Slow Burn (10 page)

I run a hand through my still soaked hair. The woman is relentless in her pursuit for a grandchild. Early retirement from her teaching job has been good to her but has also left her bored and pining for someone to coddle and rock and sing the ABCs with.

She walks past me and now that I know my towel is secure, I grab her and wrap my arms around her. “Hi, Momma. Good to see you.”

She slinks her arms around me and pulls me in close. “Hi, baby. You’re getting me all wet!” She pushes me away as quickly as she pulls me near. To her it’s been hard enough to let us go, so she tries to prevent the emotions that are clogging her voice from spilling over as if I don’t see it each and every time.

“Well, that’s what happens when you waltz on in when I’m in the shower, now, isn’t it?” I quirk an eyebrow up at her, a smart-ass smirk on my face.

“Oh shush!” She shoos me away but doesn’t move as love fills her eyes.

God, I love this woman. Class, grace, and comfort all rolled into one. I study her as she does me and notice the lines a little deeper around her mouth, her cheeks a little fuller, and her eyes sparkling with happiness. She may be a constant proverbial thorn in my side, but I’d drop anything on a dime for her if she needed me.

I readjust my grip on my towel, and she swats at my arm. “Relax. It’s not like I haven’t seen your goods before. I did wipe that rear end of yours, you know.”

“Yeah, like thirty years ago,” I correct her as she turns her back on me and gives one more glance around to make sure I’m not lying to her about having company.

Her appraisal gives me a second to slide a glance at the clock, knowing this little visit is going to make me even later for work than my run already did. I mentally scan my calendar and figure I can take my scheduled conference call with Firestone on the drive in.

“So tell me,” she says as she walks over to the counter and pulls out plastic containers of sugar and chocolate chip cookies, various other packages of food, and then last a tin-foil-covered dish, which has my stomach growling because it looks like my favorite of hers, lasagna. “Why is my handsome son not shacking up with some hot, little thing?”

“Ha. I’m the handsome son. Then where does that leave Walker?” I’ll take any chance I can to throw a dig at him, even when he’s not around. Brotherly love and all.

“Now, Becks, don’t be mean to Walk. He’s just as handsome as you, just in a different way,” she scolds as she places the container into the refrigerator.

“Is that lasagna?” My mind shifts to what’s more important, food. I’ll put up with the ration of shit she gives me any day if she’s going to fill my fridge and bring me home-cooked goodness.

I’m all for being self-sufficient, but cooking is for the birds. Plus I suck at it.

“Yes, it is,” she answers, not really hearing my question before she continues. “Walker says you came up to the ranch all hot and bothered by someone. Why aren’t you busy with her this morning?”

Fuckin’ Walker and his big fat mouth. I should have known better.

“Hmm?” she says when I don’t answer. And the way she says it, like she has absolutely no interest, and as always, I play along and act like I don’t notice her blatant intrusion into my privacy.

“Mom, you know Walker. He’s such a chi—” I cut myself off before I can say the word
chick
, knowing I’ll get scolded for it.

“Beckett,” she scolds, “do not use
that word
around me. You should know better by now. That’s a word men in bars use, and frankly, yes, you’re a man, but one, you are not in a bar, and two, you are educated and should know women are not meek little birds that chirp.” I roll my eyes, her back facing me, as I hear the reprimand for what feels like the hundredth time in my life. “Quit rolling your eyes. Now, tell me all about her. Does she by chance have a pair of pink flip-flops?”

“Jesus, Mother! You and your pink flip-flops!” I bark.

“Don’t ever doubt me. I told you I had a dream, and your wife was wearing a pink pair of them….”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“And you’re handsome. Now, quit trying to distract me, and tell me all about her!”

I stop myself from sighing out loud before thoughts of Haddie cloud my head, and my frustration with whatever it is we have comes tumbling out of my mouth.

“That good, huh?” she says in response to my exhale and continued silence, the smile on her face so wide, I swear her cheeks are going to crack.

I stare at her, the correction on my tongue, but I stop myself. I’m a goddamn grown man—in a towel, no less—and my mother is here scolding, probing, hoping I’m sleeping with someone. And yet I can’t find it in me to let her down and tell her there is no one on my immediate radar.

Talk about twisting my balls … and not by any means in a pleasurable way.

There’s so much wrong with this picture, I don’t even know where to begin. My mother wanting to discuss my sex life? Talk about getting the heebie-jeebies.

“There’s a possibility there,” I tell her, hoping the response is enough for now. “How are you doing?” Time to change the subject, get her talking about dad and their aches and pains and their newest plans for travel.

I walk up behind her and place a kiss on the top of her head, the open container of cookies calling to me. I grab one, settle down on the barstool, and prepare for the rest of my conversation with her.

No one ever rushes Trisha Daniels.

No one.

Not even her elder son, who’s going to be so damn late to work, it’s not even funny.

Lucky for me I’m in good with the boss.

I
tap my pencil to the beat coming through my speakers, notes strewn around my desk, and my mind focused on nothing in front of me. Instead, my thoughts keep wandering to Ry’s text:
Just because I’m on my honeymoon, doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten to remind you to make your appointment.

“Get off my case,” I mutter, hating that she’s remembered and loving that she’s remembered all in the same breath. I glance up at the calendar on the wall beside me and laugh at the five doctor’s appointments I’ve written on there and then X’d out when I suddenly had to cancel because—
I don’t know
—the sky was blue that day.

I’m being such a chicken about it, but denial is my strongest truth now. I’ve dropped my pencil, and my hand is unconsciously rubbing soft counterclockwise circles around my breast through my clothes. Not pushing firmly, though, because I’m too scared to find what I know is lurking there beneath all the tissue. The same cancerous parasites that took my mom’s breasts and stole my sister’s life.

That I know deep down will shorten mine as well.

I shake my head and blow out a breath and pound my fist against the desk. I know I need to find out the truth, get
the test results, but at the same time,
I watched Lex die
. I watched the cancer take every single part of her, day by day, piece by piece until there was nothing left of her but pain and promises. Tears and denials. Then finally resignation and devastation.

I know the road, know the pain, know it’s no use. … Even if they find it in time, it might not matter. She wasn’t responsive to any treatments. We’re cut from the same cloth, so neither would I be. I try to tell myself I’d rather live without the fear, knowing that what helps define me as a woman also may have death knocking at my door.

Anger fires within me—at Lex, at myself, at everything—because I’m scared to death. To know the truth. Not to know the truth. I realize I’m being ridiculous. I know the right thing to do is to find out, take the blood test and catch it early if I have it, to give myself a fighting chance … but, man, Lex thought the same thing and look what happened to her.

Six months and she was gone
.

“Fuck.” I sigh and run a hand through my hair before I pick up the phone and dial the number I now know by heart. I make the appointment and promise not to cancel this time. I’ve just finished writing the details on my calendar—a slight weight lifted from my shoulders so another one can fill its place—when my cell rings.

I groan when I see Cal’s name, my contact at Scandalous. The event went very well this past weekend, good turnout, lots of chatter in the press about his new club, a few more celebrities confirmed for the next event this weekend, but … it’s Cal. He’s never happy. I put on my fuck-you smile when I answer the phone as my own personal tribute to his douchery.

“Cal! How are—”

“I need Saturday to be bigger than last weekend.” His voice comes through loud and clear, words clipped, impatience emanating through the line.

And hello to you too, douche bag.

I bite my tongue, wanting to tell the wanna-be-rico-suave where to go, but I can’t. This is a huge account if I can land it. Their constant events can equate to a continual revenue stream and the possibility of more clients. I force the sweetness I’d rather choke on to lace my voice. “Okay.” I draw the word out pleasantly. “What exactly wasn’t to your liking, Cal? What other suggestions might you have?”

“Honey, I’m paying you, right? The suggestions should be yours.”

I roll my shoulders, not in the mood, but know that if I get the gig, I will no longer have to deal with him. Since he only deals in
new talent
, as he calls me, I’d move onto a retainer with a different company representative and away from him. The thought makes toning down the quip on my tongue that much more palatable.

“Point made.” I let the silence stay on the line for a moment so I can check my notes and give myself a second to try to figure out what to say to make him happy and not put him on the defensive. “With last weekend’s event, I brought in three additional sponsors and an additional four VIP celebrity attendees. The attendance was thirty percent higher than what you had anticipated, and the club was all over social media sites. So, in other words, I’m not sure how much more overachieving you expect out of HaLex … but I think we surpassed the mark you set handily. And while, yes, you are paying me, Cal, if I don’t know what extra something you’re looking for, I won’t be able to provide it.” I take in a deep breath and realize what I’ve just said. The door I’ve opened for him to step through with his chauvinistic bullshit.

He chuckles low and soft, and the hair stands up on the back of my neck at the slippery sound. And from the laugh alone, I know he is going to walk right over the threshold. “Oh, Ms. Montgomery,
something extra
is always welcome on my end if you’re really wanting to secure an account as handsome as Scandalous would be for you.”

And that’s a big fuck-off-and-die-I’m-not-sleeping-with-you in my book.

My skin crawls at the suggestion in his tone, and pride has the words spewing off the tip of my tongue, but dignity has me biting them before I can make a monumental mistake. Speak my mind—give him attitude—and I risk losing this account. I hang tight to the knowledge that I will not have to deal with Cal after the end of the month. “I think it’s best we stick to the contract. I’ll figure something out for the event. No worries.”

There is silence on the other end of the line, and I’m not sure if I should be amused or pissed that he’s taken aback by the fact that I’ve completely ignored his unwanted and completely unwarranted advance.

“Well, good, then,” I continue, not letting him gain his bearings so he can prove to be the supercilious prick I know is hiding beneath the surface. “Unless you have something else for me, I’d best be going. I need to put in some added time to get you that something
extra
for Saturday’s event.”

I hang up the phone before he can speak and ruin my perfect exit. I drop the phone, the clatter of it against my desk filling the silence of the room, and drop my head into my hands. I sit there for a moment, hoping the buzzing in my ears will dissipate, but it just continues to rage incessantly until it becomes almost white noise.

My shoulders are tight, my body amped up with a Molotov cocktail of emotions just waiting to explode when lit by the right match. My mind leaps to Becks, and I curse myself for that damn ache he’s created, which isn’t going away no matter how many times BOB and I have reacquainted ourselves since Sunday.

It’s just not the same.

Not even close.

I groan out in frustration—memories of that one night together flickering through my mind as I hear Dante’s motorcycle pull up in the driveway. I really don’t need to be
around him right now—primed alpha male oozing sex appeal and willingness for a quick romp in the bed.

Or on the kitchen counter.

God, yes, I know sleeping with him would be a huge mistake—huge—but damn he might be the perfect flint to spark this sexually frustrated woman’s fire. But no matter how much I know he’d be incredible in bed and pleasure me sufficiently, I’m not crossing that line.

I just can’t.

Not just for my sake or the satisfaction of my sex drive, but because when I think of sex and what I’m craving, I think of Becks. I see him standing between the V of my thighs, that sexy-as-fuck smile on his lips and how he lifts his head up in rapture just as he sinks into me. Yet the fact that I can’t stop thinking of him—of these things—means I just might do something stupid and use Dante to sate my simmering lust.

And that would solve nothing but prove how fucked-up my logic is.

I can’t use one man’s hand to scratch another man’s itch. Well, I could, but that would involve both of them being in the same bed with me, and that’s a whole different can of worms.

The chuckle comes on the heels of the mental image. The exhausted laughter at my ridiculously immature thoughts of two men and their cans of worms tells me I need to leave the house. I need to get out and get some fresh air and make my raging hormones simmer down. Grab hold with both hands and get a grip.

It takes me a second as I look out the window to the front yard to figure out what I need. And it is most definitely not the sight of Dante pulling off his shirt and wiping his hands on it after he adjusts something on his bike. Bare skin, defined muscles, etched ink.

I shove the chair back.