That’s the part that fucked me up, and filled me with anger and misplaced pride. The you are never going to really love me part of her tirade. Stupid now. I regret it. But it kept me silent as I watched her walk out the door.
I down my scotch. But, fuck, I didn’t think she’d leave for good and I never expected three months later she’d marry Jesse.
Chapter 4
“Do you want to talk about the cancer?” Miles asks.
I tense. How does that prick know what I am thinking about? I stomp out my cigarette. “No. I didn’t talk about it then. I don’t want to talk about it now. It’s gone. Cured. Irrelevant.”
I feel the bite of my words. Irrelevant? It was the catalyst for me losing Chrissie. A worse legacy than the legacy it left in my body. But I’m not going to try to explain that to Miles for some trivial biography. Cancer cost me Chrissie, that’s what my illness means to me, and I didn’t even tell her I had it. She learned about it a year after the diagnosis by reading it in the press. But by then, it was too late. She was married to Jesse and they had their daughter, Krystal.
Fuck, is this why she left me? She wanted more kids? Why didn’t I compromise on that? She was thirty-two and hearing that clock tick. It was the only thing she ever wanted. She told me that. Why didn’t I listen?
I should have had a baby with her. Maybe Chrissie would have stayed. Why did I say no when she suggested it? And shit, not just ‘no’. Consummate ass that I am at times, I said “fuck, that’s all I need.” I’m not even clear on why I said that.
“There is a notation here,” Miles Abernathy remarks, lifting up one of those small spiral notepads Jesse used to like to use, a habit he kept from his days as a reporter. “2006, but it doesn’t correspond to any of the research in the file. Do you know why this date is significant?”
Oh fuck. The blood stills in my veins and my stomach turns. 2006. Jesse couldn’t have known about that. Chrissie would never confess that to him. How would Jesse know?
My thoughts drift again, this time to that lone fuck during Chrissie’s marriage to Jesse that gave me hope that someday there would be us again…
* * *
2006
Oh fuck, when is this party going to be over with? I’m tired of people smiling and getting overly emotional when they talk to me. Such a farce. Not a single person here would give a fuck if the cancer had killed me; hell, there is only a handful in the world who would give a fuck if I died, and probably only because the money stopped.
I toss down my drink, and feel Shyla staring at me in her critical way. Yes, I’m getting drunk today, love. You wanted this trite party and I’m here. Don’t expect me to do it sober.
I settle back into the cushions of the sofa and stare. The apartment is packed with people. Most of them I don’t know. Shyla’s friends. I can only spot a few from my circle of intimates: band, manager, and industry people. I wish Chrissie had come. To see her would make this almost tolerable to endure.
Shyla’s arm wraps around mine tightly. I smile at her. Why did I ask Shyla to marry me? Crap, I know why. Chrissie is never coming back, she’s married to Jesse in a repulsively happy way, and I’m tired of being alone.
I grab another drink off a passing tray. It’s time to get out of here. Chrissie is not going to show. It was moronic to think she would after Shyla told me she had invited her. But no, this is not Chrissie’s kind of crowd: the beautiful, the corrupt, the famous, the amoral; and those who indulge heavy synthetic and sexual recreation. Chrissie hates this kind of thing.
“Are you all right?”
I shift my gaze back to Shyla. “I’m fine, love. Why do you ask?”
She leans in to me and places a full-mouth, overly sexual kiss on my lips. The girl can kiss, I’ll give her that, but when she pulls back she has that insincere worried crinkle in her brow.
“I just want to make sure that this isn’t too much for you. You’re not tired, are you?”
I clench my jaw so I won’t tell her to fuck off since we’re surrounded by people, but this worried-for-me shit is getting old. No, love, I’m in full remission. I could fuck you all night if I wanted to—which I don’t—and another two women afterward and still not be tired. No need to fret. I’m going to be here long enough for you to get some fucking money in the divorce after you leave me.
“Why don’t you go mingle, love? Have fun. You don’t have to sit here with me every minute.”
Her brows lift. “But I want to.”
I feel Len’s heavy stare, the kind he fixes on me when he wants to take me aside and have the don’t marry Shyla conversation. I gesture for one of the serving staff and hand her my empty glass. “Get me a tall scotch, neat, please.” When I turn back around, I look at Len. “Do you want to get out of here and find some real amusement?”
Shyla tenses. “You can’t bail on your own party, Manny.”
I stand. I’m sure as hell not staying here. Len is flying solo tonight. Linda is in California, and that means Len’s up for anything, like in the old days. That could be fun. Christ, when was the last time anything in my life had been fun?
Shyla stands up, placing her body between me and my escape path. “Don’t go. I want you here.”
Oh fuck, not this again. I could just ignore her and walk away, but then Shyla would create a scene. She doesn’t have any restraint of conduct.
I pull her into me and give her a hard kiss. “I’m tired of being surrounded by people. I’ll be better company later if you let me get out of here now.”
Her eyes narrow. “You’ll be back tonight, right?”
Maybe. Who knows?
I ease in, taking her face in a light hold of my fingertip. I stare down at her. “Once these people clear out, you had better be ready, love. That’s when the real party starts.”
I kiss her again lightly, a slight touch of lips, erotic play of tongue, a quick feel of me, and then I step back. She smiles. Mission accomplished. I can cut out of here without more shit. The barely touching kiss—fuck, it works every time with women.
Len and I start making our way to the foyer.
He leans in to me. “Christ, you’re an asshole. You’re a fucking obvious prick, but somehow none of them see it and women just ask for more shit.”
I laugh.
“Where do you want to go?” he asks.
“Anywhere. I don’t care. Just away from here.”
I freeze mid-step.
Oh fuck.
It can’t be.
Chrissie.
The sight of her sends my thoughts into overdrive. How long has she been here? Why didn’t she come say hello to me?
Len turns to me. “Hey, what’s wrong? I thought we were out of here.”
I ignore Len and do another fast search of the room. I don’t see him. Not anywhere. She’s without Jesse. I’m in the same room with her for the first time in two years and she’s here without Jesse and looking like that.
Incredibly hot. What’s up with that dress? That’s not Chrissie’s style: short, black, skintight, plunging neckline so she’s all cleavage from the waist up, and tall heels so that delectable ass of her pops just the right way. Not her style—my cock goes rock hard—but oh, it should be.
“Are we leaving or staying?”
Len’s voice pulls me from my trance. “I’ll be right back. Give me a minute.”
He follows the direction of my stare. “Oh fuck,” he says under his breath. “Don’t cause a scene. Not here. She’s married. Let it go.”