Shayla's Story (The Mathews/Clemmins Family Series) (3 page)

“It is lovely and
classic
and
unfortunately boring as
hell. It certainly doesn’t say
come fuck
me, Mat
at all! Do I need to remind you that you haven’t gotten laid in a
month?”

Shayla shook her
head. “But tonight isn’t about—”

Carrie Ann raised
her pointer finger to Shayla’s lips. She crept closer and grabbed hold of the
hem of her dress. “It’s simply missing the wow factor.”

She ran the sheers
up the side of her dress to the top of her thigh. The slit remained hidden
behind the loose ruffle until she spread her legs hip width apart. “You can
thank me later.”

****

Shayla graced the
stage with confidence and conviction. She spoke of the continuing efforts in
the fight against heart disease and a call to action, inviting people to
Bare Their Souls
and share their
stories. As she announced the Humanitarian Award, the ballroom erupted with
applause honoring the outstanding individual, a world-renowned chef making a
difference in food culture on a global scale.

Attendees rose from
their seats, giving a standing ovation, but Mat’s chair sitting center stage
three tables back, remained blatantly vacant.

As Shayla exited the
stage, Carrie Ann was waiting in the wings with a glass of Shayla’s favorite
poison, Kentucky whiskey.

“Sorry Shay, I know
you really wanted him to be here.”

“No, I understand.
Mat’s dedicated to his job and his family. No man or relationship is going to
be perfect. He’s very giving and devoted. Those are great qualities in a man.”
Her voice sounded dismal even to her own ears.

As the emcee called
people to the floor, Carrie Ann wrinkled her nose with a pathetic scoff.
“That’s complete bullshit, but if it makes you feel better, keep telling
yourself that. The man
is
devoted as
long as it looks good in the public eye. You know I adore him, but calculated
kindness runs in his genes. It doesn’t matter if you are in his bed or wearing
his ring on your finger, Mat is
married
to politics.”

“I’m not completely
sold on the possibility of wearing his ring.” Shayla shirked coolly at the idea
of marriage, then wriggled her brow with a sly grin. “But I am fascinated with
his thread count.”

“You have to be in
his bed in order to count the threads, Shayla.” Carrie Ann reminded, nodding
toward the opposite end of the crowded room, observing Mat as he greeted
California’s elite. “He should’ve been here on time. And don’t take any crap
for helping me out today. By the way, I forgot to tell you, you’re Miss July.”

“July? What?” The
word centerfold quickly added to her growing tension.

Mat approached
Shayla, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “Sorry I’m late. Hello Carrie Ann.
Congratulations, it looks like another successful year. Grateful donors are
opening up their hearts and their checkbooks for a great cause.”

“Thanks, but save
it. I’ll leave the two of you alone.” Carrie Ann patted him on the lapel of his
jacket before walking away.
 

 
“I needed to close the deal, Shayla.
After eighteen years in the Senate, my father’s affair left a bad taste in the
mouth for most Californians. It was an embarrassment to our family name. My
mother has a chance to repair the Huntston image and do great things for this
state.”

Shayla listened to
his eloquent well-rehearsed apology. She knew Mat was uncomfortable talking
about his father’s ramped affairs and the pain it caused still lingered in his
voice. “Let’s just forget about it and try to enjoy what’s left of the
night.”
  

Clasping her petite
fingers around her whiskey tumbler, she nursed the sweet smoky liquid and
moseyed into the auction room.

Mat schmoozed the
California elite while guiding her through the room. Uncertain if she truly
accepted his excuses for the delay or if it was the sheer fact he was so damn
compelling, she opted not to make a big deal of it. Yet the fact she’d fully
expected the evening to play out exactly as it had nagged at her, causing her
stomach to coil with tension.

Shayla spent an hour
listening to him maneuver effortlessly through each conversation, treading
gingerly over his campaign message, repeating the same lines to each new couple
they approached. Strolling by an exquisite painting of an elderly grey-haired
woman, Shayla recalled one of her grandma’s favorite sayings.
That young man can talk the bark off a tree,
but does he have deep roots?

Perusing table by
table, Shayla took mental notes of raffle items she considered bidding on.
Several provoked her interest, each involved a fantastic travel package or an
adrenaline filled getaway.

Famed pop star, La
Mea stood beside her, sporting a leopard spandex dress with a cut out on the
stomach, allowing her baby bump to make its debut appearance. “Maybe we should
bid on the Vegas wedding.”

Her baby-daddy,
renowned rapper Biggie Tug, soothed his hand in a circle over the protruding
belly and nestled into her heavily jeweled neck. “Maybe we should.”

Tug reached for a
pen and a bidding card as La Mea leaned in, placing a kiss of affection to his
neck.

The tender moment
pulled a heartfelt smile from Shayla and she dropped her view to the white
cloth covering the table, not wanting to intrude.

La Mea handed her a
pen and tossed Shayla a sweet smile. “What are you and your man bidding on,
hun?”

“Me?” she answered
in surprise. A deep notch of concentration settled in a groove between her
brows. Standing motionless in front of a table with pen in hand, Shayla scanned
over the gifts tapping the pen on the rim of her glass. “We haven’t decided. I
have no idea what he would really enjoy.”

“He’s a man, honey.
It can’t be too difficult.” She gave a sultry wink, clutching to Biggie Tug’s
arm as they sauntered down the aisle.

Mat’s good
character, easy temperament and polarizing charm made up for the few flaws and
deep-rooted differences between them. He loved an office; she loved the great
outdoors. His idea of a great vacation included national monuments; hers
included national top ten beaches. After more than a year of dating, Shayla
took a calculating look around the room, unable to write their names on a
single raffle items they could enjoy together.
What exactly do we have in common
?

Mat’s swaying voice
hummed in the background. The repetitive dialogue made her stomach flip and
anxious perspiration gathered at the nape of her neck. Shrugging off the
tension gathering around her thoughts, she laid the pen on the table.

Mat gently clasped
the back of her elbow, exiting the room without even noticing she hadn’t bid on
anything.

By the end of the
evening his lack in emotional intimacy made her wonder if their relationship
would ever be enough. Enough to last a lifetime. Mat offered so many wonderful
characteristics, but she questioned if they were truly compatible. Two months
ago, after an argument, she wrote a list of Mat’s good and not so good traits,
expecting the answer to be plain. Clearly, just like everything else in her
life, nothing was black and white. They were cut from different cloth; she from
a hand-me-down pair of jeans and Mat from the finest spun silk. In the
beginning, their differences brought balance to their relationship, but now it
felt more as if they lacked a deep connection.

Shayla sat quietly,
immersed in the darkness of the car ride home.

He hadn’t given her
a good job or a customary congratulations. He hadn’t even told her she looked
beautiful. The entire evening revolved around gathering votes. Her agitation
escalated as Mat’s trivial chatter permeated the stillness of her mind. It’d
been so long since they’d made love. She intended for the evening to end in
intimate celebration. The more he rattled on, however, the more she focused on
his seeming incapability of acknowledging her.

Nothing felt
intimate.

Arriving at his
plush house in the hills, they followed routine.

Mat tossed his keys
on the bedside table, took off his jacket and poured a drink. Shayla traipsed
into the bathroom to undress. Hanging her gown on the back of the door, she
released a heavy sigh, staring at her overnight bag on the tile floor. Fumbling
with zipper, she opened the bag and pulled out a sexy negligee she’d purchased.
Nothing seems special or romantic
tonight.

Plucking her gloss
from the bag, she gazed into the mirror, methodically dabbing it to her lips.
She tried to pin her irritation and hostility to the one thing upsetting her,
but it was a million little things.
Maybe
I’m just PMSing.
She huffed, convincing herself she was being silly.

Opening the door,
she inhaled deeply, exhaling out a soft chuckle.
Maybe I simply have pent up frustrations
.

She moseyed around
the foot of the bed, the side of the bed where he sat still fully clothed. He
swept an assessing gaze down her body, offering an approving smile of her sheer
baby blue nighty. Reaching for her hand, Mat nodded. “Yes, Cecil promises his
support.”

Her vision turned
fuzzy. Her chest fell heavy with insult as she realized he was on the phone.
Shayla yanked her hand free. Crossing her arms over her chest, she paced back
and forth at the end of the bed. Uncontrollable tears blurring her vision, she
wiped the wetness from her cheeks.

“He has several new
ideas on polling strategies and promised to schedule some meetings in
Washington.”

Sinking in
dejection, Shayla drowned out his endless pats on the back as the minutes
ticked by. She didn’t even bother acknowledging him when he said, “I just need
to make one more phone call.”

Her eyes remained
fixed on the floor as she grinded her toes into the design of the plush Berber
carpet.

Anger, confusion and
rejection rippled down her spine, leaving her heart and self esteem in
shambles. After what seemed like thirty minutes, she retreated into his closet.
Shayla stripped off her nighty, casting it to the floor. Searching numbly
through a drawer of her belongings, she yanked on a pair of jeans and
sweatshirt.

She marched barefoot
into the room and snatched his car keys from the bedside table, her gown draped
across her arm and heels dangling from her fingertips.

Mat held the phone
to his chest, muffling his conversation in his turtleneck sweater. He stood
from the bed, surprise blanching over his face as if he couldn’t believe his
eyes. “Where are you going?”

“Home.”

 
“What?” He gaped at her incredulously
before responding to the caller. “I’ll have to call you back in the morning.”

“Don’t bother. I
can’t do this. I’m leaving.”

He closed the phone
and reached for her arm. “Stop being silly. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

She angled her head,
staring at his grasp. Her heartbeat turned unruly hearing Mat repeat the
shrilling words her father used to say to her mother after a long night of
drunken fighting. Memories came in waves, sending tsunami-warning bells
crushing over her.
This isn’t right
,
came a small protective voice.

He released her arm,
raising both hands in the air. “Shayla, come on, don’t be ridiculous. It’s
simply—”

“It’s business. I
know.” His lack of emotional intimacy and incapability to acknowledge her
feelings eddied, sending her hurt emotions slamming to the ocean floor. She
made her way toward the door leading to the garage, hiding the slick of hot
tears streaming down her cheeks.

“You acting
like—”

She closed the door
on him, locking out his words of rebuke. Treating her as a child was a huge
flaw, like pouring whiskey on a fire. Shayla didn’t have a clear vision of
where their relationship was going, but she headed home alone.

Sounds of Sunday
morning resonated through the window cracked open. Shayla lay half-awake,
listening to the rumble of lawn mowers and traffic heading toward the beach.

Ring.

She rolled on her
back, pulling the down pillow over her head.

Ring.

Shayla exhaled with
a loud groan, slapping both arms flat against the mattress, not wanting to
start the day. It was too early for Carrie Ann to call, which meant it’d be Mat
and she wasn’t ready to talk to him yet.

Ring.

“Shit!” she snarled
with an eye roll. Hiding under her pillow wouldn’t help or make him go away.
“He barely acknowledges me for weeks and
now
he wants to fix it!”

“Hello,” she
answered curtly.

“Good morning.” Her
uncle’s deep voice on the other end of the line brought a smile of relief.

Chucking the pillow
aside, she sat up in bed cross-legged. “Good morning.”

“Are you sure? That
didn’t sound like a good morning.” Playful humor filtered in his tone. “You’re
not hung over from last night, are you?”

 
“No.” A grin tugged at the corner of her
mouth. She never drank enough to get hung over. “Believe it or not I’m still
laying in bed.”

“The weather’s so
nice, I figured you might’ve snuck out of his place and hit your board early
this morning.”

“Oh, I…I stayed at
my place last night.” She hesitated slightly. Though her uncle never said
anything horrible about Mat, he wasn’t a big fan. “Are you in town?”

Shayla didn’t expect
to see her Uncle for another week. She was flying to Colorado then to spend
Thanksgiving with him and his new girlfriend and her kids.

“Not yet. We’ll be
there this afternoon. Can you get the place ready for us? I know it’s not much
notice. I’ve got that birthday party to go to.”

“Do I have your
schedule marked wrong? I didn’t think you were attending the party, so I sent a
card along with a bottle of brandy and fifty of his favorite caramel apples.”
Uncle Tommy was known for practical jokes and his long time friend and
producer, Larry Hart, was turning fifty.

“That explains why
my phone’s been ringing off the hook with some colorful threats. Apparently, I
will be disavowed if I don’t make an appearance,” he ribbed. “I’d love to
introduce Tess to Larry too. We’ll only be in town a few days, so I just need
you to stock the fridge. Oh, and turn the pool heat on. She loves to swim.”

“Of course.” She
cleared throat with a subtle chortle at his usage of we, us and she. Her uncle
never
used the word
love
when it came to a woman, let alone twice in one paragraph.
“I’m sure Tess will
love
that.”

Being a personal
assistant to a famous Hollywood heartthrob, Shayla discovered early on to
ignore harsh judgments made by the public who received their information from
photographers who hunted and exploited celebrities. Women swooned over her
uncle and went to great lengths to get their picture taken with him, not to mention
items they sent in the mail. Little did they know, all of their undergarments
went straight into the trash. His new girlfriend, Tess, seemed different from
other women he dated for a host of reasons. She wasn’t an actress or famous,
she was his age and had several grown children, and Tess also carried a genuine
aura of warmth and kindness.

“If I don’t get the
chance to see you, be sure to email me your flight information for
Thanksgiving.”

“Will do. And have
fun. For the record, I really like her.”

He gave a husky
laugh of appreciation. “Me too, Shay. Me too.”

Tossing the phone
aside, she climbed out of the comfort of her warm bed and stretched, raising
her hands to the ceiling. Bending at the waist, she placed her palms on the
floor with a groan.

Ring.

She flopped back
onto the bed, searching through the piles of fluffy white down comforter.
Grasping the phone on the fifth ring, she answered, “What’d you forget?”

“That’s the answer I
was hoping to hear.” Mat’s tone dripped with apology. “Good morning.”

Her lips pursed
tight. Dread welled in her throat. “Hey.”

“I’m out front. Can
I come in?”

“Yeah.” She
subconsciously raked her fingers through the leftover curls in her hair.
Scooting off the bed, she tugged a tank top over her head. “Just come around
back.”

Plodding into the
kitchen, she unlocked the door and lit the burner beneath the stainless steel
teakettle. Leaning her hip against the counter, she folded her arms across her
chest, bracing for another long discussion. Mat didn’t argue. He preferred to
deliberate, and he was good at it.

He walked in wearing
a rueful smile, dressed for work in black slacks, a button down shirt and a
white to-go cup in each hand. Mat offered her a cup of tea and leaned against
the counter beside her, scrutinizing her mood. “I’m sorry.”

She unconsciously scratched
at her upper arm allowing time to pass.

He tilted his head,
leaning lower to capture her attention. “I’m sorry, Shayla.”

She peered into his
blue eyes for a moment. Doubt carved it’s way into her heart. “I just don’t
think—”

“Spend the weekend
with me.”

 
Her insides twisted with uncertainty. “I
don’t know, Mat.”

“I was a jerk last
night. Let me make it up to you.” A wisp of desperation clung to his promise.
“Stay home and spend Thanksgiving with me and my family.”

Sensing the weighted
worry in his voice, she let her gaze drift out the window to the ocean, hoping
to calm the inner turmoil etching up her throat. “I’m supposed to be going to
Colorado. You know that.”

He pulled her into
his chest, clumsily patting her back.

She startled at the
unusual show of affection.

“I won’t work. It
will be the best Thanksgiving, unlike anything you’ve ever had.”

Her heart pounded as
he danced gingerly around old wounds from her past. She’d quit looking back
years ago on painful holiday memories with her mother and father. Peering out
at the waves in the distance, she was uncertain if he’d use her poignant
childhood memories to manipulate her decision or if his offer was sincere. She
dabbed her fingertip to the corner of her eye.

“Please? Let me make
it up to you.”

The idea of spending
a traditional holiday as a family had only been a dream. Unfortunately, she
grew up experiencing the nightmare of her parents. Fraught with broken emotion,
she nodded with a sniffle. “Okay.”

****

Carrie Ann roared
with laughter. “You’re spending the
entire
day there?”

“Yes, so I need help
deciding what to wear.” Shayla cluelessly stared at thirty dresses hanging in
her closet. This was the first time she’d attend a formal family gathering at
Mat’s family estate. “And what should I take?”

“Whiskey! You’ll
need a fifth of whisky to survive, Shay.”

“Huh?” Anxiety
turned to alarm as she tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder, flipping
through her wardrobe. “It can’t be that bad.”

“Shayla that woman
is fierce! Mrs. Huntston is a card-carrying member of the bitch club! With a
capital B! If you’re expecting this to be a sweet wholesome
Betty-fucking-Crocker gathering, you’d better think again.”

“Mat said—”

“Mat said what?
Shayla, whose opinion are you going to trust? Mine or his?” Carrie Ann didn’t
bother waiting for a response. “Mat isn’t going to warn you. Hell, he probably
thinks you will fit right in. He wears blinders when it comes to his family.
That woman preys on his sense of loyalty, and no offense, but Mat doesn’t have
the biggest spine. He’s been groomed for years to be the Huntston succession to
the political throne. How do you think she got him to take the leadership role
of her campaign?”

“But—”

“Trust me on this,
Shayla. By the end of the day you’ll need a drink.”

Taking Carrie Ann’s
advice, Shayla arrived bearing a high-end bottle of whisky. Mrs. Huntston
received them in the grand foyer with a formal greeting. “Hello, Mathew. You
know how much I dislike it when you’re late.”

“Happy Thanksgiving,
Mother. My apologies. Shayla needed a few extra minutes.”

Standing frozen
beneath the lavish chandelier, Shayla gripped to the bottle of society whisky
for moral support, obviously she wasn’t going to get it from Mat who’d just thrown
her under the bus.

“I’m glad you could
join my family for Thanksgiving, Shayla.” Pleasant distain seeped from her
voice.

“Thank you for
having me.”

Mrs. Huntston wore a
smile, but Shayla feared piranha teeth hid behind her perfectly applied
lipstick, masking the color of her true emotions. Shayla offered the fine amber
liquid to Mat’s mother, however she declined.

“I don’t drink whiskey.
You can leave it in the kitchen with—”

“Hello dear. I’ll
take that. Come join me, will you?” An impeccably dressed elderly woman snatched
the bottle from her hands.

“Shayla, this is my
grandmother, Alice.”

“Finally, someone
with good taste.” Alice inspected the bottle with appreciation. She crooked her
finger, gesturing Shayla to follow. “Come with me dear. I’ll get some glasses.”

 
Shayla politely declined the first offer
to join her in a tottie, but after an hour of introductions to Mat’s stately
extended family, she gladly accepted hoping to calm her nerves. Every
interaction with his mother felt daunting.

Over the last ten
years, Shayla had spent a significant amount of time around people with means,
but the Huntston family was an entirely new breed of wealth. Everything about
The Estate
reeked of grandeur. Opulent
historical furnishings filled the home. Merely sitting on the extravagant
antique sofa became a chore. The cream and gold toned paisley textile felt more
like a tapestry than fabric.

She began analyzing
her every movement.
Do I sit back? Should
I cross my legs traditionally or at the ankles? Should I set my crystal glass
on the cherry wood coffee table?
She opted to sit forward, cross at the
ankles and cling to her glass.

If the simple act of
sitting on the sofa wasn’t enough strain on her brain, she had to endure formal
introductions and affluent conversations driven around politics.

Mat remained by her
side, guiding her through greetings and discussions. However, he also repeated
and reworded her sentences several times so she sounded scholarly and more
acceptable to his vastly cultured family.

Mat pushed her too
far when his brother asked, “Shayla would you care for an hors d’oeuvre?”

Shayla replied,
“Sure, thanks.”

Mat corrected her,
saying, “Yes, thank you.”

She openly cringed,
ignoring the correction defiantly.

By the time chef
announced dinner was served, Shayla’s nerves were so frazzled, panic swelled at
the mere thought of silverware and china place settings.

Mrs. Huntston graced
the head of the Victorian table lined with twenty-four chairs. Mat sat on one
side her, his younger brother on the other. She stood. “We all have so much to
be thankful for. Let’s each take the time to share what wonderful blessings
have occurred in our lives this year.”

Good old-fashioned
fun left the building, and present day anxiety landed in her lap. Shayla
gripped Mat’s thigh beneath the table, digging her nails into him. “You
should’ve warned me about this.”

“Mathew, let’s start
with you.” Mrs. Huntston gave a slow measured nod toward her oldest son.
Scrutinizing Shayla’s distress, she proposed in a cold and steady tone, “Or would
you prefer for your brother to begin?”

“Thank you.
Actually, I would prefer to go first.” Mat patted her hand, releasing her death
grip from his thigh. He scooted his chair away from the table. Placing his palm
to his chest, he bowed slightly toward his mother. “This year marks a new
beginning for the Huntston family, that of which I am born into,”—he
turned toward Shalya, scooping up her hand in his—“and that of which I
hope to begin.”

Anxiety warbled her
complete attention. She’d heard a varied version of this speech so many times.
She smiled politely, somewhat tuning out his monotone language, until he bent
and dropped to one knee.

“Shayla
Clemmins—”

“What are you
doing?” Her breathing instantly turned fast and shallow. Shayla’s eyes darted
cagily around the table and back to Mat before dropping to an open box
revealing an engagement ring.

“Shayla,” he
repeated, drawing her focus to his face.

Over his shoulder,
she caught a glimpse of his mother’s furious face turning ashen white before
her eyes. Overcome with the sudden urge to run, she squirmed in her seat.