It was the wrong move. I shouldn’t have done it. But I knew it would happen the moment we’d returned from the long hours of Jesse’s memorial to find ourselves alone in Chrissie’s house. I had every intention of being the man I should be for her that day. But, fuck, it had been pulsing in my cock from the moment I’d stepped off the plane in Santa Barbara for the funeral. I’d gone to California to bury a friend. All I could think about was fucking his wife.
Disgusting. Maybe Linda is right, I do need therapy. I was good friends with Jesse. Necessity if I wanted to still have a place in Chrissie’s life after her marriage.
Pathetic?
Yes.
Manipulative?
Sure.
But it worked.
Chrissie and I remained friends, and I got to christen her widowhood. Fuck, I’m a prick. Jesse was a great guy. I liked him. I didn’t want to. Didn’t intend to. But I did. He deserved better than that from me on the night he was buried. Sure, I still fucking love Chrissie, but I’m very good at not violating the line with my ex-lovers. Especially when I like their husbands.
But I fucked up. I should have split the second Chrissie sent the kids off with Jesse’s family for the night. It just didn’t seem right to cut out on her.
More images flash in my brain. Her tears had come first. A vision of Chrissie curled against me, holding on for dear life, crying and vulnerable.
Christ, why did I do it? She was consumed by grief. She didn’t know what she was doing. She needed comfort. I only intended to hold her. But I shouldn’t have touched her. And then, damn, she moved closer, she touched me…instant combustion.
That’s when the fucking started. I understood it then and I get it now, what it was for her. Chrissie just needed sex in that strange way people do sometimes in the midst of death. I told myself not to, and fucked her anyway. And that’s all it had been for her. Carnal fucking. A way for Chrissie to shut off the heart and brain to pain.
I down a full glass of scotch this time. It happened. I need to let it go. Forget about it. It’s fucking ridiculous to feel so badly over this still. It’s been over a year since I fucked her that night after Jesse’s burial.
“Since Jesse started this project with you and will be noted as a co-author on the book at release, do you want to include a comment about him or his death for the biography?”
Oh, you fucking weasel. You can be a shit at times.
I set down my drink. “He was a great guy. We were good friends.”
Miles waits expectantly. “Concise. Do you want to expand on that? He did die while working on this book. He’s an enormously popular man. Maybe how you felt when you heard the news?”
Fuck.
My jaw clenches. “Shocked. That’s how I felt, how we all felt. It’s not the kind of death you expect. He was young. In perfect health. Happily married. A terrific father. A brilliant novelist. A good man in every way. What the fuck do you want me to say? He died of a heart attack on the way to the docks to go sailing with his family. Unexpected. A loss for everyone who knew him.”
Miles starts to write. “Can I use the good parts of that in the book? I’ll quote it accurately, but not completely.”
“Fine,” I snap harshly.
Jesus Christ. My temples are starting to throb. Are we almost through this, Miles?
“What’s that you’re holding?”
Startled, I look down at my hand. Oh fuck. Why am I holding it?
I take a steadying breath before answering. “An infinity band from Tiffany.”
“You keep taking it from your pocket and staring at it. You do it sometimes before you go on stage. I’ve been wondering what’s up with that, why it is important to you. Some sort of good luck charm?”
I toss it on the table. “Depends on how you look at it.”
There, figure that one out on your own, Miles.
“Do you want to talk about Shyla Donahue? We haven’t covered that marriage.”
“No. I would prefer not to.”
“We can’t skip over everything. There needs to be something in the book about her. You were married five years.”
My temper flares.
How’s this for an anecdote about Shyla?
“The last thing she did before she walked from my life and filed for divorce was to hurl that bracelet at my face.”
Miles’s eyes widen. “Really. Why?”
“Women. Who knows why they ever do anything? Any man who says he understands a woman is a liar.”
Miles sits for a moment pondering that. And, shit, I’m the liar. I know why Shyla rocketed the damn thing at me.
It was hers, I hear Shyla screaming in my memory of that horrid fight we had the day I got back to New York after the funeral. I stepped through the door. She took one look at me, and she knew I’d fucked Chrissie while I was in California.
It was hers.
I wonder if I should share this fascinating factoid with Miles. No. Better not. It could be too easily misconstrued as an unspectacular, trite eulogy for our marriage. But it really said it all. The girl got to the heart of the problem with laser-sharp accuracy and simplicity for once.
No comeback from me had been required. Not after that. I didn’t even try to make one and I didn’t try to stop Shyla as she walked from the door. This last time we were both relieved that I didn’t.
“Manny.” I hear the pilot through the intercom. “We’re about forty minutes out of New York. We should touch down around 8:30 p.m. Manhattan time.”
Thank God.
Miles starts to pack up.
“I think I have everything I need.” He zips closed his satchel. “I should have a first draft ready for your review in about a month.”
My brows hitch up. I can’t imagine what he’s going to write with the odd hodgepodge of facts and quotes I’ve allowed him to use.
Who cares?
I don’t really care about anything anymore. And I haven’t for a very long time.
The plane touches down. Stops. The steps are pulled down. I move my way to the open cabin door.
Good. Colin. Waiting beside my car. I can get the fuck away from Miles. Without saying goodbye to him, I trot down the steps and cross the tarmac.
I hear something hit concrete. I turn. Miles is struggling with his load-of-crap satchel, suitcase, and laptop bag awkwardly clutched in his arms.
More junk hits the ground.
“Do you need a lift somewhere?” I call out.
Miles looks up, startled.
“That’s OK. I’ll just grab a taxi out front.”
I let out an aggravated sigh. This guy is pathetic. Why did they replace Jesse Harris with him? And why do I feel like a shit leaving him to grab a cab? He’s nothing. An employee.
“Get in,” I order sternly.
Miles makes his way to the car. Colin takes the junk from his arms and drops it into the trunk.
“Thanks.”
He climbs in. Doesn’t move. I have to go around to the other side. I settle on the leather seat and pour myself a scotch.
Colin slams the door. A minute later, I feel the car start to move.
I hold the bottle up in Miles’s direction. “Do you want another drink?”
Miles laughs, awkward. “I think I had enough on the plane. I’ve got a lot of work to get through tonight.”
I smile, amused. Oh no, Miles, you are not going to start work on my biography tonight. You don’t like me yet.
“I am going to stop for dinner. Why don’t you join me?” I ask.
Bug eyes again. “Thanks.”
Brian wanted this book to be flattering. Time to give Miles a healthy dose of the rock star life.
“Colin, take me to The Blue Light.”
“Isn’t that a club?” Miles asks.
“I want to have cocktails first. You don’t mind, do you?”
Miles says nothing. Good. I stare out the window. It’s time to party. I need this wanker to like me if I’m going to have a shot in hell of this book not being completely humiliating.