages. I make them believe in men again. Then I teach them how a woman should be treated by being a perfect gentleman. Finally, I call it quits before they get too attached to me. Generally, I tell them that they’re not ready for more with me, but that the next guy will be fortunate to meet them.

  Julie might be different though. I want to help her, but not only to get her confidence back. I might have envisioned myself as a more permanent fixture in her life and not only when I was jerking off, imagining her lips around my length. I imagined life with her, weekends together at R
yan’s with his wife, our children looking like her. Of course, after she ignored my calls and texts and asked Ryan to tell me to give her some space, I backed off physically. Emotionally though, I became even more involved. So now that we’re in my sister’s coffee shop, trying to “talk,” I don’t really know where to begin without looking like the pathetic lovesick puppy I became over the last weeks.

  “Ian?” Jules says.

  I look at her, confused. She was undoubtedly saying something while I was lost in my foggy brain. “Hmmm?”

  “Can you recommend something?”

  “Her chai latte and rhubarb pie are the best.”

  “That’s what I’ll take then. I love chai and rhubarb.”

  I nod, because what is there to say to such shitty small talk?

  “So how are you, Jules?” I ask, taking her hand across the table. The moment we touch, my heart squeezes, my skin burns, and I can’t breathe.

  She sighs deeply before a smile spreads. “I’m fine but angry. I mean, being here with you, I feel almost good. I don’t feel like the hopeless, cheated-on, and humiliated woman I was two weeks ago, but I’m angry. Angry at Paul of course. Angry at the media. Angry at everybody!”

  I nod. No words are needed. My thumb is circling her palm while our eyes are locked. My heart explodes, my penis hardens, and my breathing gets heavier. In her eyes, I don’t see the anger she’s talking about. I see hope. The hope for better days. The hope for loving again. But there’s also sadness. In my eyes, I pray she sees desire and patience, because this is all I want to give her.

  The sound of a clearing throat disturbs our silent exchange. “Well, hello there, little brother!”

  As soon as we hear Virginia’s voice, Jules takes her hand back. I turn to see my twin smirking at me. Behind her, but a few steps away, stands her psychopath of a son, glaring daggers at me as per usual.

  Virginia and Asher have a difficult relationship—as in my nephew is a spoiled brat who does everything he can to make my sister crazy, especially if it means his dad will pay attention to him and reward him. Asher and I don’t have a happy, loving relationship. I would love to say that I’m a great uncle, the one the kid listens to, but Asher despises me.

  My sister’s ex-boyfriend finds it entertaining to push the kid to be an ass to his mom. The wonderful asshole has full custody of the kid because my sister is a former addict, and when she needed help, she walked away. But she had to leave Asher behind. Clay, his dad, was never under the influence, so he got full custody. He was the one feeding her the drugs, but it didn’t matter.

  Before she got sober though, Virginia chose Clay over her family and ran away. It broke me and shaped me into the man I am today. Then one morning, out of the blue, she was standing on my doorstep after more than ten years without any news from her. I paid for her rehab. I learned then I had a nephew who was seven years old. He became an afterthought until the custody battle that followed. I did everything I could to help her maintain her sobriety. It brought us closer, made us stronger. It was us, one again.

  Shaking my head in my nephew’s direction, I return my attention to my sister and to the woman I want to woo, always trying to live in the present and not dwell in the past. “Hey, Virge! Thanks for having us. Jules, this is my sister, Virginia. Virge, this is Julie.”

  “Nice to meet you,” they say in unison.

  “What can I get you?”

  “Ian tells me your chai latte is the best. Can I have one please, and some rhubarb pie?”

  “Same for me, please.”

  “Gladly.” Virginia looks at me and smiles, but it’s a smile only siblings can share.

  She knows I’m up to my neck with Julie. I think she knew the first time I met Julie, years ago, and casually asked around about her. Virginia is my go-to date to parties and award shows, and she’s picked up a lot of gossip over the years. Every time I asked her about Jules, I did so under the pretense of professionalism, with her being a writer and producer and me being an actor, but I can’t fool my sister.

  After Virginia comes back with our order, Jules and I spend a couple of hours sharing stories about the industry, discussing places we love and food we enjoy. Julie’s face brightens when I ask her what her dream is.

  “I’ve had this idea for a screenplay for years. I would like to write it and produce it, but I’m not sure it would be worth it.”

  “Seriously? You’re such a good writer. Why do you think that?”

  “I’m good at television. Not sure I can write and produce a movie,” she says.

  “What is it about?”

  “A love story. A man and a woman fall in love at first sight. She dies. He falls into booze to dull the pain. It’s the story of his path back to normalcy. And I should say, he’s an actor, and he loses everything because the love of his life dies.”

  I wasn’t expecting such a dark story, which is precisely what I say.

  “Well,” she continues, “I believe this could be a great love story in a dramatic kind of way. But I’m afraid to take the leap.”

  “Have you talked to Ryan about it?”

  She shakes her head. “Not yet. I know he’ll tell me to go for it, but I want a director who will follow my every idea and do exactly what I have in my head, you know? This baby is mine. But I don’t know how to direct actors and, no offense, some aren’t easy to work with.”

  I’m in awe. I was infatuated before, but sitting across from Julie, seeing her face light up and her hands come to life while she discusses her dream, I’m free falling, and I hope she’ll catch me.

  “Ask me my dream, Jules,” I say, holding her gaze and searching for any sign that she might be falling too. From what I see, she’s still holding on to the walls of the helicopter, not ready to take the jump.

  “What is your dream, Ian?”

  She’s closing up. I need to show her that I’ll be waiting for her to jump, but I’ll be holding her hand in the process. I’m not letting my chance pass by. I’ll build her up again, but once I’m done, I’m keeping the final project. Julie Legg will be mine.

  “Directing an Oscar-worthy drama with a wonderful script and beautiful producer,” I say with a smile.

  Her breathing stops and she closes her eyes. I’m a lovesick puppy, and I would do anything for this woman to have her dream come true.

  4 Julie

  Directing an Oscar-worthy drama with a wonderful script and beautiful producer.

  Who speaks like that?

  And why am I repeating it in my mind again and again and again?

  Every night, lying in bed, I see Ian’s dreamy eyes and his beautiful mouth speaking those words. I haven’t written much these past few months, but I feel as though this project could be my phoenix, bringing me back to life after I’ve burned from mortification. Guilt came back after my angry Instagram post, but I’m accepting more and more of who I am without Paul. His cheating was not my fault, and there’s nothing I could have done to stop the train wreck of his dick being caught so many times.

  Coming to accept that it all happened for a reason and that I’ll be seen as whatever people want to see is difficult, but I have to find the peace I need to write. I have to assume that love can be stronger than anything. If I’m being honest with myself, I still believe such passion exists. I’m not sure it’s for me though. I don’t know if I’ll ever again be able to love the way I loved Paul, and I can’t draw inspiration from my story with him. It’s still too raw, and it didn’t finish with a happily ever after. In order to write my script, I need to channel someone who is happy and in love, and the only person I know who fits that perfect image is Ryan.

  After a few weeks of procrastination, I decided today was the day I would start my new project. I make tea, get M&Ms, and set up camp on my dining room table, even taking a picture for my Instagram. I post it with the comment, “New Project. #Exciting #NewLife.” Then I shut down all the apps, messengers, and anything else that could distract me from my computer.

  I
try to visualize my characters and where the action is taking place. Should they meet on a train? At a party? At a bar? In a plane? As soon as I decide on the plane, everything falls into place.

  I write for hours. Nothing to disturb me. Nothing to stop me. I’m surrounded by peace and words flying around me. My music plays in the background of my buzzing brain, my M&Ms are long gone, my tea is cold.

  Of course, I wasn’t planning on my obnoxious best friend showing up unannounced. I’ve been so focused on my writing, music screaming into my ears, I didn’t hear him come in or even see him approaching before he stood in front of me, phone in hand, chuckling while taking a picture of unshowered me with greasy hair and raccoon eyes.

  “What are you working on, Jules?”

  I raise my eyebrow suspiciously. “New project.”

  “Want to tell our fans what it’s about?”

  I jump from my chair and try to get his phone. “You are not taking a video of me looking like this, are you?”

  My best friend loves going live for his fans… I’m sure he made a story about this. He calls himself the “Keep it real” celebrity, showing his friends being a part of his everyday life without any scripted moments or retakes. I call it the “Why the fuck are you my best friend” show, but I keep him around anyway. I don’t have enough friends to be able to break up with him.

  He switches his phone to selfie mode and says, “Sorry, guys, got to go, Jules is ready to kill me,” and puts his phone in his pocket.

  “I can’t believe you did that! I’m so mad at you. You’re the worst friend ever.” I cross my arms and stomp my feet.

  He nudges me with his elbow and laughs at my expense. I’m trying hard to stay composed and annoyed, but he’s having so much fun, I need to join him in his laughter.