LaClaire Touch

An after hours novel

Dori Lavelle

Contents

1. Derrick

2. Brooke

3. Derrick

4. Brooke

5. Derrick

6. Brooke

7. Derrick

8. Brooke

9. Derrick

10. Derrick

11. Brooke

12. Derrick

13. Brooke

14. Derrick

15. Brooke

16. Derrick

17. Brooke

18. Brooke

19. Derrick

20. Brooke

21. Derrick

22. Brooke

23. Derrick

24. Derrick

25. Brooke

26. Brooke

27. Derrick

Epilogue

Connect with the author

Also by Dori Lavelle

Copyright © 2017 by Dori Lavelle

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

1

Derrick

I dive into the pool head first. The moment my body slices through the sparkling liquid, I catch my breath. The water is cool enough to shock my system and warm enough to help me adjust quickly to the temperature.

Holding my breath, I count the seconds. My body inches closer to the point where the urge to inhale is strongest, the point where there’s too much carbon dioxide in my lungs and not enough oxygen, the point right before drowning is meant to start. Only then do I come back up, breaking through the surface of the water, gasping for the chlorine-scented air.

“One of these days you’ll do something that’s going to kill you.” Bryant stands at the French doors leading to the private pool area of Lance’s condo, observing me, hands in the pockets of his khaki pants, emerald eyes narrowed.

Ignoring him, I pull in several more breaths to replace the oxygen my lungs lost. I rise from the pool, my body vibrating with life. Water slides down my body, running from my hair down my back, as I approach one of the four cushioned chaise lounge chairs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I grab one of the folded engraved LaClaire towels from the lounger and hold it to my face, inhaling the fresh smell of fabric softener. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to know if you didn’t get out of the water just now, you could have drowned.” He shoves a lock of hair from his forehead. “For a moment there I was tempted to dive in after you, but I figured you might be playing one of your crazy games again. You’ve been playing them since mom and dad died.”

Teeth gritted, I ruffle my hair with the towel and sink into one of the chairs, adrenaline surging through my veins.

Mom and dad died in a plane crash seven years ago. No one survived. One day they were there, the next they were gone.

I glare at Bryant. “Is Liam keeping you and Grace up that much at night?”

Liam Lance LaClaire is my six-month-old nephew, Bryant’s son, named after our disabled brother, Lance, who also happens to be Bryant’s twin brother. Bryant and Lance are the eldest of all five of us.

Adopted at the age of three, my genes may be different from theirs but my adoptive family never once made me feel less of a LaClaire.

At the age of two, I made national news when I was found—by a nun—sitting near a church dumpster, in Newburyport, with a note attached to my T-shirt that read “unwanted kid”. I made headlines a second time the following year, when one of the wealthiest families in the world adopted me.

Turns out the joke is on the person who left me by the dumpster. I was wanted after all. Unlike some adoptive kids, I never felt the urge to look for my biological parents. As far as I’m concerned, if anyone is unwanted, it’s them.

“What does Liam have to do with anything?”

“You can’t be getting enough sleep if you’re coming up with such crazy accusations.”

“You know I’m right.” Bryant sits down on the lounger next to mine. “I’ve been watching you for a while. You’ve been in town for three weeks and your whole body tells me you’re dying to go off on another one off your adventures.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I rake a hand through my damp hair. “Lance needs all of us right now.”

Lance had a major operation four weeks ago. After several failed treatments over the years, the experimental treatment he recently underwent was one we had buried the most hope in. The one we’d wished would allow him to walk again. To give him his life back. To be by his side, all four of us have put our travels on hold. But fate, the bitch, had dangled the carrot in front of him before snatching it away.

The treatment was a failure which left Lance even more depressed, to the point he refuses to talk to any of us, preferring to lock himself in his room. All he does in there is sit in his high-tech wheelchair, gazing out the window. When he does lie down, the ceiling is his point of interest. Getting him to eat, sleep, or exercise is a constant struggle.

“Look,” Bryant says. “I know staying in one place for close to a month is torture to you. Maybe you should leave town. Go somewhere to get your adrenaline kick. It’s not as if Lance wants us to be here anyway. Maybe we should listen and give him his space.”

“You know he doesn’t mean to push us away. He’s just too fucking proud to admit he needs us.”

“Maybe he is.” Bryant reaches for a bottle of water on the glass table next to him. He takes a swig and puts it back down. “But this was a major disappointment for him and I think he needs time to come to terms with all of it. Anyway, I had a talk with him last night.” He rubs his green eyes, tired. “He’s staying in Boston.”

“How the hell did you convince him to do that?” I rake the fingers of both hands through my hair and link them at the back of my head. “Last I heard he was thinking of returning to Cabo as soon as Dr. Drew gives him permission to fly.”

“I had a small talk with the doctor. Since Lance won’t listen to us, he might listen to him.”

“You mean you manipulated the situation?” I grab a water bottle and twist off the cap. “Being in paradise could help him start painting again.”

Before the treatment, Lance used to spend a lot of time at our family villa in Mexico. He claims being there inspires him to paint, even though he hasn’t painted in months. He’s the creative one of all of us, with paintings hanging in major galleries around the world, earning him a fortune—in addition to the billions our parents left behind. Money he can’t fully enjoy.

“He can paint right here. There’s no way we can let him stay by himself in Mexico. He should be here, where Grace and I can stop by to check up on him.” Bryant stretches out his legs on the lounge chair before crossing them at the ankles. “But I don’t see why you guys can’t go and live your lives. We all have to make the best of the situation.”

I let out a breath. “You’re right, it’s best he remains where he is.” I stand, careful not to slip on the wet tiles. “You know something? I still find it hard to believe that you’ve settled down. How do you not crave to travel all the time like you used to?”

The tension melts from Bryant’s face. “Little brother, when you find what you’re looking for, you don’t feel the need to go searching anymore.” Bryant gets to his feet as well. “I want to be where Grace and Liam are. They’re my home. Maybe one day you’ll find that in someone.”

“Yeah, dream on. There’s no way I’d give my life up for some woman.”

“If there’s one thing I learned, it’s to never say never.” His eyes are gazing into mine but his thoughts seem far away as he thinks of his family. “When you find the right one, everything changes, man. Everything.” He walks over to the door. “I’m talking from experience. But you’re twenty-four only once. Live your life as you like, but please be careful not to kill yourself doing something too crazy.”

The way Bryant talks sometimes makes him sound like someone much older than his thirty-one years. I want to tease him about it but I let it go.

“Where are you off to?” I ask instead. “Let’s enjoy a drink and watch the sunset.”

“I promised Grace I’d be home early to spend some time with them before Liam goes to bed.” He turns to face me. “Do me a favor, will you?”

“Sure. What do you want?”

“If you decide to leave, let me know where you’re going. Don’t just disappear and call us from some random country.”

“Spain.” I stride toward him, bare feet padding against the tile.

“What about Spain?”

“That’s where I’m headed next. I’ll be flying out early tomorrow morning.”

“What’s luring you to Spain?” Bryant’s brows meet in the middle.

“Bulls and red flags, baby.”

“Of course.” Bryant doesn’t crack a smile. “The bull running festival in Pamplona. Doesn’t it take place around this time of year?” He shakes his head. “I don’t get how you can think it’s fun to be chased around by angry bulls.”

“You don’t need to understand, big brother. Different things float different people’s boats.”

“Fine. Go and get the boredom out of your system but come back in one piece.”

I grin. “Of course. That’s not an option.”

As Bryant leaves, I don’t tell him there’s something I have to do first, a stop I need to make before I head to the airport in the morning. Another activity that makes me feel alive. The thought of my dick buried inside the hot pussy of some chick already sends my pulse racing. It’s the best kind of foreplay before I head off to play with danger.

2

Brooke

With unsteady hands, I glide the smooth crimson lipstick across my bottom lip as warm sweat pools into my armpits. I hold my breath before releasing. In a stuffy room filled with the smells of sweat, perfume, and hairspray, fresh air is hard to come by.

You have to do this. You have no choice.

“Beautiful, as always.” My boss, Hector Cross—or my pimp as some would call him—pops his head around the door, grinning with approval. He’s a boulder of a man with a ponytail at the back of his head, who always gravitates toward black dress pants and one of his multi-colored Hawaiian shirts. Several of the top shirt buttons are open, giving me a view of his curly chest hairs, which look damp with sweat. Buried in the salt and pepper hair, is a small golden cross that hangs from a slim chain around his neck.

I don’t say a word as I replace the cap of the lipstick and pick up the tube of mascara from the dresser. Since my lashes are already long by nature, the only thing they require is a little more thickness and definition to make my amber eyes pop.

“You should look excited. You have the white room today.” Hector comes to stand behind me. His sweat and musky cologne overwhelm me as he raises his arms to place his large, warm hands on my shoulders. “Other girls would kill for the opportunities I give you. You do know that, right?” Hector switches on the small radio on one end of the dresser. Pop music spills into the room.

My chin hits my chest. “Thank you, Hector. I’m sorry. I’m just tired.” I raise my head again and push my shoulders back. “Who am I getting?”

“Some kind of investment banker. So treat him well. Make him come back for more.”

I move away from Hector, getting to my feet. His hands fall to his sides. What I really wanted to do was shake him off me, but he’s my boss and even though he’s in a business some consider to be disgusting, he treats us well. He treats me well. I started working for him a year ago. Two months ago, he informed me that I was ready to be meeting the needs of the white room clients.

The Mirage has many color-coded rooms, depending on how much money clients are willing to cough up. The white room is as good as it gets, the room where all the important people go, the ones with the fat wallets. The ones who press large tips into our hands. Hector lets us keep our tips, which I appreciate.

“What do I call him?” I push two pins into my jet black hair wig to hold it in place.

“He calls himself Dr. Stud.”

I raise an eyebrow but don’t comment. I’ve heard worse names.

Only Hector knows a client’s true identity. All we get are the names they choose to be called for the night. Of course, we sometimes have public figures walking through the door and we recognize them the moment we see their faces but we have to pretend we don’t know who they are. On the other side of the coin, Hector also keeps our legal identities anonymous. My name at The Mirage is Ruby.

I clear my throat. “Dr. Stud it is.” I glance back in the mirror and watch as Hector heads for the door.

“Do a great job again tonight, then go home to get some rest. I’ll try to get more jobs in the white room for you tomorrow.”

When I started working at The Mirage, I was a nervous wreck and Hector completely made me feel comfortable, telling me I didn’t have to be ashamed about what I was about to do because there are so many girls like me. I told him I’m only in it for the money and as soon as I pay off half my debts, I’m out.

“That’s what they always say,” he’d said. “But most never leave.”

“Trust me, I won’t be one of those girls,” I’d promised. Every day that I come to work, I remind myself of that promise.

Once Hector is gone, I sink back onto the stool. My heart refuses to settle, so I stand again and approach the wall lined with our lockers. I open mine and reach in for my purse, rummaging inside until I locate the envelope. One of the many bills that keep me awake at night. It helps me focus, reminds me why I’m doing this. I have pressing bills to pay and I want to save up to get my GED and go to college immediately after. Things happened to me in the past, but I’d be damned if they stop me from becoming the person I want to be. My dream is to become a psychologist one day, to help people with mental illnesses, people like my mother.

Mom died when I was eleven, driven to suicide by the depression she had fought for as long as I’d known her. Selling my body is the fastest way for me to make more money. The jobs I managed to land before The Mirage didn’t bring in enough money to enable me to both pay my bills as well as save up for college.

I slide the envelope back into my purse and leave the dressing room, wearing nothing but a wine red padded bra, black panties, and a fake smile. My heart slams against my chest at the same time the heels of my stilettos come into contact with the worn-out wooden floor.

I reach the end of the hallway and inhale deeply to calm my nerves. My body responds by pushing bile up my throat, repelling the concentration of sweet perfumes, body odor, and sex impregnating the air. My hand hovers over the door handle for a moment before it comes into contact with the metal. I adjust my smile and push open the door.

Staying true to its name, the white room is splashed in various shades of white. Lily white flowing curtains spilling to the thick, eggshell carpet, and a massive round bed in the middle of the room covered in ivory silk. A round mirror is planted on the ceiling above the bed. White candles flicker in various corners of the room and a fresh bouquet of white calla lilies sits at the small table by the window. The room smells of flowers, burning candles, and cologne.

Dr. Stud’s tall lanky body is positioned in the middle of the bed, his crooked smile bright as his gaze roams the length of my body. His clothes are draped on a leather armchair leaning against one wall. An expensive suit, shiny custom-made shoes and a cobalt blue shirt stand out against the white furniture.

“Hector was right. You’re one of the best looking girls here.” He runs a hand down his naked chest. The man has no hair whatsoever on his pale body. The way it’s glistening in the candlelight, I wouldn’t be surprised if he waxes himself.

“Thank you, babe.” I perch on the edge of the bed, cross my shapely legs, and twist to face him. “Which of your wishes do you want to come true tonight?” Every word I say to him sounds foreign and unnatural on my tongue but this is not about my comfort. It’s about how what I say makes him feel.

“You’re a firecracker, aren’t you? My kind of girl.” He rests himself on one elbow, runs a thick tongue across his bottom lip. “My wish is for you to suck my toes one by one, slowly.”

All kinds of men come to us with strange fetishes, but do I have a choice? Ignoring the turn of my stomach, I suck it up and position myself at his feet, my knees sinking into the carpet. The smell of sweat hides beneath several layers of his cologne.

He flops onto his back with a contented sigh as I slide his salty, big toe into my mouth. My body heaves but I swallow down my disgust. Making noises to fool him into thinking I’m enjoying myself, I make my way from one salty toe to the next until I reach the small one. I move on to the next foot and give it the same treatment.

“That’s right, baby, suck me good.” He’s obviously enjoying this as much as I’m hating it. A strong urge to bite one of his toes fills me.

“What’s your name?” he asks, cutting through my thoughts.

One of his toes pops out of my mouth when I raise my head. “I’m whatever you want to call me, babe.”

“How about little cunt? Sound good to you?”

My body jerks but not enough for him to notice. I’ve been called a lot of names in the last year. I should be used to this. “If that’s what you . . . what you want.” I lower my head again, continue my job from hell.

“Little cunt, you can finish up with the toes now. My friend is hungry.”

“As you wish.” I rise off the floor and sway my hips all the way to the white box of condoms at the windowsill. I take out one of the silver packets and return to him. A few seconds later, I glide the condom down his small penis to his large balls. “How do you want it?” I ask as I remove my underwear.

“Ride me, little cunt, ride me like your life depends on it.”

I climb onto him, insert him into my body—my head empty of thoughts, my feelings shut off. I’m relieved it’s come to the sex already. The sooner it starts, the sooner it ends. After that I’ll go home to scrub his sweat off my body.

He grunts a total of four times as I move above him. Then he stiffens, eyes scrunched shut. His long fingers slither down my breasts until they cup them so tight it hurts. He lets out what can only be described as a roar. Then it’s over.

I let out the breath I’d been holding and roll off him.

“That was fantastic, little cunt.” He mops sweat off his forehead. “You were brilliant.”

“Happy to be of service. Any more wishes?” While most clients only desire sex, there are some who ask for cuddling and kissing afterwards. I hate it as much as the sex.

“No, I got what I came here for.” He slides to the edge of the bed and lifts his pants from the chair, pulls out a one hundred dollar bill from the pocket and presses it into my hand. “Go buy yourself something nice. I hope to see you again soon.”

“Sure.” I swallow hard. “See you again sometime.”

I say goodbye and walk out of the room. The money for the actual session is always paid to Hector.

I find Hector sitting on one of the stools in the dressing room. “Sweetheart, I know you have to get home, but we have a surprise client. I thought we’d be done with the white room for the night, but he’s willing to pay triple what most white room clients pay. He's all yours if you want him.”

I collapse onto one of the stools, shoulders slumped. “Hector, I’m exhausted. I’ve had four clients today.” Not all of them had been from the white room, and one of them gave me a one dollar tip.

“We can’t let this opportunity slip by. You need the money just as much as I do. And you’re one of my favorite girls.” He taps his fingers against his lips. “You really want me to give him to someone else? Think of the tip.”

I tug a wet wipe from a box on the dresser and wipe the sweat from between my breasts, and neck. “No, it’s fine. I’ll take him. Thanks, Hector.”

“That’s my girl.” He stands up, pats me on the back. “It will be over before you know it. He said he doesn’t have much time anyway. I’ll have someone freshen up the room. Be there in fifteen minutes.”

I clean myself up and refresh my makeup before I return to the white room. All I can think about as I walk down the hallway, is my bed, my single bed in my tiny closet apartment, calling for me, waiting for me.

The client is standing by the window, his back to me.

“Hey, good-looking.” The words I use while on the job sometimes make my skin crawl. But it’s my job to tell them what they want to hear, even if it’s a lie. “You waiting for me?”

He turns to face me. My body goes cold. He approaches me. I take a few steps back.

Without my eyes leaving his, I take in his looks. Striking onyx eyes, wavy hair that brushes the tips of his shoulders, and a strong slightly square jaw. A scar runs across one side of his jaw, barely visible under the stubble.

After the guys I’d had today, sleeping with him would be easy, but he’s the one man I can’t have sex with. “I’m sorry. There’s been a mistake. I have to go.”

His brow furrows. “You just got here.” He moves toward me.

I take several steps back. I reach the door and grab the handle, a sour taste in my mouth. “I’m really sorry. I came to the wrong room. Hector . . . He’ll send you the right girl.”

I step out the door and run as fast as my stilettos would let me.

* * *

I almost collide with Hector, who is exiting the black room, the lowest ranked room at the The Mirage.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He shoots out a hand to grab my wrist. I pull it away from him.

“I couldn’t go through with it. I’m sorry, Hector. I couldn’t—” I bite my bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

“What about Mr. Black? Don’t tell me you left him hanging.”

“I’m sorry. I had to leave. I’m so sorry.” A touch of fear that I might lose my job for the decision I made chills my spine.

He pulls me into the black room and shuts the door. “How can you expect me to understand that you left a well-paying client hanging?”

“I promise I’ll make up for it. If you want, I’ll work more tomorrow.” Nervous butterflies flutter in the pit of my stomach. “Please don’t send me back to him.”

“You’re not leaving this room until you tell me what’s going on here.” His brow wrinkles. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I sort of did.” I decide to tell him the truth in the hopes he might be able to keep Derrick away from me. “Mr. Black is someone I know from . . . from my past.”

Hector folds his arms across his chest. “Did he figure out who you are?”

“I didn’t stay long enough for him to find out.” I’m not surprised he didn’t recognize me. I’m not the girl he used to know.

“Fine, if it will make you feel better, I’ll send someone else to him. Go home and get some rest. But we need to talk about this tomorrow.”

3

Derrick

No woman has ever rejected me, definitely not one I’m paying for. All I wanted was a few minutes of her time, a good fuck before making my way to the airport. Instead she walks into the room, looks at me and flees. The wrong girl, my ass.

I should be pissed off. But in some weird fucked up way, I’m excited instead, fascinated by her. The few seconds I got to see her pretty face and sexy curves had been enough for her to draw me in, to mess with my mind. Being rejected by her only makes my desire to bury myself into her stronger.

As I lift my suit jacket from where it hangs on the back of the leather chair, the door opens and I turn to find Hector standing there. A sheen of sweat makes his low forehead glisten in the candlelight.

“Mr. LaClaire, I apologize on behalf of my girl. She—she doesn’t feel well.” He wrings his hairy hands. “I hope you would consider someone else. We have some fantastic girls still working tonight. You can have your pick.”

As horny as I was when I walked into The Mirage, something has changed. I’m no longer interested in only sex, not with anyone. I want to screw the girl who walked out on me. If not tonight, maybe some other time.

“Apology accepted.” I shrug on my jacket, watching him squirm beneath my stare. “But next time I return, I want you to make sure this doesn’t happen again.” I glance at my wrist watch. “I have a plane to catch.”

“You’ll come back, you say?” Hector’s charcoal gray eyes widen with surprise.

“In two weeks. I’m one of the few people who believe in second chances.”

“That’s wonderful. You won’t regret your decision.” Hector rubs his hands together in excitement. “I’ll make sure to have someone special waiting for you.”

“Good.” I close one of the buttons on my suit. “Get me the girl who left me hanging.”

“But, sir—”

“You said she’s not feeling well tonight. I’m giving her two weeks to recover. That’s sufficient time, don’t you think?”

“Certainly, sir.” His gaze slides from mine. “I promise to have her ready for you when you get back in two weeks.”

“I’d appreciate that.” I reach into my pocket, pull out my wallet. I remove a few bills and press them into his hand. “That’s for her time tonight.”

Hector lowers his gaze to the money in his hand. “But she didn’t stay. You don’t owe anything.”

“As much as I believe in giving people second chances, I also respect people’s time. Your girl might not have started the job, but she did make an effort to come in here . . . despite her illness.” I push my hands into my pockets. “Perhaps the money will be an incentive for her to finish the job next time.”

Hector curls his fingers around the cash. “That’s awfully kind of you, Mr. LaC . . . Black. I’ll be sure to let her know not to disappoint you next time.”

“Fantastic.” The cash I gave Hector for the girl was the tip I’d planned on giving her. While there are some women who enjoy selling their bodies, most turn to prostitution because they have no other options. That’s why I always tip well. I’m guessing the girl is new and still getting used to the business. I can only imagine how tough this line of work must be. The women who do it deserve respect.

I walk out of The Mirage with the intention of keeping my promise to return.

A minute later, I slide into the backseat of my Rolls Royce. I tug at the silver door handle to slam the door shut and sink into the cream leather seats with a sigh. Quiet jazz drifts through the privacy divider. I allow it to soothe my nerves.

Bruce Murray, my driver, watches me suspiciously in the rearview mirror.

“What’s up, Bruce? Something the matter?”

“Just wondering why you’re back so fast.” Even after twenty years in the US, his British accent is still thick. “Did something go wrong?”

“Something went wrong all right. She bailed on me.” I laugh out loud. Now that my cock has calmed down, I’m able to find the humor in the situation.

“The prostitute? You’re joking.” Bruce rakes a hand through his shoulder-length ash blond hair and joins in the laughter. “What in the world did you do to her?” Still cracking up, he turns on the ignition.

“She didn’t even give me a chance to get started on her. The moment she saw me, she ran.”

“Sir, I hate to admit it but you can be quite intimidating sometimes.”

“Quit calling me Sir. Why can’t you just call me Derrick? Last time I checked that was my name.”

“Derrick, Sir, may I drive you somewhere else? Your second choice perhaps?”

I unbutton my suit jacket and stretch out my legs. “Don’t bother, Bruce. I’m done. Take me to the airport right away. I’m no longer interested in waiting until the morning.” I might have better luck with the ladies in mid-air than on solid ground.

4

Brooke

My pulse is still racing when I enter my apartment at 1:30 a.m. A cloud of comfort tinged with the floral blossoms and citrus smell of my perfume and the nail polish I applied before work, encircles me like a security blanket.

My apartment is tiny, with low ceilings, mismatched furniture, and the old carpet smell that never goes away. But after a day at The Mirage, it’s my haven.

Traces of shock still course through my body, weakening me. My stomach rumbles but I’d never be able to keep food down. Pressing my back against the door, I place a hand over my heart, willing it to settle, but every time the image of Derrick’s face flickers in my mind, shame spirals through me, sending my heart rate skyrocketing.

I never thought I’d see him again after all these years, after everything that has happened since the last time we saw each other. My worst fear since starting work at The Mirage had always been that someone I know would find out my secret. Since it hadn’t happened in the last year, my fear had melted away. Until now. And it returns with the determination to splinter my heart. What if he had recognized me? A hot flush rises up my neck at the mere thought of that possibility.

No. It’s not possible. If he had recognized me, he would have chased after me. Besides, seven years have passed since we last saw each other and too much had happened to me both physically and emotionally to make me a completely different person. I’m far from being the girl I used to be in school. Back then, he would never have pegged me to be the kind of girl who would end up prostituting herself. And I never thought he would be the kind of guy who paid for sex. That surprises me because in high school, girls fell right into his lap. Including me.

My stomach twists as thoughts of Magnolia High School sweep through my mind. Memories I wish I could erase forever.

I have two choices. I could choose to allow the memories of when I was sixteen to overpower and weaken me, or to go on with my life and pretend he doesn’t even exist. Why should I be ashamed for being a prostitute?

I push my shoulders back and raise my chin. I don’t have time to get emotional. I’m doing what’s right for me at this point in my life. I’m selling my body for a reason. I have bills to pay and dreams to work toward. I can’t afford to let anything or anyone stand in the way.

Tonight, I’ll allow myself a few moments of weakness. In the morning, I’ll find the strength to take the next step toward my destiny. I’ll beg Hector for forgiveness. Derrick LaClaire will not ruin my life. Not again. If he does return to The Mirage, I hope he goes for another girl. My prayer is that I never have to see him again.

When my heartbeat slows down, I disappear into the bathroom and flick on the light. The bright amber eyes reflected in the mirror glitter with determination. This is who I am now, a survivor.

I plant a hand on top of my head and pull off my wig. My natural copper hair swings out, landing on my shoulders in soft waves. Since my hair is my most distinct feature, Derrick would have a hard time recognizing me with a wig on.

Breathing evenly now, I change into my peach silk pajamas and make myself a chicken salad, suddenly hungry. I take it with me to my desk, where I flip open my laptop. I eat my late dinner while reading my emails. There’s one from my step-sister, Laura.

I haven’t heard from her in two months. Although she lives in Australia with her husband, Jake, and their one-year-old daughter, it would be easy to pick up the phone now and again, but our relationship is complex. No matter how long my mother was married to her father, she never quite warmed to me as her sister. Our relationship had become even more strained when I left home at sixteen.

I was five when Clifford Rayner married my mother. Since I’d never met my biological father, Cliff was the only one I called Dad. Despite Laura’s bitterness at the new family arrangement, the first year was beautiful. I enjoyed being part of a complete family. Cliff seemed to worship the ground my mother walked on and showered me with affection. When the honeymoon phase ended, Mom’s depression handcuffed her again. From one day to the next, Cliff’s relationship with both me and her changed. We became a burden. Arguments and insults became the norm. When she took her life, he didn’t even shed a tear at her funeral. After Mom died, Cliff treated me like a stranger. Now that my mother was gone, he had no reason to remain a father to me. When the opportunity to push me out of their lives presented itself, he took it.

Laura’s email is short and to the point. The kind of message one would send to a stranger.

Dear Brooke,

It’s been a while since we talked. How are you? We are doing great. Still loving Australia. Anyway, just wanted to touch base. Take care.

Laura

How am I? As if she cares. Could it be she feels guilty for the way they had treated me over the years? As far as I’m concerned, we are no longer a family. She didn’t even invite me to her wedding three years ago. Instead she sent me photos by email. I never responded. What could I say?

Sometimes I wish we were close, that I had a sister to turn to when times are tough. But we don’t even share the same blood. All she is, is someone I used to know.

I shut down my laptop and pick up the phone to call the only person I trust, my best friend, the person I wish were my sister. Outside the window, it has started to rain and the drops tap dance on the windowpane. I’ve always found rain and the rumble of thunder to have a calming effect on me. Tonight is no different.

Allison Holt is five years older than me. We met two years ago, when she frequented a coffee shop I worked in at the time, as it was close to Boston University, where she was in her last year of pursuing her Master’s of Science in Elementary Education. She’s now employed at Drake Elementary School a few blocks from her apartment.

“Are you okay?” she asks, voice husky with sleep.

“I’ve been better.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m sorry for calling you so late. I needed to talk to someone.”

“Hey, sweety, you know I’m always here when you need to talk. What happened?” She yawns on the other end and guilt burns the back of my throat.

“Look, it’s not urgent.” I let out a stream of air. “Go back to bed. Let’s talk in the morning.”

“No chance. How can I think of sleep when you sound like that?” She coughs. “Go ahead, tell me what’s eating you.”

“I ran into Derrick LaClaire.” The words tumble out before I can stop them.

Allison knows everything there is to know about Derrick. We’ve discussed him so many times that she probably feels as if she knows him.

“Oh my God.” Her voice clears immediately. “How did that happen? I mean where?”

“At The Mirage.”

Allison is the only person in my life who knows what I do for a living. She had been shocked when I told her, three weeks after I got the job at The Mirage. When she realized she could not talk me out of it, she respected my decision. She understood why I was doing it. She never treated me any differently.

It made her feel better when I promised I would quit once I made enough money to pay off my debts and go back to school. When we’re together, we never discuss what I do after the sun goes down, unless it’s absolutely necessary, like now.

On several occasions, she offered to give me money to at least pay some of my bills but I refused.

She’s raising a child singlehandedly and needs every penny she makes. Even though Leon calls her mommy, he’s not Allison’s biological son. She got custody of him when his mother—her sister—died during childbirth four years ago. On her deathbed, Allison had promised to love and care for her sister’s son as if he were her own. She kept that promise by doing everything she could to provide for him. Even with a small child at home, Allison put herself through college and worked hard to support her nephew. Allison is my inspiration. She’s the one inspiring me to never give up on my dreams.

“That must have been a shock. Are you okay?”

“Now I am.” I pick up my salad bowl and put it in the kitchen sink. “But when I saw his face . . . It was terrible, Allison. I thought I’d faint.”

“Do you think he knew who you are?”

I shrug, even though I know she can’t see me. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I left as soon as I saw his face.”

“You walked out on him? What did Hector say?”

“He wasn’t happy, of course. I hope I still have a job tomorrow. He said we need to talk.”

“I’m so sorry, sweety.” She lowers her voice. “Do you want to come over, to sleep here?”

Allison lives only a few blocks from me, but I’ve already taken up too much of her time. “No, I’ll be fine. To tell you the truth, I kind of knew something like this would happen one day, that I’d bump into someone I know. I just never expected it to be him.”

“I can only imagine how hard seeing him again must have been for you.” She lets out a breath. “What will you do if he comes back? Will you reveal your identity?”

I drop onto the edge of the bed. “No. He’s no longer a part of my life. I don’t owe him a thing.”

“What if . . . he could have changed?”

“I don’t care.” I form a fist with my free hand. “It’s a little too late for that.”

“I know it is,” Allison allows a few seconds of silence to pass before speaking again. “I think the best thing for you to do now is get some rest. You’ll feel better in the morning. I’ll give you a call before work.”

“Thanks. You’re the best. Kiss Leon for me.”

Even though I dread the conversation, the next person I call is Hector. I can’t wait until tomorrow to find out if I’m still working for him. Better to get the talk out of the way.

“As much as I’d like to fire your ass, you made quite an impression on Mr. Black. He wants to see you again in two weeks. You better not mess up again.”

“But—”

“No buts. He wants only you and you’re going to be a professional about it.” He clears his throat. “By the way, he left behind a generous tip for you.”

“What tip?”

“Three hundred dollars. He said it’s for the time you took to walk to the white room.”

“That’s—”

“Crazy, I know. But the man is clearly loaded.” He chuckles. “You better get over your fear of being discovered and give the man what he wants.”

When the call ends, I fall back onto my lumpy mattress and find my Christmas music playlist on my phone. I have a habit of turning to Christmas carols when I’m upset, no matter the time of year. But tonight, as I let the music wash over me, tears squeeze through the corners of my eyes.

5

Derrick

The tag attached to her uniform inches from her right nipple says her name is Jayne Reese. Her slate gray eyes tell me she wants me to fuck her. If lust at first sight is a thing, this is it.

Even before she exchanges a word with me, I know I’ll fuck her.

My dick is hard as I lean into the reclining seat and watch her make her way down the narrow carpeted aisles, talking in a hushed voice with the other passengers while glancing at me from the corner of her eye. When she finally turns to me, her gaze lingers on my face a little longer than necessary. Our hands brush as she hands me a coffee. She gives me a shy smile before she turns to a man typing on his laptop. Picking his pillow from the floor, she bends over more than she needs to. She knows I’m watching.

Flipping open a copy of the New York Times, I bide my time, waiting for her to meet the needs of the others before meeting mine. When the plane is hovering comfortably above the clouds, headed for Spain, she returns to me, her curvy hips swaying from side to side, a smile brightening up her heart-shaped face.

“Is everything to your satisfaction, Mr. LaClaire?” The scent of her perfume reminds me of summer but it’s cut by the sharp trace of hand sanitizer.

Although our family owns several private planes, and my brothers make use of them constantly, I only turn to them during emergencies or for short trips. Every time I fly with one of our jets, images of the crash which resulted in our parents’ deaths taunt me. Images that will forever be carved at the surface of my mind, reflected in my dreams. Images of broken bodies and disfigured faces. Images that send me flying all over the world looking for a rush to drown them.

Every time I board a plane, commercial or otherwise, I send each of my brothers a text message to tell them I love them. I don’t give a damn if it’s considered cheesy. If the plane I’m on happens to come crashing down, I want them to know they were among the last people I thought about.

Besides the fact that I feel safer being flown by a pilot responsible for more people, forcing him to pay additional attention, I also get a chance to be among hot flight attendants. I have a taste for women in uniform and make the most of their services, more than they’re paid to provide.

“Everything is perfect, Ms. Reese.” I lean back in my seat and allow my gaze to slide from her smooth forehead down her perfect nose and sun-kissed lips, past her fragile chin, to her smooth neck. “That’s a lovely necklace you have there,” I say in an attempt to start a conversation outside what is required.

Her fingers move to her throat, touching the vintage compass pendant that rests in the hollow of her neck. “My grandmother gave it to me.” Her eyes light up at the mention of someone she loves. “She said it will help me find my way back home. She never really wanted me to become a flight attendant.”

“She must miss you a lot when you travel.” I fold my newspaper in half and lay it on my lap. “How old is she?”

“Ninety.” The light in her eyes dims. “Her health is deteriorating. I wish I could be there for her more often.” She glances over her shoulder at one of her colleagues, a woman with a sharp bob and equally sharp eyes that keep flicking in our direction.

“Are you the only family she has?” My voice is drowned by the rustle of food wrappers and the captain’s voice over the loudspeakers.

Jayne picks up my empty cup of coffee and places it on a silver tray. “She’s all I have.”

“I bet you don’t get to see her often.”

“Not really. That’s why this is my last trip. I want to spend a bit more time with her before . . .” Her next words dissolve on her lips.

I shift in my seat. Time to change the subject. The conversation is headed in a direction I didn’t intend for it to go. As much as I wanted to connect with her on a more personal level, making her sad would defeat the purpose of our conversation.

I gaze past her shoulder at the other flight attendant, who is now watching us shamelessly, her face tight with disapproval. “Is the woman with the bob and pearl earrings your supervisor or something?” I say above a whisper.

Jayne visibly flinches, looking over her shoulder to the woman in question. “Yes, why?”

I lean forward. “She doesn’t seem to approve of our conversation.”

“Yeah.” Jayne shifts from foot to foot. “I should get back to work. Is there anything else you need, sir?”

“Actually, there is.” I hold her gaze, communicating without words.

“Anything.” Her tone is flirty.

“You sure about that?” I give her a grin that gives her pale cheeks color.

“I’m sure.” The way she utters the words tells me it’s not the first time she will be doing what I’m about to ask of her. Naughty girl. How many men has she slept with mid-air? And how’s that my business? My only concern is to make sure I’m next in line.

Her supervisor starts making her way toward us.

“Okay, Jayne, it was nice talking to you.” I pull a pen from my breast pocket and jot a message on a napkin. Doing my best to be discreet, I place the napkin on the tray next to the glass. “I hope to see you later.”

With that, she gets back to work, even though her gaze keeps returning to me from time to time. She read my note. I can see the fire in her eyes.

My suspicions are confirmed when the lights go out and she ends up locked inside one of the toilets with me, her back pressed against the wall, legs around my waist, my dick pulsing inside her.

My jaw tightens with tension as the muscles of her warm, sleek pussy wraps around my cock, sucking me dry. As I thrust into her, her ample breasts bounce on her chest. Her mouth opens in preparation for the scream I know she might not be able to hold back much longer. I place a hand over her mouth, killing her orgasmic moans before they’re heard from outside. Gazing deep into her eyes, I press her harder against the thin wall, tighten a hand around her firm ass, and thrust into her several more times until she comes for me. When I reach my own breaking point, I withdraw and lower her feet to the floor, remove the condom. I place a hand on her shoulder and push her down.

“On your knees.” My voice is raw with desire.

A sexy smile playing at her lips, she obeys and my dick disappears into her mouth, inch by inch. Placing a supporting hand behind her head, I push myself deeper into her, stopping only when she gags. Throwing back my head and closing my eyes, I revel in the rush of adrenaline brought on by the thought of fucking a woman in midair. But when my balls drain of cum, it’s not her face I see in my mind’s eye.

6

Brooke

“Hey, Shana, have you seen Hector anywhere?”

Shana is one of the other ladies working at The Mirage. Her eyes meet mine in the lit-up mirror she’s sitting in front of. She has the largest oval eyes I’ve ever seen on anyone. Nestled into her twenty-year-old coffee cream skin, they’re most definitely her most appealing feature. And she knows how to make them look great, bringing them to the forefront with make-up just enough to enhance them. A black negligée lays in folds on her lap and clear-heeled stilettos rest on their sides at her feet.

She takes a pause from plucking her eyebrows, long enough to shake her head. She’s not much of a talker. But then again, most of us at The Mirage don’t talk much to each other. We come to work, do what we have to do. We return to our lives. We pretend we didn’t sleep with men we didn’t know.

“Oh, okay.” I drop my purse onto one of the six stools lining the long, cream dresser and pull out my makeup bag and wig. I fluff it out.

The door opens with a silent squeak. Jolene walks in. She’s thirty-nine and has thick wild, brown curls that make her face look tiny. Today, the lines around her eyes tell me she hasn’t slept much during the day.

“You okay, Jolene?”

She gives me a frosty look and sits next to Shana. “There’s nothing to be okay about.” She rubs her eyes, smudging her makeup. She turns to me with a somber expression. “Sorry, I get cranky when I’m tired. But that doesn’t give me permission to be a bitch.”

“It’s fine,” I say. “How’s your mother?”

“Same as always. My sister is watching her tonight.”

Shana and I listen for five minutes as she tells us about her difficult life of caring for her mother, who’s in the last stages of Alzheimer’s.

“Have you seen Hector, by any chance?” I ask when she’s done and I’ve sympathized with her situation. It’s eight and Hector is always at The Mirage no later than 5:00 p.m., an hour before the doors open, to ensure the cleaning lady, did a good job tidying the rooms.

“He said last night he’s having an anniversary dinner with the wife and he might be late.”

I’m always a bit freaked out when I think of Hector’s wife, wondering if she knows what he does. We’ve never seen her at The Mirage. From the photos he has shown us, she’s at least ten years younger than Hector, and the clothes and jewelry she wore pointed to her having an expensive taste. Maybe she doesn’t care what he does for a living, as long as he keeps the money coming. Or maybe she’s okay with his line of work. Either way, it’s none of my business.

“Does the pained look on your face have to do with what happened last night?” Jolene goes to open her locker.

I peel my gaze from her. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. Everyone was talking about how you walked out on a white room client.”

Shana stops applying her makeup and watches me with wide eyes.

Hector was the only one who knew. Why would he tell the other ladies? What if he puts a target on my back?

Running a brush through my wig, I contemplate on how best to respond.

Jolene waits patiently as she unzips her linen dress and lets it fall to the floor. She’s naked underneath.

The silence in the room is deafening, broken only by the ticking clock and a car honking outside.

“I had my reasons for doing what I did,” I say.

“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we?” Jolene comes to sit next to me, now dressed in a pair of canary yellow panties and bra. “Why did you do it?”

“It’s someone I knew from high school.” What do I have to lose by being honest? We’re all in the same boat after all.

“Hell no.” She places a hand on her chest. “I’d have a heart attack if anyone I know finds out what I do.”

“Exactly.” My shoulders sink with relief.

“What a coincidence that he happened to show up when you were working. That you got him instead of someone else.”

“Yeah.” I twist to face the mirror, guilt gnawing at me. Hector said I was the best girl present that night. I can’t tell Jolene that, especially since she was one of the ladies working.

“Are you okay?” Shana asks and I gaze at her in surprise. She hardly talks to me and when she does, it’s always in monosyllables.

“I’m dealing with it.” I force a smile.

“Hopefully, he won’t return,” Jolene adds.

My chest tightens. “That’s what I’d hoped as well but apparently he wants us to finish what we started.” I bite my lower lip. “Or didn’t start.”

“Shit. That’s messed up.” Jolene squeezes lotion into the palm of her hand. “Well, give him what he wants, take his money, and tell him to butt out of your business.”

“That’s exactly what I intend to do.” If he manages to see through my disguise. Maybe I’m worrying about nothing. He might not even know it’s me.

“Damn. I’m late for Mr. Mercedes.” Jolene pulls a slinky stretch dress over her head, spritzes herself with her favorite rose water. She rushes out of the room.

Mr. Mercedes is one of Jolene’s regulars and, apparently, he can be quite demanding.

Shana leaves the dressing room right after Jolene. Just as she closes the door, it reopens. Hector walks in with a huge smile.

He’s wearing a gray suit jacket over blue jeans and an off-white shirt instead of the colorful Hawaiian ones he loves so much.

“You look nice.” I crack a smile. “Must be a special night.”

“I came from dinner with my wife. It’s our anniversary. Five years.”

“Congratulations. Looks like you had a good time.”

“I did. Thank you.” He pushes his hands into his pockets. “How are you doing, Brooke?”

“I’m okay.” I cross my legs and fold my hands in my lap. “I’m so sorry, Hector about what happened last night. I should have been more professional.”

“Water under the bridge.” He pulls money from his back pocket. “Here’s the money Mr. Black left for you.”

I frown as my fingers wrap around the three hundred dollars. “I still don’t get why he would pay me for something that didn’t happen?”

“That’s not payment. It’s a tip. Don’t pull the same crap next time.”

“I promise.” My chin hits my chest and I silently pray I won’t end up disappointing Hector again.

I unravel my fingers, extend my hand toward Hector. “I don’t think it’s right for me to take this. You have it. I let you down.”

“The man is swimming in cash if he’s willing to pay for a service that wasn’t offered. Take the money. Don’t pretend you don’t need it.”

“I do.” I nod and slide it into a side pocket of my purse. “What’s on schedule for me tonight? I didn’t see myself on the calendar.”

“That’s because you have several white room clients today and I didn’t want to make the others jealous.”

“But I messed up yesterday?” I had expected to be banned from the white room for a while.

“We all make mistakes. Over the past six months, you brought in the most money. Almost every client you’ve been with returns to The Mirage. And they ask for you. What am I supposed to do, send them elsewhere?”

“Thank you, Hector, for not sending me out the door.”

“I’m a businessman. If you leave, your regulars would stop coming.” He chuckles. “I can’t let that happen.”

I give a tiny smile but it’s hard to feel proud of what I do. “So, who do I have first?”

He clears his throat. “I’m sorry but for your next session you don’t only have one client. You have two.”

“Two?” A knot forms in the pit of my stomach.

“That’s right. Cousins.”

My fingers grip the hem of my skirt. During my entire time here, there were only two occasions where two different guys slept with me at the same time. It was the most disgusting thing I’d ever experienced. The thought of doing it again makes me want to throw up.

Hector’s forehead creases. “Are you okay about this?”

I nod. I can’t let him down two nights in a row. “Sure. I’ll do it.”

“Good.” He squeezes my shoulder. “This should more than make up for yesterday.”

After Hector tells me a little about the cousins, he leaves me to prepare myself. It’s a struggle to keep my hands from shaking as I apply my makeup and style my wig, but after a few deep breaths I lock away my emotions and leave the room to do what I’m paid for.

7

Derrick

The clock strikes 8:00 a.m. The rocket is released with a bang into the clear, blue morning sky above Pamplona. In a flash, the bulls and steers are released onto the cobbled streets of Pamplona.

Like my fellow bull runners, I’m wearing white pants which feel too tight and a white shirt. A red scarf is tied around my neck, and a red sash around my waist.

We don’t only look alike in our bull running uniforms, we hold the same fears. And adrenaline-fueled excitement.

Before my own fear paralyzes me, I lift my feet off the ground and start running, faster than I’ve ever done in my life. No looking right or left, no stopping to breathe even as my heart thunders inside my chest.

The ground shakes as bull hooves beat down on it.

The run should be around two minutes, but when your life is on the line, two minutes can be an eternity. It’s a matter of life and death.

Some bull runners fall to the ground. I have no time to wish them well, to hope they’re not trampled by the animals. According to the rules, if we fall, we should remain on the ground as it’s safer down there. If we get up, the chances of us being gored by the animals is higher.

Some runners don’t fall but fear makes them quit the race early, sliding under or jumping over the barricades which mark the route, and keep the animals from escaping into other parts of the city.

My feet lift and pound the cobblestones, my breath catching in my throat, sweat pouring down my face, adrenaline pumping like a drug inside my veins. I’m drunk with adrenaline as I breathe in the dust, the sweat, and the fear permeating the air around me. The cheers coming from the crowds on both sides of the street hit my ears, merging with the sounds of the hooves slamming against the ground.

The onlookers shout words of encouragement, calling out names, and screaming when a bull runner comes to their downfall.

Don’t pay them any attention, Derrick. Focus or die.

I push my way through the sea of bull runners, the ocean of red and white, and I swear I feel the hot breath of a bull hitting my calves. But I don’t turn to look, because one moment of distraction could be the death of me.

As I turn the corner, running harder and faster, careful not to fall to the ground, I catch a flash of long, curly jet black hair among the crowd of onlookers on the other side of the barricades. My mind instantly returns to Ruby, the first prostitute to reject me.

Why the hell am I thinking about her now of all times? I shake my head to chase off memories of her. She’s a distraction I cannot deal with. Thinking is a deadly game when one has a pack of angry bulls hot on their heels. Death is not the only possible outcome in this situation. Bones can break, teeth can be lost, concussions can occur. I intend to walk away from this race unbruised.

Nothing else matters.

Making it out of these streets alive is the only thought I give my mind permission to hold at this moment. I refuse to end up a statistic.

Fresh determination courses through my veins, I turn into another street, almost colliding with another bull runner, who’s screaming like a girl. I don’t know how long I’ve been running. In reality, it can only be a few seconds, but judging by the way my heart is pounding and my legs are burning, it feels like hours.

I come to Pamplona every year, since the year my parents died. At the start, my brothers gave me hell, telling me I was a fool for putting my life in danger, accusing me of not valuing life. What they don’t understand is, I value it as much as they do. The reason I come here—the reason I dare to stare danger in the face—is the same reason they don’t participate in these kinds of dangerous sports.

Only by putting myself in danger do I realize how precious my next breath is. Without my fix of adrenaline every two weeks, at least, I might as well be dead. I’d be the first to admit I’m addicted to adrenaline, but at least I don’t turn to drugs or alcohol. They prefer to play it safe, to stay out of the line of fire. I’m different. The only time I feel completely alive is when I’m staring danger straight in the eye, challenging death to take me and then, at the last second, cheating it. That’s the moment I start to breathe.

Maybe I’m nuts, maybe one of these days death might actually win.

No. Fuck death. I am living.

My chest is so tight it threatens to crack open as we near the bullring. Only then, do I veer to the left and hop over the barricades, the same moment when the bulls enter the ring. My lungs are on fire, but I’ve completed the race without a scratch. This blinding, exhilarating rush will carry me for a while until I crave another fix.

An hour later, I’m sitting on a stool at the Catalina restaurant, showered and dressed, eating a breakfast of crispy bacon and eggs. The only proof I’d been part of the bull running race is the rush of life in my veins. I feel invigorated, better than I’ve felt in a long time. This feeling drowns out thoughts of the tragedy that took my parents’ lives, the imagined sounds of crunching metal and breaking glass as their plane hit the ground.

At one of the tables, I recognize the face of one of the bull runners, the one I almost crashed into toward the end. He’s having a beer for breakfast and he raises it with a grin in my direction. I raise my glass of freshly pressed orange juice and give a nod.

Like everyone else in the restaurant, we all turn to the large flat screen TV and watch the replay of the race. As it’s repeated over and over, cameras zoom in to witness every moment of the action, to spotlight the fears and the excitement on the faces of the bull runners. The sounds of people cheering, the pounding of hooves on the ground, the hard beating of my heart, makes it seem as though I’m back there. I still smell the sweat, the dust, and the fear.

“I don’t know how you do it.” My friend Diego, the owner of the Catalina restaurant, says from behind the bar as he tops up my glass of orange juice. “On the house.” He slides it toward me. “So, why do you do it?”

“Do what? The race?” I ask and he nods.

“It makes me feel alive. There’s nothing like it. You should try it sometime.”

Diego swings a dishcloth over his shoulder. “Forget it. I have a wife and a child. Responsibilities, you know.”

“I have responsibilities too. I may not have a wife and kids, but I have a family. But this is me and I have come to accept that. I’ve been doing this for years and I’m still standing.”

“Will you be here again next year?”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I drink my juice.

“As much as I like to see you every time you come to Pamplona, sometimes I wish that you would find a sweetheart who will keep you from doing these crazy things. My Pa was one of the best bull runners in town, but I still don’t believe in playing games with fate.” He dunks a beer glass into a sink of half-soapy water “Life is about family, my friend.”

“I can never give this up for any woman. And I’m too young to start a family.”

“You say that now. When love hits you, you forget yourself and age doesn’t matter. I was your age when I got married. Twenty-four years young. Since I married my Catalina, I’ve never looked back.”

“You’re one of the lucky ones.” I push my empty plate in his direction. He sinks it into a bowl of soapy water. “I don’t think there’s a place for a woman in my life, not now, and not in a few years. Marriage is not for everyone.”

“Tell you what, let’s have this conversation again when you meet the one.” He rinses my plate. “You’re leaving tomorrow, am I right?”

“Yep. I’m taking the first flight.”

“Then why don’t you have dinner with us tonight? Catalina will be happy to see you. You know how she likes to spoil you. She’s cooking your favorite shrimp chorizo rice.” He cocks an eyebrow, waiting for a response.

“How could I say no to that?”

“Perfect. I will go and tell her. She will be so happy.”

With that, Diego disappears into the kitchen to look for his wife, the chef.

As I wait for him to return, Ruby’s face flashes in my mind again and my dick flickers at the thought of seeing her again in a week. What the fuck is wrong with me?

8

Brooke

The firm mattress sighs as I sink onto the edge of the round bed, fear coiling itself tighter in the pit of my stomach. I had two weeks to prepare myself for his return, to brace myself. He’ll be here any second and I’m far from being ready to see him again.

I wipe the sweat off the tip of my nose, but more trickles down my back and between my breasts.

I yank a tissue from a box on one of the bedside tables and run it down my cleavage and across the back of my neck.

I’d thought coming to the white room before he does would give me the upper hand, an injection of confidence. I’ve never felt weaker or more afraid, or this pissed off at fate. How would I be able to look him in the eye and not show my true self? What if he sees past the blue contact lenses or my wig falls off and he sees my true hair color?

Sliding my hands between my knees, I press hard, forcing myself to be still. But I break out in a sweat every time the rumble of a car approaching vibrates through the walls, the headlights making the curtains glow. Each time a car door slams shut, it could be him exiting. Any moment now, he would show up.

I glance at the clock and my spine straightens as a calming thought pushes its way to the forefront of my mind. He’s five minutes late. What if I’m worried about nothing? Two weeks is a long time. He could have changed his mind. Do I dare hope?

Although, if Derrick LaClaire is still the same guy I knew in school, he’ll be here. If he wanted a girl, he got her.

My stomach churns each time I hear a commotion in the hallway outside. Stilettos tap the floor, one of the other girls screams with real or feigned pleasure, low murmurs filter through the slits around the door. The sounds drift into the room to merge with the drum of my heart and the tick tock sounds of the clock.

Then I hear him. Every fiber of my being warns me he’s the owner of the calm, controlled footfalls coming down the hallway.

My insides quivering, I dim the lights to the lowest level and position myself on the bed. The less of me he sees, the better.

The door opens and he fills the doorway only for a second before stepping in. He’s wearing a dark suit with a matching loosened tie. His gleaming, black hair tapers neatly to his collar.

As he closes the door behind him, I run my tongue around my mouth to chase off the dryness but it doesn’t help. Suddenly, I’m back in high school, helpless to his charm, fooled by his words. Even though I’ve despised him for many years, he still has a grip on me.

I hold my breath and wait for him to say something. Normally, I’m the conversation starter, my aim to make the client feel as comfortable as possible. Both my breath and my words are trapped inside my throat. He moves closer into the room, comes to stand near the bed. I forget how to breathe as he shrugs off his jacket, draping it over the leather chair, never taking his eyes off me.

“Switch on the lights, Ruby.” His voice rings with command. “I want to see you.”

“Are you . . . are you sure?” I lower my voice to a purr. “I thought it’s more romantic this way?”

He comes to me, places a finger under my chin so my head is tipped back and I’m gazing into his deep, dark eyes. “I want to see every inch of your body from head to toe.”

“Whatever you want, babe.” I swallow hard and move away from his scalding touch. Biting down on my lip, tasting my lipstick, I reach for a switch nearest to the bed, press it with a fake fingernail. Bright, yellow light floods the room.

For a moment he watches me, just standing there, his hooded gaze pinned on me. Even without his hands on my body, he is already making love to me. He narrows his gaze and I tense up. Can he read my mind? Can he see through the makeup, see the true soul at the other side of the contact lenses?

He steps back. “You are a beautiful woman. Why do you feel the need to wear so much makeup?”

“Because I like it,” I lie.

“Well, you don’t need it, I can tell you that much.”

“Thank you.” I lower my gaze and ignore the pain in my gut, the pain of what he has done to me. No amount of compliments can erase it.

“It’s not a compliment. It’s the truth.” He wedges himself between my legs, placing his hands on my shoulders. I fall back on the bed, expecting him to lower himself over my body. He doesn’t.

He moves away from between my legs, and unbuckles his belt.

In a moment, his pants fall to the floor as he continues to watch me. And while he’s undressing, I remove a condom from the white box. I open it immediately, desperate to get this over and done with. The sooner he gets what he wants, the sooner he’ll be out of my life.

“Did you get the money?” He opens his cufflinks and places them on the dressing table. “The tip I gave Hector to pass on to you.”

“Yes. You didn’t need to.” I rise and approach him, ready to dress him.

“It’s my money. I do with it as I please.” He plays with a strand of my hair. “Just don’t leave me hanging tonight.”

“I don’t intend to.”

He moves away from me, sits back on the bed, legs wide apart, his dick rising from the short, dark hairs between his legs.

Instant desire flickers between my legs. How could my body crave him after the pain he put me through? Being in the same room as him, breathing the same air is the last thing my mind wants. But my body is the worst kind of traitor.

I avert my gaze as I roll the condom down his hard shaft, happy he’s not asking for foreplay. The longer we spend time together, the more chances he gets to study me.

Before he can give me instructions, I take the lead and head straight to the deep end. I turn my back to him, making myself comfortable between his legs, and slide onto him. A gasp of pleasure bubbles up in my throat but I swallow it back down. Harnessing my raw emotions and feelings, I move up and down. But my body explodes with heat and fireworks as he places his hands on both sides of my hips, guiding me, his breath hot on my spine. I want this to be over. I want to make him come so he can leave, but at the same time I want it to last, for him to stay inside me.

I’m on a high and my head is swimming with desire, when he tightens his hands around my waist and lifts me off, his dick sliding out of my body, leaving behind an empty feeling.

He pulls me to my feet and turns me around, places a hand on the nape of my neck. I know what I have to do. I bend over and before I can settle myself on my arms, he slides back into me with a force that takes my breath away. He moves in and out, his strokes slow and measured, gentle and hard. One of his hands is on my lower back, the fingers splayed upward, his thumb pushing into the crack of my butt, while his other hand cups my vagina.

I bite down on my lip so hard I taste blood. I don’t know how long my trembling knees will hold me upright. The more he grinds into me, the weaker my body gets, and my resistance.

I feel like shit for allowing myself to enjoy him but I can’t help myself as I come closer and closer to having an orgasm. I gyrate, as our bodies slam into each other and then part way too quickly. A drop of his sweat falls onto my back. It slides down along my ribcage.

A quiver surges through my entire body. He’s making me feel alive again, bringing back to life the part of me he had killed. He feels like a part of me that I didn’t even know was missing.

My whimpers fill the room as he drives deep into my body, my very soul. His breath and moans arouse my ears as much as my pussy.

“You were worth waiting for,” he whispers. “You are worth every penny I intend to pay you tonight.”

Normally I would say something, talk dirty to the client. But all I say is, “I’m glad.”

“I’ve been looking forward to this night for a while. I couldn’t wait to see you again.” He gives me a slap on one of my butt cheeks, not enough to hurt, just enough to elicit ecstasy.

“I’m, oh . . . I’m glad you came back.”

In response, he withdraws and spins me around so I’m flat on my back. Closing my eyes so he doesn’t look into them, I open my legs wide. He plants his strong hands around my ankles, lifting my legs off the bed, placing them on his shoulders, and continues to fuck me.

I’m completely undone now, exposed. If he looks closer, I’m sure he’d see who I really am. Right now, I’m finding it hard to hide from him, to hide from the past.

“Oh my God, you are amazing. Your pussy feels incredible around my cock.”

I react to his words with fire exploding in my belly, spiraling through my entire body but I force myself to hold off, to stay in control. He should come first.

“Talk to me, baby.” He moves faster and deeper, his voice a croak. “I want to hear your voice when I come.”

“Your dick makes my pussy so wet. Fuck me harder.” In my mind, I pretend he’s not paying me to have sex with him, that we’re making love instead of fucking.

“That’s good, baby.” He crashes into me. “Keep going.”

“Oh god, you’re driving me insane.” My body loses control without my permission and I come hard, the orgasm rocking my entire being. “Oh, Derrick. Oooh!”

He stops moving and my eyes fly open, the blood rushing from my face.

Shit. I blew it.

9

Derrick

The sound of my name on her lips hits me like a bolt of lightning. How the hell does she know who I am? Only Hector should know my true identity. He assured me I would only be called by the name I chose for the night. The only name this woman should know, is Mr. Black.

And she said my name as easily—as if she had said it many times before.

I slide out of her, my gaze digging into hers, questioning, probing, asking questions without words. Her eyes are wide, her expression horrified, her cheeks tinted red.

The silence between us crackles for a few, long heartbeats. Even though I’m no longer buried inside her, the weight of my body pins her to the bed. She tries to move, but I hold her in place, holding her hands above her head.

“How do you know my name?” I ask, shattering the silence. Before she can answer, I lift myself off her and stand beside the bed, my dick still erect.

“No idea.” She picks up her panties and proceeds to get dressed. “I guess . . . I just called out some random name.”

I put a hand on one of her shoulders. “A random name that happens to belong to the man you’re screwing? I find that hard to believe.”

“Like I said. I don’t know.” She shakes my hand off her shoulder and picks up the silk bra. I find it hard not to stare at her full breasts. But I need to focus. There’s no way I can pretend nothing happened, because something is telling me there’s more going on here than meets the eye.

“Hector assured me my name would not be revealed to you or any other lady here. So, tell me, how is it that you know it?”

Of course, there might be a simple explanation. She could’ve overheard me and Hector talking. I would have let it go, but the terror in her eyes makes me want to know more.

“I’m sorry.” She averts her gaze. “I have another client soon.” She rushes to the door.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” I reach for my wallet and pull out a few bills. “Thank you for your time.” When she takes the money, our hands brush. An electrical current zaps through my skin. She pulls away before I do. “Don’t worry about your job. I won’t tell Hector what happened.”

“Thank you.” Her voice is a broken whisper which follows her out of the room.

I want to stop her, to force her to tell me what she is hiding because I know she’s hiding something, but I can’t make her stay. She did what she came here to do, even though she didn’t allow me to reach the finish line.

Freaking hell, I’ve never had this much action with a prostitute before. There’s something about her, something that won’t let me go. And I will find out what it is.

The door closes and I stare at it for a while, hoping she might return.

Voices from the hallway seep through the thin walls. One of them sounds like that of the owner. I sense him standing in front of the door to the white room, but he doesn’t enter. He must be waiting for me to get dressed. Does he want to come in with another apology?

I let him wait, get dressed in silence. Done, I pull out my phone and dial the number of an old friend, Mitch Biron.

“Hey, Mitch, how are you doing? I need a favor, man.”

“LaClaire, you should be ashamed of yourself.” Mitch laughs. “You don’t call for over six months and then, out of the blue, you reach out asking for a favor?”

“Don’t give me that.” I run a hand through my hair. “You could have picked up the phone too, you know.”

“True that.” The sound of a knuckle cracking comes through the line, making me cringe. “Anyway, we’re friends whether we speak or not. Tell me what I can do for you first and we’ll catch up later. “

“Sounds good. Could you look into something for me?”

“Name it.”

Mitch was right, no matter how long we’ve been out of touch, we both know we will be friends for life. We grew up next door to each other, and both attended Magnolia High School. There were times I got along better with him than with my own brothers. When, two years ago, he started his private investigator business, I was the one who gave him a substantial amount of money to allow him to hit the ground running.

“It’s a personal issue. I need you to find out information about someone.”

“Someone special, I assume.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I hear it in your voice.”

I gaze out of the open window into the darkness and breathe in before answering. “Well, you heard wrong.”

“You’re not in some kind of trouble, are you?”

I shake my head. “No, nothing like that.”

“Good. So, who is this person you want information about?”

“It’s a woman who works . . . at The Mirage.”

“The Mirage? You mean—”

“Yes, the brothel.” I clench my jaw. “Don’t you dare judge me! You’ve been to several of those yourself.”

“No worries, I don’t judge, man.” I hear the keys of a keyboard clicking. “Needs have to be met. Now, let’s get down to business. Whose life do you want me to dig into? Give me a name.”

“Hang on a second.” I move as far away from the door as possible, in case Hector is listening in on my conversation. “I’m not sure of her real name. But at The Mirage she goes by the name Ruby.”

“Do you have a surname, at least?”

“I’m afraid not. But I can describe her looks to you. Would that help?”

“Anything helps. I might have to pay The Mirage a little visit myself. I might be able to find out more.”

A fist of jealousy hits my gut at the thought of Mitch booking an evening with Ruby. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going there for some action. Purely business. I’ll find a way to talk to her . . . colleagues.”

“I’d appreciate that.” The good thing about having someone who knows you well is the fact that they can read your mind, allowing you to avoid voicing your uncomfortable thoughts.

Someone knocks on the door. I turn from the window. “Hey, Mitch, let’s talk some other time. I’ve got to go. Thanks for your help.”

“Anytime, my friend. I’ll call you when I know something. Then maybe you can tell me why this girl is so important to you.”

“She’s not.” We hang up and I open the door to find Hector standing there, his face pinched as though he’d eaten a lemon.

“Mr. LaClaire, I don’t know what to say.” He pulls in a shaky breath. “I gave Ruby clear instructions before she came to you. I made it clear you booked for the whole night, that she should not let you down again. I apologize . . . again.” He runs a hand over his hideous Hawaiian shirt. “Since you’re leaving my place disappointed yet again, I cannot allow you to pay for tonight. It’s on the house. I do hope you will return to The Mirage. Like I said last time, we have some other great girls here.”

“I appreciate your apology, Hector. I’d still be happy to pay you.” I might not have orgasmed, but the sex was still terrific. I pull out my wallet and pay him what I owe.

“Please come back again,” Hector begs before I walk out the door.

In the doorway I turn to face him. “Did you by any chance tell any of your ladies my real name?”

Hector’s stiffens. “No. Of course not. I assure you I’m the only one who knows your legal name.” He fiddles with the cross hanging down his neck. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem. I was just curious to know, that’s all. Have a good night.” I walk away without making promises I might not be able to keep. But I will return to The Mirage, whether in person or in my thoughts has yet to be determined.

10

Derrick

Lance drags himself out of the king-size bed, relying on the strength of his arms. As he lifts his body into the custom-made luxury wheelchair beside his bed, it threatens to tip onto its side. I shoot out a hand to grab his upper arm but he shrugs me off.

“Leave me the fuck alone.” His face darkens. Using the support of the bed, he breaks his fall. “If you are so desperate to help someone, try helping yourself.”

“What exactly do you mean by that?” I straighten my spine and fold my arms in front of my chest.

“I’m talking about your messed up situation with the prostitute you keep going on about.” He arranges himself in the wheelchair. He wheels it to his wooden desk and yanks out a drawer. He reaches inside and comes out holding a bottle of gin.

Gritting my teeth, I cross the sprawling master bedroom before he unscrews the top.

“Are you out of your freaking mind?” I snatch it from his hand. “It’s barely 7:00 a.m., for God’s sake. You haven’t even had a bite to eat yet.” In my frustration, I hurl the bottle through an open window, imagining it shattering in the garden below.

“I don’t know why you have to butt into my business. The whole bunch of you.. Don’t I have the right to privacy?”

“You’re our brother. You better get used to us watching over you because that isn’t going to change any time soon. The LaClaires stick together.”

“What about cleaning up your own messed up lives? Look at you, all high and mighty and you’ve got a prostitute screwing with your head.”

As he turns himself around, his face a mask of rage, I sink onto the bed and meet his gaze. “I didn’t know you were listening.”

I’ve been staying with Lance for the past two days, my turn to watch over him. Late last night, while he sat in his living room, staring at the blank TV screen, I told him about Ruby. I didn’t even think he was listening because he never said a word in response. As soon as I was done talking, he got onto his wheelchair and went to his room, slamming the door shut behind him.

“I’m physically disabled, not hearing impaired.” For the first time in weeks, I detect a twitch at one corner of his lips. An almost smile is better than none, I guess. I do applaud him for trying, because as hard as we all are on him, he’s the strongest person I know. Perhaps even stronger than all of us.

The guy has gone through a lot, becoming paralyzed after a fight with your own brother is a hard thing to swallow. It took years for Lance and Bryant to put the past behind them and try harder at forgiving each other. Last time they had a serious conversation about the past, Lance offered Bryant his forgiveness. That couldn’t have been easy. In fact, every single day of Lance’s life since the accident has been a struggle. Drinking is the only way he knows how to ease the pain.

“All right,” I say. “How much did you hear?”

“Every damn thing you said.” He buries his hands into his thick, chestnut hair. “The question is, what are you planning to do about it?”

“What can I do?” This conversation is a great idea because it diverts the attention from Lance’s situation to mine. Besides, even in his darkest moments, Lance sometimes gives great advice. Hopefully our conversation will empower him, making him feel less useless, at least for one day.

“First, you have to stop burying your head in the sand. You pretend to be all strong, but we all have our weaknesses. This woman is, clearly, yours.”

I rise from the bed and head to the round mahogany table at the far end of the spacious room. I pour myself a glass of water. “Is that so?” Bringing the glass to my lips, I take a mouthful and swallow it down. “So, Mr. Know-it-all, is that all you’ve got? You think I’m burying my head in the sand?”

“I know you are. I’ve been watching you.” He leans back in his wheelchair, hands on his knees, spine straight. “Why don’t you just accept you’re in love with the prostitute?”

Water sprays out of my mouth as I cough with laughter. “You’re kidding, right? You actually think I’m in love with her?” I lower the glass to the table. “That’s preposterous.” I turn away from him, run a hand through my hair, closing my eyes for a moment. Her face appears in my mind immediately. Shit. I’ve tried so hard to erase her from my mind but every time I close my eyes, there she is. Every time the room is filled with silence, her voice cuts through, the sound of her saying my name.

I open my eyes again to find Lance watching me with a satisfied expression on his face. I throw my hands into the air.

“Fine, I admit she has some kind of effect on me. I don’t know what it is, but it’s there. I can’t stop thinking about her. Can you blame me? The woman said my name and she shouldn’t know it.”

Lance barks with laughter. “Damn, she’s got you bad, doesn’t she? She even clouds your mind to the point you don’t see the obvious.”

“And that is?” I raise an eyebrow.

“That you’re a LaClaire. It’s completely possible she’s seen a photo of you in the papers.”

I allow what he said to sink in. I shake my head. “I’m hardly ever in the papers. You know how hard I work to keep my life private.”

“Sure, but you’ve graced the cover of a tabloid once or twice. That’s all it takes for someone to remember your name and face.”

He has a point but I refuse to accept it. “It’s not so much that she said my name, but the way she said it. I don’t know how to explain it.”

“This is what I think you should do,” Lance says. “Go back to that Mirage place. Ask for your Ruby and fuck her brains out until she leaves your system.”

“You think that’s all that matters to me? Sex?” I clench my jaw.

“You said that, not me.” Lance grabs a corner of one of the sheets, wheels himself around the bed, straightening the sheets and plumping the pillows. He has a maid, but he always insists on making his own bed. I guess it gives him some sense of purpose. “You know, you remind me of Bryant.”

I lean my body against the table. “In what way?”

“When Bryant met Grace, he was a nervous wreck, remember? You could see on his face how hard he was fighting his feelings for her. Look what that got him, in the end.”

“Well, I’m not Bryant. And this is a completely different situation.”

“If you say so.” Lance finishes up with making the bed and picks up a remote. The electronic shades opening out onto the terrace whirl as he opens them. He tosses the remote onto the bed, opens the French doors and wheels himself outside. The morning breeze ruffles his dark hair.

I leave behind the scents of fragrant wood and aftershave lingering in the bedroom to breathe in the fresh air. I come to a halt behind his wheelchair. “I’m not in love with the prostitute. I’m curious, that’s all.”

“Well, if that’s what you want to make yourself believe, that’s your problem.” Lance’s shoulders grow rigid. “Now get the hell out of my house and stop hanging around me like a damn puppy all the time. Go take care of your business and leave me to take care of mine. I’m leaving for Mexico tomorrow, anyway.”

Over the past few days, we have tried to talk him out of going to Cabo, but he wouldn’t back down. In the end, we all agreed that he needs to find peace, and if that’s where it is for him, perhaps we shouldn’t stand in the way. We had only one condition, that he takes his caregiver, Jia, along. After a few insults directed our way, he agreed.

The moment Jia comes to mind, I turn around and there she is, standing at the door with a tray. I was so focused on Lance I didn’t even hear the ding of the private elevator which comes to Lance’s floor.

She has brought Lance breakfast and I hope he won’t fight her too hard.

Jia is the only caregiver who made it past a week or two of caring after Lance. The others could not handle his depression, mood swings and anger outbursts. But Jia breezes right through them. She’s a stunning twenty-six-year-old woman, a blend of African-American and Chinese heritage. Since she’s the only one who seems to be able to handle Lance, there’s no way we are letting her go.

“Morning, Jia. Make sure he eats the breakfast.”

“I won’t take no for an answer.” She gives me a bright smile.

Lance swivels his wheelchair around and glares at me. “I thought I told you to go. I need my space.”

“Fine, I’m out of here. I’ll check on you later.”

He doesn’t say a word as he swivels himself around again, turning his back on me and Jia, to face the lush gardens.

Respecting his wishes, I go to my room and get my belongings.

Within fifteen minutes, I’m sitting behind the wheel of my car wondering whether to call Mitch or not. I haven’t heard from him in three days and it’s driving me nuts. What if I call him and he has no news? I decide to call him anyway. He picks up on the third ring.

Lance was right, Ruby could very well have seen me in the papers but my instinct tells me there’s more. My name slid off her tongue way too easily.

“Impatient, are we?” Mitch says from the other end.

“Come on, I haven’t heard from you in days. Any news for me?”

“I planned to call you after breakfast. I guess you beat me to it.” His voice is interrupted by the sound of a printer spitting out paper. “In answer to your question, I did find out something that might be of interest to you, but I think it’s best I tell you in person. How about we meet for lunch tomorrow?”

“Why don’t you tell me over the phone?”

“Because I want to see your face when you hear what I have to say.” His laughter floats down the line. “And by the way, since I’m doing this for free, we’re doing it on my terms.”

“Well, you won’t let me pay you.”

“How could I let you pay me after everything you’ve already done for me? You kick-started my business, man.”

“That’s what friends do for each other.”

“I want you to know that I appreciate it.”

“I know you do. You’ve said it enough times.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Now why don’t you give me your findings over the phone? What’s the big deal?”

“And pass up the opportunity to see the shock on your face? That’s not gonna happen.”

“Then let’s meet for lunch today.”

“Today is tight. I’m meeting clients all day. Meet me tomorrow, at Bridges Grill. One o’clock. It will be worth the wait, I promise.”

He hangs up before I can push him into speaking.

The only way I can get through the day without going crazy is to find another focus point. I turn on the ignition and as I drive away from Lance’s place, I call my assistant, Maureen, to arrange a meeting between me and Rodger Simone, a potential investor in my next Las Vegas adventure theme park, one that would cater to extreme thrill seekers.

I kill the time before the meeting at Bryant and Grace’s; talking to Bryant about all of us having our yearly family get-together in Cabo sooner rather than later. That way, we can get a chance to check up on Lance face-to-face. We’ll give him three weeks to be alone before showing up. The get-together is a tradition Lance can’t say no to.

Getting away is always a good thing for me, and this time more so. It will be another chance for me to distance myself from The Mirage. From her.

After my meeting with Rodger, the hours stretch ahead of me and I do everything to fill them. After the sun sets, I drive myself around town until, without planning to, I slow down in front of The Mirage, where I park the car on the other side of the road. Since I’m not here for sex, I remain inside my car, waiting for God knows what.

After staring at the door of The Mirage for a long time, watching people—most of them men—exit or disappear inside, I glance at my watch. Ten minutes after midnight. I’ve been watching the place for over an hour. I have to get out of here. What I’m doing is ridiculous. This isn’t me.

I’m about to pull away from the parking spot when The Mirage door opens again. My eyes zoom in on Ruby. She looks like the girl next door in jeans and a white t-shirt, her long, black hair like polished glass as it tumbles down her back.

My gaze follows her to a Volkswagen Beetle parked in front of a closed bookstore. She gets in and drives off. Without thinking, I follow her. Twenty minutes later, she comes to a halt in front of a three-story apartment building and exits the car. I watch her enter the building, the light in the lobby being flicked on, then off again. Fifteen minutes later, I drive away. I’m not a damn stalker.

11

Brooke

My feet hit the ground as I run along meandering paths lined by lush green trees, past dog walkers and early risers sitting on benches. The sound of my footfalls vibrates through my entire body.

The colors of the summer flowers and leaves decorating Melrose Park are vibrant. I get to see a lot of ugly in my life, disgust often fills my lungs instead of fresh air. But here, surrounded by lush foliage and innocent dahlias and fuchsias, beauty shows me its face. It offers me the chance to pretend my life is untainted. Running has always been great at flushing out the ugly from my mind and body, at least for a while.

Three years ago, I started jogging in nature as a way to beat the depression which had pushed me into my darkest corner.

Unfortunately, I haven’t done much jogging in the past six months. I come home so late every night that I’d rather catch up on my morning sleep than work out. The only exercise I manage to fit into every single day is a ten-minute aerobics workout I discovered online. But I’ve missed this. The heat produced by my body melts away the negative emotions scrambling for space inside me, the disgust, the humiliation.

This run makes me feel as though my body is actually mine, before I rent it out at nightfall. I come to a screeching halt in front of a drinking water fountain, catching my breath while listening to birds chirping in the trees. Cool mist escapes the fountain and cools my boiling skin. Despite being breathless and in pain, my body vibrates with life.

I run for another thirty minutes until my lungs can’t take it anymore. Only then do I end the run.

Sweaty and exhausted, I stop at the Coffee & Cream café. For the first time in a long time, I open my eyes to the life around me. I notice the blush covers on the round tables, breathe in the aromas of warm coffee, melting sugar, and cinnamon muffins. I watch the guests enjoying their breakfast while talking on the phone or reading their morning papers. Since no one is at the sticky cash register, I fold my arms next to a tower of plastic cups and lids and the stack of white napkins, listening to the sound of my breathing and the proof of life around me, while gazing into the glass case that contains a variety of snacks—sandwiches, cookies, muffins and other sweet treats.

“Good morning. Can I get you anything?” A young barista asks over the sound of coffee beans being ground, the chime of the door opening, and drinks being slurped at the red bistro tables behind me.

I glance at the chalkboard with specials scrawled across it, then smile at the teenage girl standing in front of me, hair in ponytails, skin fresh and clean, eyes bright with hope, untainted by life. Hopefully fate will be kind to her. May she never get to know the excruciating pain of having your heart ripped out, the struggle to piece it back together.

“I’d like the peachy green protein smoothie, please. To go.” The last time I came to Cup & Cream, they had no smoothies on the menu. I’d walked in with coffee on my mind, but the thought of the icy relief of a smoothie on my tongue makes my mouth water.

“Sure, anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Thank you.” I push my hand into the pockets of my shorts for the money I brought along for my treat. I hand it to her, accept my smoothie, and drop a coin into the snowflake tip jar.

I enjoy my drink on the way home, the sweet and tangy flavors of peaches, pineapple, almond milk, and kale bursting on my tongue. Not even the stench rising from a dented trashcan puts me off.

A block from my apartment, the hairs at the back of my neck bristle, the way they do when someone is watching me.

My gaze sweeps the street behind me. Nothing suspicious calls for my attention. There’s no one on the street except for a woman walking a white poodle and a teenager riding a blue bike with chipped paint. Still glancing over my shoulder, I move to the front door of my apartment building and dig out the keys from my pocket. They hang from a Boston University keyring Allison had given me. Every day I see it, it reminds me of my dream.

Once the doors open, I glance behind me again, holding my breath. As I’m about to look away and disappear into the building, I spy a car parked on the other side of the street, the only one that’s occupied. I raise my hand to my face, to shield my eyes from the bright morning sunlight so I can see clearer. I can feel with every fiber of my being that the person inside the car is watching me, but I can’t make out their face. Or maybe I’m being paranoid.

Placing a hand on my chest, I take in a breath, forcing myself to remain calm, to think rationally. I push open the door and enter the lobby.

Just because someone is sitting in a car, looking out, doesn’t mean it’s me they are watching. They could be waiting for a person who lives in my apartment building to come out and get into the car. That has to be it. Why would anyone be watching me?

Giving it no further thought, I climb the stairs to the third floor, where my apartment is located.

After finishing my smoothie, I take a quick shower and settle at my computer, preparing to pay my bills. I always pay the bills Saturday mornings, a habit I inherited from my mother who, in her moments of lucidity, always sat down to pay the bills as soon as she had prepared Saturday breakfast.

I sit in silence for a moment, listening to the sound of my heart beating. I consider praying, as Mom used to do, but instead decide to switch on the computer. I gave up on prayer six years ago, when I stopped believing in God. Even if God really exists, I don’t think he approves of what I do to earn money. The money that pays my bills is tainted, impure.

Twenty minutes later, I’ve paid off the most urgent bills but the burden of my credit card debt still presses heavy on my shoulders. It will be a while before it lifts, if it ever does. I get to my feet and sway to my single, metal bed, which stands only three steps from my desk. I throw myself onto the bed, feeling as though I’m falling into a wide sea, my own personal ocean. I may not be able to see the shore yet, but I’ll get to it, somehow, someday.

Fresh determination coursing through my veins, I slide off the bed and pull back the curtains, which stay closed most of the time. Gazing up at the bright blue sky, I make myself a promise. I’ll get myself out of this hellhole that’s my life. I will get back the version of me I used to like. One day I’ll walk away from The Mirage, peel off the shame, and face my future with confidence. I’ll build a life and a career I can be proud of.

Hopefully Derrick will stay the hell away from me. All he brings with him are memories of the pain I’ve been trying to outrun for six years.

12

Derrick

Mitch is already at the Bridges Grill when I arrive, wearing one of his signature denim shirts over black jeans. While most people’s styles evolve with the years, Mitch’s has remained the same since school.

My friend looks relaxed and in his element. Watching him, one would never guess that the man is one hell of a workaholic. The stress never shows on his face.

He rises when I get to the table at the back, next to a jukebox. “LaClaire, great to see you. I’ve missed you. I can’t even remember the last time we met up in person.”

“That’s because it was too long ago.” We give each other a quick hug and take our seats. I lean back. “Looks like you’ve been doing well.”

“I can’t complain.” Mitch threads a hand through his curly auburn hair. “Business is booming and life is good.”

“I’m happy to hear that.” A waitress with hair slicked back with what must have been an entire container of gel approaches our table. “What can I get you gentlemen?”

“Just a coffee for me, please,” I say even though the aroma of fried onions and grilling steak on one of the open grills entices my taste buds.

“Really?” Mitch interjects. “I thought we were meeting for lunch.”

“That’s what I thought too, but I just left an emergency meeting with a future business partner. He insisted we talk over food.”

“And for you, sir?” The waitress glances at Mitch only long enough to ask the question before returning her smoky eyes to me.

“Since my friend won’t eat with me, I’ll have a Budweiser. Thanks.” Mitch hands the waitress both menus, touching her arm to get her attention.

“Of course.” Color floods her cheeks. “I’ll be back soon with your order.” She leaves our table and I sigh with relief.

“Did you see how she was staring at you?” Mitch leans back in his chair, arms crossed. “Looks like you still have the LaClaire touch. I’m pretty sure she would have allowed you to have her right here on this table if you offered.”

I roar with laughter. “Unfortunately for her, she’s too skinny for my taste.”

“Her loss, I guess.” Mitch clasps his hands behind his head. “How are the other LaClaires? I still can’t believe Bryant is a married man.”

I roll up my sleeves. “Don’t forget the fact that he’s also a dad.”

“Who would’ve thought?” A smile spreads on Mitch’s face. “I never thought any of you LaClaires were even capable of settling for one girl.” He cracks his knuckle. “Except for Neal, of course, the one-woman man. The way fate screwed him over is messed up.”

Since Mitch and I had spent a lot of time together in school, he hung out with me and my brothers. It almost seemed as though he was our sixth brother. He’s well-informed about all the tragedies our family has had to endure. If only money could guarantee a pain-free life.

“Yeah,” I say as the waitress returns with our orders and places them in front of us, almost rubbing her small breasts in my face. I wait for her to leave before continuing. “Fate is fucked up sometimes.” I raise my coffee to my lips. “How about you? When are you going to find someone to get serious with?”

“Hopefully soon.” He puffs out his chest. “I’ll be thirty in five years. I want to settle down with a good woman by then.”

“Are you serious?” I glance at a customer arguing with a waitress over a bill. “You’re also not a forever kind of guy.”

“People change. I’m tired of playing the field. If I find the one, I’m diving right in, like your brother did.” He cocks his head to the side. “In fact, since we last met, I was involved with a girl who made me change my mind about the whole bachelor for life thing. It didn’t work out though.”

“Well, in that case,” I raise my cup of coffee, “here’s to you crossing the road to the other side. I hope you find the one, the right one.”

“Thanks.” He tips his beer glass against my cup. “Any chance of you joining me on the other side or will you continue walking alone?”

I drink a mouthful of coffee. “Define alone. Just because I’m not interested in a serious relationship doesn’t mean I’ll be alone. That couldn’t be further from the truth.”

“Still bed hopping?”

We both laugh out loud. “You’re still full of shit, Mitch Biron.”

“I guess some things never change.” He takes a swig of beer, glancing at me over the rim. He wipes the foam from his upper lip. “But what I have to show you today, could change your afternoon or the rest of your life.”

I drink from my coffee, enjoying the heat on my tongue. It was so much fun catching up that I forgot why we’ve agreed to meet up in the first place. “What have you got?”

“Something that will blow your mind.”

“Cut the crap and spit it out.” I put my cup down and glare at him, ignoring the tightness inside my chest.

He pushes his glass of beer aside and reaches into his tan leather messenger bag, pulling out a white envelope. He places it on the table and rests his hands on it, watching me. “Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

I narrow my eyes at the envelope. “Wasn’t I the one who wanted you to look into this in the first place?”

“Fine.” Mitch starts to open the envelope, driving me nuts as he takes his time.

As I wait, tempted to snatch it from him and open it myself, my blood is pounding in my ears. What am I afraid of exactly?

“Here you go.” He pulls out two sheets of paper, slides them across the table in my direction. I grab the papers and run my gaze down the first. My head jerks back.

“Holy shit. What the fuck?”

“That’s what I thought when I found out.”

“Brooke Rayner?” I move on to the second page, my fingers clutching it so hard it’s in danger of ripping. “Are you sure this isn’t some mistake?”

Mitch drinks his beer. “I pride myself in being one of the best bloody investigators in Boston. So yes, I’m pretty sure. It wasn’t hard to get her real name. One of the girls she works with helped out.”

“No.” I shake my head as my mind tries to look for familiarity in the face I saw twice at The Mirage and from a distance when I trailed her a few hours ago. “But Brooke is a redhead.”

“Was. Or she could be wearing a wig. It’s not uncommon with prostitutes.”

“True. It’s just that she’s the last person I’d think—”

“As I said before, people change. And you don’t know what happened to her after she left school seven years ago.”

I nod and allow thoughts of the girl I used to know to flood my mind. Even though she doesn’t know it, she was the first girl who made me aware of the heart lying inside my chest. The moment I saw her, I knew I had to have her. Unlike most girls, she was a hard catch. She was a good girl, who stayed away from the crowd, was never seen at parties, and spent her free time helping out in the library.

Even though reading was not my passion, I wanted to get into her pants so badly, I faked it. For several days, I showed up at the library to see her face, to inhale the scent of vanilla in her hair when she walked by. I told myself I’d get over her as soon as I slept with her, because that was what I did. Even back then, I was the fuck them and leave them kind of guy.

One night, after watching her for three weeks, I decided to go for the goal. During a fundraising event at school, I went on the search for her. I found her crying behind a bookshelf in the deserted library. It was closed for the day, but she had forgotten to lock herself inside. When she saw me standing there, her eyes and mouth rounded in surprise as she brushed away the tears trickling down her face. I remember thinking she looked beautiful with her bronze hair sticking to her flushed cheeks. I still remember the way her body had looked in her skinny jeans and a white T-shirt.

Without waiting for her permission, I sat down beside her. “Are you okay?” I’d asked. I surprised myself with my concern.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” She sniffed and scooted a few inches away from me, wrapping her arms around her body.

“That’s fine. You don’t have to talk about it.” I leaned my back against the cool, white wall.

“What do you want?” she asked. “The library is closed.”

“Yep, I know. I saw the sign on the door.” I allowed myself a small smile. “I was looking for you. I thought you might be here.”

Her body tensed beside me.

“Why would you be looking for me?”

I turned to her then. “I saw you during Keller’s boring speech. You looked upset. I wanted to make sure you’re okay.” It had been a lie. I hadn’t seen her at all that day.

“I’m fine,” she whispered. “You can go now.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you make me believe you.”

I rose from the floor and went to the door, locking it while she watched me through a gap in the bookshelf.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked when I returned to her.

“Do you want anyone else to see you crying?”

“No.” She gave a small, broken laugh that lifted my heart. “But I’m fine, really. I’m having a bad day, that’s all.”

“Then let’s create a better day together.”

“Why do you care anyway?” She twisted her body to look at me, questions in her eyes. “You don’t even know me, not really.”

She was right. We didn’t take the same classes, didn’t hang out in the same circles, and hardly ever exchanged a word, except when I asked her where to find a particular book. And, yet, I felt as though I’d known her all my life.

“We share a common love for books.”

“Wrong.” She managed the sweetest giggle. “I love to read. You’re here all the time but you don’t read.”

“Is that so?” I gave her my lopsided grin. “And how would you know that?”

“Because on more than one occasion, I saw you holding your book upside down.”

“Damn.” I slapped my forehead, glad the ice had been broken. “Well, maybe I’m able to read books upside down. I’m sure that’s some kind of skill.”

“Yeah, right.” She laughed again and dropped her gaze. She didn’t speak anymore and I didn’t make her.

We sat in silence for what felt like hours. I’d never been close to a girl for so long without doing things to her body. When I thought I’d go nuts if she didn’t speak, she did.

“Thank you,” she said. “It means a lot that you came here.”

“You’re welcome.” Unable to stop myself, I reached for her hand. She flinched, but didn’t pull away. I counted to twenty and lifted it to my lips, my gaze holding hers.

“What . . . what are you doing?” she whispered as I watched her eyes melting with warmth.

“Making it all better.” Without saying another word, I kissed every knuckle. Only then did I let go of her, lowering her hand back in her lap. That was all I needed to do to open the door to her pussy. The next week, we bonded while talking about her cold-hearted stepfather and my adoption. Three days after that, I fucked Brooke Rayner against one of the library bookshelves, and after getting what I wanted, I moved on to the next girl, pretending Brooke didn’t make an impact on me. I never talked to her again until, from one day to the next, she left Magnolia High.

I finish my coffee and almost slam the cup onto the table. “Brooke Rayner, a prostitute? How did I not know it was her?” But then again, I did feel something while in her presence, a familiar pull I could not explain.

“You had a crush on her in high school, didn’t you?”

My feet shuffle under the table. “It wasn’t a crush. She was just another girl.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that.” Mitch reaches for the pages which had fluttered to the table. “Anyway, what will you do with this information?”

“Why do you think she chose this path?” I ask, ignoring his question. An uncomfortable ache blooms inside my chest.

“Why do most women choose to be pros?”

Pros, the name Mitch always preferred to call prostitutes.

“Money.” My shoulders sag.

“Exactly.” Mitch slides the papers back into the envelope and hands it to me. “You’ll find her phone number and address in there as well.” He props his chin on his hand. “Now, tell me, why did you need this information so bad?”

“I was just curious.” I don’t tell him that I already know where she lives.

“All right, then. And now that you know the truth, what will you do with it? I get the feeling you won’t stop here.”

“Is that so?” I give a half smile.

“Yes. I’ve seen that look in your eye before. Actually, the last time I saw it was when you were determined to sleep with Brooke.” He shrugs. “But, since you said she was just another girl, it shouldn’t bother you that she sleeps with random men for a living.” He takes a swig of beer. “Or does it?”

“Shut the fuck up, Mitch.” I lean forward. “And stop cracking your damn knuckles. It drives people crazy.”

13

Brooke

Shortly before midnight, I pull into a parking spot a few blocks from my apartment building. Stretching my aching back, I groan. I’d kill for a hot shower and warm food.

Today wasn’t too bad. I’ve retrained my mind again so it switches off during sex with my clients. After a week of not seeing Derrick LaClaire, I finally relaxed. He probably didn’t recognize me and it’s for the best. I can go on with my life and he can go on with his. He’s just someone from the past. With time, I’ll forget he ever showed up in my present.

I lift my backpack from the passenger seat and exit the car. The air is cool and gentle against my skin, but I still feel sticky and dirty, as I always do after work. I hoist the bag over my shoulder and start walking.

Under the blanket of night, I feel like the only person in the world. There’s something about being one of the few people awake at this time of morning. In a few hours, the sun will light up the sky and people will spill onto the streets, but this moment feels like mine alone.

I breathe in and hold the air in my lungs for a few seconds before letting it go, allowing it to dissolve the toxic emotions inside my chest. Gazing up at the dark windows of my apartment building, I cross the street, my black plaid skirt swirling around my knees.

I’m about to reach my door, when I catch a movement to my right. I turn to look and freeze in shock.

The man walking toward me is none other than Derrick LaClaire.

What is he doing here? A warm flush of anger and humiliation creeps up my neck.

His hair is disheveled and, as he gets closer, I notice his white shirt glued to his chest by sweat. He looks as though he ran all the way to my apartment.

I hurry to my door, scrambling inside my bag for my keys, my mouth dry. He reaches me before I can open the door. Now he’s standing before me. His eyes tell me everything I need to know. That he knows my secret.

As I look into his eyes, agony twists my stomach. Ignoring he’s even here, I continue the frantic search inside my bag. Where are the damn keys?

“Hi, Brooke.” Even though it’s clear he knows the truth, my name on his lips still shakes me.

“What are you doing here?” I swallow hard and lift my chin. “How do you even know where I live?”

“That doesn’t matter.” He takes a step toward me but I shrink away from him.

My hand is still inside my bag, searching for my keys. I hope I didn’t forget them at The Mirage. The last thing I want to do is return there. Finally, as my hands come into contact with metal and my fingers wrap around the keyring, a thought flicks through my mind. Two days ago, after I went to the Cup & Cream, I’d felt as though I was being watched. “Have you been following me?”

He rubs a hand over the stubble on his cheek. “We need to talk.”

“I don’t see what we need to talk about.” I turn to the door, ready to slide my key into the keyhole. Behind me, he closes the distance between us, the heat of his body on my back. “I don’t talk to clients outside of . . . work. If you want to make an appointment, call Hector. He’ll get another girl to meet your needs.”

“I’m not here for sex.” He steps away from me and leans on the graffitied wall next to the door. “I need to talk to you.”

“I really don’t think there’s anything for us to discuss.”

“I think there is, Brooke.” He leans into me and the woodsy and spicy scent of his Hugo Boss wraps itself around me. “You don’t have to hide from me . . . not anymore.”

As I attempt to open the door, my keys fall to the floor, at his feet. Before I can reach for them, he picks them up and holds onto them, briefly glancing at the Boston University keyring before meeting my eyes again.

“Please, give me back my keys.” I reach out my sweaty, trembling hand.

Instead of handing them back to me, he drops them into his pocket and shoves his hand in after them. “Talk to me first and you can have your keys back. Why, Brooke? Why are you working as a prostitute?” He pulls his hand out of his pocket, empty.

I square my shoulders. “It’s none of your business.” The ball of panic surging through my veins is breaking me up inside. I need to get out of this situation, fast. Talking to him will hurt too much.

My gaze fixed on his, I move toward him and reach into his pocket, yank out my keys. “You have no right to be here, Derrick.”

He raises his hands in a gesture of peace, his expression softer now. “I’m sorry I showed up like this. I just, I was worried about you. When I found out who you are, I needed to know you’re okay.”

“Like you did back then? You seem to be really good at that.” I can’t keep the bite from my tone. “This is not high school anymore. This is my life.”

He pushes his hands back into his pockets. “Is it so wrong to look out for a friend?”

“We were never friends, Derrick LaClaire.” I push my key into the lock and turn, listening out for the familiar click.

Pushing the door open, I turn to face him. “Whatever happened between us back then, means nothing to me. So, please leave me alone and return to your life.” My embarrassment blooms into anger. “And you have no right to judge me.”

“I’m not judging you. I just want to know why—”

“Why I’m a whore?” Laughter spills from my lips. “It’s a job, Derrick. And as long as there are men like you, willing to pay women like me for a good time, it will continue to be a job.” I push myself into the cool interior of the apartment building. Before he can respond, or decide to follow me inside, I shut the door behind me.

I take the stairs two at a time and run down the hallway to my apartment door. Inside, I drop the bag on the chair, strip off my clothes and stand under the hot shower, allowing it to wash away the dirt, to flush it down the drain. On one side of the paper thin wall, one of my neighbors is peeing and I hear every trickle, the way I hear when anyone is having sex.

Seeing Derrick again is painful because it reminds me of a time in my life when I’d felt whole, in those few minutes he’d made love to me in the library. But it had all been a game to him.

14

Derrick

I can choose to disappear from Brooke’s life. The look in her eyes before she walked out on me made it clear she wants nothing to do with me. But I’m sitting inside my car, staring like a fool at her apartment building.

Being close to her body earlier had made my skin prickle, made me feel as though I had been transported back to Magnolia High. At the time, she was only a pretty ass, someone I wanted to fuck and move on. Now I’m not sure about anything. I can’t explain why I felt drugged in her presence.

I won’t go as far as saying I’m in love with her, because I don’t believe in that crap. But I do know one thing, I suddenly feel like an ass for the way I treated her back then. A few minutes of fucking had done more damage than I could ever imagine. Beneath the layers of shame and humiliation, I detected shards of glass. I had broken her.

What happened to her? I could ask Mitch to continue the investigation into her life, but I don’t know if it’s fair for me to invade her privacy any more than I already have. But what if we met again for some reason? What if I can help dig her out of whatever mess led her to sell her body? We might not be friends, but we each hold a moment from each other’s lives. No matter where we end up, those few sweaty, adrenaline-infused minutes of passion will remain in both our memories forever. I didn’t admit it to her then, and I’d be damned if I admit it now, but she was the best I’d ever had. But, at this point, sex doesn’t matter.

I press my forehead to the steering wheel and blow out a breath.

I need to know more, to find out what happened to her. And I want to hear it straight from her lips.

I’m still in my car fifteen minutes after she walked away. She has not come back out to talk to me, even though I know she knows I’m still outside. Only the light inside one of the windows is on. Someone had appeared at the window briefly. The curtain lifted for only a few seconds before it fell again. My intuition tells me it was her. When the light is switched off, I take it as my cue to get the hell out of here.

My body seething with frustration, I turn the key in the ignition and drive away. Thirty minutes of driving around town with no particular destination in mind, leaves me exhausted and confused about everything in both my past and present. My thoughts keep returning to images of her in her apartment. Is she sleeping now or lying there staring at the ceiling, thinking about our brief encounter?

Pull yourself together, dammit.

I do pull myself together eventually, and stop at the nearest isolated bar where I order myself a drink.

“Bad night?” The well-built African American bartender with rolled up sleeves revealing a snake tattoo on his lower right arm asks.

“Something like that.” I take another swig of my fourth vodka and slam the glass onto the counter. “More, please.” My throat is burning and my head is swimming but not enough to drown out images of Brooke Rayner.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a break?” The bartender picks up a remote and mutes the TV, where a boxing match is playing. There’s not much of a change in the noise level given that heavy metal music still blasts from the speakers.

“Are you a fucking therapist or something?” I catch the slurred sound of my words before the music breaks them into pieces.

“Some people call me that.” The guy flashes me a smile. “If you want to talk, I have all the time in the world. Female troubles?”

“Sort of. No.” I shake my heavy head. “Problems with a friend.”

“Male or female?” He leans onto the counter, resting his chin on a fist.

I push away the empty glass. “A woman.”

“I thought so.” He cocks an eyebrow. “Is it a friends with benefits kind of thing?”

“No.”

“How do you feel about her?”

“No idea.” I let out a defeated laugh. “We had a quick thing in school and then we didn’t see each other for years.”

“Now you met again and old feelings have resurfaced?”

I’m quiet for a long time, contemplating ending this conversation. It’s heading in a direction I’m not interested in going. “Look, forget about the drink. I’m leaving.” I toss a few bills onto the counter.

“Hey,” the bartender calls before I can step out the door. “If she still has an effect on you after all these years, she could be the one.”

“She doesn’t,” I shoot back and swing open the door. I repeat the words inside my head over and over as I sit inside my car, waiting for Bruce to come get me, as I’m drunk from more than alcohol.

When we get to my townhouse, we find an Audi Q7 parked in the driveway. As soon as I exit my car, a woman in a trench coat and high heels gets out of the other car. She’s gorgeous, with luscious wavy blonde hair flowing down her shoulders. Her dark eyes are heavily made-up.

I say goodbye to Bruce and sway toward the beautiful stranger.

“Who are you? This is private property.” I move to walk past her but she comes to stand in my way. “What the fuck?”

“You asked me to be here at midnight. Just because you didn’t show up, doesn’t mean I’m not getting my money. I kept my end of the deal. You will pay me for the time I waited for you.”

I blink away my blurred vision. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m Daisy. You called me last night at 11:00 p.m., remember? You told me to be here by midnight sharp. You booked the whole night with me.” She puts her small hands on her hips. “Instead, I show up and there’s no one here.”

I close my eyes and rewind my tape of memories until, through all the haze, I find the right one. I open my eyes. I did give her a call, a few minutes before I decided to go and talk to Brooke. I totally forgot to cancel.

Swaying from side to side, I pull my leather wallet from my back pocket. “I’m sorry about standing you up . . . family emergency.”

“You should’ve called to cancel. I could have visited other clients.”

“You’re very right. I should have.” I flip open my wallet. “Let me make it up to you.”

I watch in amazement as the anger melts from her face, and a smile softens her lips. “That’s all right. I had a slow night anyway.” She draws closer to me, pressing her body to mine, her big boobs pressing against my chest, a French-manicured hand wrapping itself around my left bicep. “Since you’re here and I am here, why don’t we . . . see where the next couple of hours lead us?”

“I don’t have time for the next couple of hours. Go over there.” I gesture toward my BMW. “Bend over and let’s get this over with now.”

Her eyes dance as she approaches the car, tossing a cheeky grin over her shoulder. The moment her body touches the BMW, she opens the belt buckle of the trench coat. It slides to the ground. Underneath, she’s naked. Inside my pants, my dick unfurls with excitement. Since she still hasn’t done what I asked her to do, I close the distance between us and bend her over myself.

15

Brooke

I flick off my bedside lamp and fall back onto my bed, curl up into a ball. Even though he’s out there and I’m in here, his presence crackles in the air around me. The way I’m feeling, he could be right here next to me, his intense eyes searching my soul for answers. For a moment there, I was tempted to give him answers but I was too pissed off that he barged into my life without respect for my privacy. Some questions are better left unanswered, anyway.

No point in going crazy, no point in worrying. Hopefully he got the message and won’t show up in my life again. I don’t know what I’d do if he does. I don’t want to know.

I pick up the phone and call Allison. “Are you sleeping?”

“Of course, I’m sleeping. It’s late. But I made you promise to call me anytime you’re in a funk. It better be good.” Allison gives a sleepy laugh.

“I’m so sorry. It’s just that something happened and I . . . I don’t know how to feel right now. There’s no one else I can talk to.”

“First of all, what you have to do is breathe. That’s all you can do for now.” She yawns. “Now, tell me what happened.”

“He showed up.” I rub my eyes. “I came home and found him waiting for me outside.”

“Who?” Allison’s voice is suddenly alert. “Derrick LaClaire?”

“Yes.” I sigh and turn to lie on my side. “I have no idea how he found out where I live. And I think he’s been following me around. Remember when I told you about feeling like I was being watched?”

“I remember. You thought you were imagining things.”

“Turns out I wasn’t.” I let out a long breath and bury a hand into my hair.

“So, did he say what he wanted from you?” The gurgling sound of something being poured makes it down the line. Allison must be getting herself a drink.

I close my eyes and see his face behind my eyelids. “He knows, Allison. He knows who I really am.”

“You mean he recognized you?”

“Yes. He must have. He wanted to know why I’m working at The Mirage.”

“What did you say?”

“I have no idea how he found out. But a man with his kind of money can get any information with only a phone call.” I pull the quilt to my chin. “I told him it’s none of his business.”

“Brooke, I know we discussed this many times, but I feel as though your history with him is not over. I mean, what are the chances that he shows up in your life out of the blue?” Allison pauses. “And what if he wants to be a part of your life again?”

“He chose not to be a part of my life a long time ago. Now it’s too late. Too much has happened.”

“People change, Brooke. What if you tell him the truth and he changes his mind and decides he wants more?”

I snort with laughter. “I think that’s highly unlikely. It doesn’t matter how I felt then or how I feel about him now. There’s no space for him in my life.”

“He doesn’t have to be a part of your life, but . . . maybe you could tell him about Eric. Don’t you think he deserves to know?”

“He was the one who threw his rights out the window. He wanted nothing to do with my son.” I swallow the sob that rises in my throat. “I don’t need him . . . not anymore.” He can’t know that the few moments we’ve spent together made him a father. He doesn’t need to know that my life changed after that day while his remained the same.

When I found out about the pregnancy, I tried talking to him, but he was always surrounded by girls or his friends and brothers. He pretended we didn’t even know each other.

When my stepfather found out about my pregnancy, he threw me out of the house because I refused to have an abortion. But, secretly, I think he was glad I got pregnant. I presented him with the perfect opportunity to get rid of me. The way he looked at me after Mom died, the contempt in his eyes, the snide remarks, it was clear all I was to him was a burden. Two months after the funeral, he told me to stop calling him dad. That night, I decided as soon as I graduated from high school, I’d move out. I never thought I’d drop out of school, and be out on the streets with no plan and barely a cent to my name.

Alone on the streets, it was just me and the baby growing inside my tummy. I promised I would protect and love him or her with everything I had. I knew the road would be rough. I had no idea exactly how rough. I had no choice but to reach out to Derrick. I sent him a letter.

“What if he doesn’t stop following you around and demanding answers? He was determined enough to find out where you live.”

“I don’t care what he does. I won’t talk to him. And if he continues to pester me, I’ll call the cops on him.” He wasn’t there when I needed him most. In the past I was only a piece of flesh. I owe him nothing. “Men like Derrick LaClaire don’t change.”

“What if telling him actually frees you in some way?”

“It won’t. It will hurt.” Telling him the truth would only rip open wounds I tried so hard to heal. I don’t want to waste more years of my life recovering from his rejection all over again.

“Okay.” Allison sighs. “Honey, I think you should get some sleep. Tomorrow after work, come over. I’ll have a bowl of vanilla ice cream with your name on it.”

“I’d like that. Thanks.”

We hang up and I switch off the light, only to switch it back on again at 4:00 a.m. Giving up on sleep, I remove a shoebox from my wardrobe and read the letter Derrick sent me.

Dear Brooke,

I’m sorry to hear about your situation. We slept together one time and it was nice, but I’m just about to graduate from high school. I’m only seventeen. I want to go to college next year. I’m not ready to be a father at this point in my life. I’d appreciate it if you don’t contact me anymore.

Please don’t think this is an easy decision for me. It is hard, but sometimes we have to make sacrifices. If you decide to keep the baby, that’s your choice and I can’t stop you. But you have to understand that I cannot be a part of your baby’s life. I’m sorry, but that’s how it has to be.

Please don’t contact me again. I’m sorry that I have to do this to you but I have no choice. I hope one day you will forgive me for the choices I make today.

Take care.

Derrick

A familiar ache pulses inside my chest as I fold up the letter. It’s stiff with my dried tears. After what he did, I don’t owe him anything. He turned his back on his son, on me. Some choices have lifelong consequences. If he suddenly feels some kind of remorse, sudden guilt for leaving us hanging, I want him to live with it for the rest of his life. If he’s looking for forgiveness, he won’t be getting it from me.

* * *

The ringing of my phone wakes me from a deep but troubled sleep. The call is from an unknown number. It could be him. If he managed to get my address, it wouldn’t be hard to get my phone number. Why the hell can’t he leave me alone?

I jump out of bed, rubbing my aching eyes as I step to the window. The cars I see parked outside have no one inside them. An ice cream truck drives by, the tempting music making my mouth water as it did when I was a kid.

The good thing about my job is that I don’t work during the day. If he’s lurking in some corner, waiting for me, he’ll have one long wait ahead of him. I intend on spending the entire afternoon locked inside my apartment and sneak out tonight. After work I’m going to Allison’s place anyway. I’ll call to ask if I can stay a couple of days, only until Derrick gives up.

Ignoring thoughts of him, I pack the bag I’ll be taking with me to Allison’s, and settle into my desk chair, a bowl of cereal in front of me. While eating, I call Allison.

“Of course you can stay with us for a couple of days. Leon would love it. You haven’t been over in a while.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I look forward to seeing him . . . and you.” I push past the pain in my chest. “Tell him he’s one of my favorite people in the world.”

“I don’t need to tell him that,” Allison says. “He knows.”

“He better not forget it.”

“I don’t think that’s possible. He adores you.” Allison pauses. “I’m sorry, I have to get to work. I’ll see you later, sweets.”

After the call I finish off my cereal and clean the apartment from top to bottom. By 10:00 a.m. I’m exhausted and tired of being inside. To distract myself, I call someone I haven’t talked to in years.

After my stepfather threw me out, I stayed in a church homeless shelter for a week until a woman named Deena Neeson walked into the shelter and offered me a better place. Mother Care was another homeless shelter, but only for pregnant women. They offered accommodation only until the birth. All fifteen of us were well taken care off, fed and clothed and given medical attention. Verla, Deena’s sister, was a medical doctor who took care of our prenatal needs.

At the time, I considered myself lucky to have found such a place, but late at night I still hoped and prayed that Derrick would change his mind about being a father and find me. That he would tell me he’d made a mistake and needed my forgiveness. He never showed up and he no longer responded to my letters. I never told anyone at Mother Care that I was carrying Derrick LaClaire’s baby, in case they decided I didn’t need their help after all, since the family of my baby’s father owned half the town.

I haven’t talked to Deena or her sister, Verla, since I left six years ago. We didn’t part on good terms but I do owe her a thank you for giving me a home for a short while when I had nowhere else to go, for being the mother I never had. I need to apologize for the way I acted when we parted. I’ve thought of calling many times over the years, but I never got the courage. Until now.

A woman introducing herself as Deena’s personal assistant answers the phone.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mrs. Neeson is busy at the moment.” The woman’s voice is so soft I have to press the phone as hard as I can to my ear.

“Did you mention my name to her? I’m Brooke Rayner.”

“I did, ma’am.” Annoyance taints the edge of her voice.

“I understand.” My heart sinks. “What time do you think she’ll be free? I can call back later during the day.”

“I’m afraid she’s tied up for most of the day.” Her voice is suddenly high pitched, grating my ears. “Miss Rayner, I have to go. I have another call coming in.”

“Ummm . . . okay. Goodbye.”

As I hang up, grief and disappointment tear at my heart. I was hoping to talk to someone who understands what I’d been through. Who better than Deena Neeson? She and her sister had been so kind and caring during my pregnancy, but after the birth, I became a burden. I begged for them to let me stay even after the birth, to help out. But in the fragile state I was in, Deena insisted I wouldn’t be able to care for anyone. My body tenses just thinking about my outbursts when I was asked to leave, pushed out of another place I called home.

Pushing the phone under my pillow, I decide I might pay them a visit sometime, to apologize face-to-face.

16

Derrick

My breath is hot inside the helmet as I push the Aston Martin Vulcan’s engine to its limit. Obeying my commands, it jerks forward, cutting through the morning air like a silver razor blade.

When I come to a curve, I swerve hard—too hard—as the car threatens to tip onto its side. The sound of the engine drowns those inside my head, dilutes the confusion inside my heart. My focus is on the racetrack rather than on the images of Brooke which had been tormenting me since the last time I saw her, three days ago. For me to focus on racing, the world has to melt away.

The thought of waiting like an idiot outside her apartment still humiliates and infuriates me. A normal person would walk away, but not me. There’s something she’s hiding and I will find out what it is. A weekend in New York had been a welcome distraction, a chance for me to gather my thoughts before striking again.

The race comes to an end with a screech of tires. My adrenaline still pumping, I rise out of the car and lift the helmet off my head. The fresh air brushes through my hair and cools my face as I shake hands with the guys who came to practice with me, and walk away, pulling my phone from my pocket.

There’s a missed call from Mitch. I call him back.

“Is she back at her apartment?” I wipe sweat off my forehead with a handkerchief. I’d asked Mitch to keep an eye on Brooke for me. Last night, he mentioned that she had not been at her apartment for a few days and a part of me can’t help but be worried. She’s a prostitute, for God’s sake. Who knows what kinds of men pay for her services? Some could be downright dangerous. It’s normal for anyone to be worried.

“Your girl is determined to stay away from you.” Mitch chuckles. “So, no, she hasn’t shown up. But I know she’s staying with a woman named Allison Winters.”

“Quit calling her my girl, and send me a text message with the address.” As I say the words, I’m already hurrying out of Leo Bartolini Racing, heading for my car.

“You’re going to her, aren’t you? You do know that that makes you officially a stalker, right?” 

“And what does following her around make you?” I can’t help a smile forming on my face.

“In case you’re forgetting, I have a license to do this sort of thing. What that makes me is a damn good detective.”

“Goodbye, Mitch. I’ll call you when I get back to Boston.”

Bruce is in the car, reading the New York Times. No matter how many times I tell him he can get out to stretch his legs, he refuses, claiming he wants to be ready to go at all times. The only time he steps away is to have a quick bathroom break.

“Hey, boss. Did you have fun?” He folds up the paper and leans back in his seat, hands on the wheel.

“Cut the boss crap and drive.”

He shakes with laughter. “Where do we go from here?”

“To the hotel to get our stuff. After that, we’re returning to Boston.” I fasten my seatbelt.

Bruce glances into the rearview mirror. “I thought you wanted to remain in New York for two more days.”

“That’s what I thought too.” I glance out at the busy street. “Plans have a way of changing.”

“Is everything all right? Did something happen back home?”

“Everything is fine. I just need to get to Boston as soon as possible. I have business to take care of.” I lean back in my seat and feel the sweat on my back. “I might need to take a quick shower first, though.”

“Why do I get the feeling this has something to do with the prostitute?”

“No offense, my friend, but I’d rather not talk about it.” I’m not in the mood to have yet another person telling me I’m falling in love with Brooke, when I’m only looking out for her.

I’ve come to the conclusion that after the pain I’d caused her in the past, this is the only way I know how to make it up to her.

On the way to the hotel, I call her number again for perhaps the hundredth time since I last saw her. She still doesn’t pick up and I don’t blame her. But this time, I call again immediately after it goes to voicemail. I jerk with surprise when she picks up.

“Brooke, are you there?”

She doesn’t respond. The only thing that gets through the line is the sound of her breathing.

“Brooke, please, say something. Talk to me.” I grip the phone tight, transferring the sweat from my hand to the cell phone.

“I have nothing to say to you, Derrick. Please, stop contacting me.”

I hate to admit it, but her rejection cuts deep.

17

Brooke

“Allison, go to work. I really don’t mind taking care of him.” I fold my arms and lean against the wall, watching Allison perched on the edge of Leon’s pirate ship bed.

I’d planned on returning to my place two days ago, but when Leon got sick, I offered to look after him during the day while Allison is at work.

“Are you sure it’s not too much? I don’t want to take advantage.” She brushes the hair from Leon’s face and gives him a kiss on the forehead, her blonde, wavy hair covering both of them like a curtain. “You’ve done so much for us already.”

“That’s a joke, right?” I shake my head. “You do a lot for me all the time. Seriously, I’d be a mess without you in my life.”

“I doubt it. You’re the strongest person I’ve ever known.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

Allison rises from the bed, stretching to her full 5’11″ height. She doesn’t only have the height of a model, she has the body to match. And the most beautiful heart.

“Give yourself more credit.” Allison pulls the Superman bedsheet up to Leon’s neck and gives him another kiss.

“Mommy, my head hurts.” Leon’s voice is barely a croak. As soon as the words come out, he starts to cough uncontrollably. I feel sorry for the little man. Bronchitis is a pain. I had it several times as a child.

“I’m sorry, baby. You’ll feel better soon.” Allison places a hand on his forehead. “Is he still burning up?”

“Are you sure you don’t want to take him to the doctor again?”

“I don’t know. He said to come back in three days, if he doesn’t improve.” Allison folds her arms in front of her chest. “If he doesn’t feel better by tomorrow, I’ll take him.”

I close the colorful blinds of Leon’s window to keep out the harsh morning sunlight, and turn back to Allison. “Go get ready for work. I’ve got this.”

“You’re a rock star.” She plants a kiss on my cheek and leaves me standing in Leon’s room.

The weight of grief lowers me onto the edge of Leon’s bed, I place a hand on his small, curled up body. “Mommy will be back before you know it. We’re going to have a lot of fun together, like we did yesterday.”

“Can we play Memory?” he asks.

In the space between his question and my response, the sound of the shower being turned on rushes across the hall. “Of course. Now, rest a little bit. When you wake up we’ll play anything you like.” I smooth his hair with the palm of my hand.

A smile curls his lips. “But don’t let me win because I’m sick.”

“I never let you win.” I hide a smile. “You’re so much better than me. Now get some sleep.”

The doorbell rings the moment the rush of water in the bathroom stops. I go to answer the door, expecting it to be one of Allison’s packages. Like me, she does most of her shopping online. I prefer to shop on the internet especially when I purchase sexy lingerie for work.

No mailman. No package. The man standing in front of me is Derrick, the person I never wanted to see again.

“What are you doing here?” I fold my arms across my chest, feeling suddenly cold.

“I came to see you.”

“Please leave and don’t come back. And stop following me around.” I attempt to close the door, but he shoves his foot in the crack between the door and the frame. “I need to talk to you, Brooke. I know you’re pissed at me. But please hear me out.” He glances over my shoulder into the apartment. “Can I come in?”

“It’s not my place. I’m only a guest here.”

He steps back. “Then meet me for breakfast in an hour.”

“I can’t. I have responsibilities.” I glare at him. “Unfortunately, you wouldn’t know much about responsibilities.”

“Brooke,” Allison’s voice comes from behind me and I turn, my hand still on the door handle. I glance over my shoulder to find her behind me, looking like an angel in a white towel. Since the door is open only a fraction, Derrick can’t see her.

I manage to decipher the message she’s trying to tell me with her frantic hand gestures. “Go,” she mouths.

I stare at her, wanting her to read from my expression that I can’t leave Leon and make her stay home from work.

I close the door just enough to hide my face from Derrick and turn to Allison. “I don’t want anything to do with him.”

“You need closure. Go and get it.” Her whisper is so loud I wouldn’t be surprised if Derrick heard.

I let out a breath, and open the door wide again. “Where do you want to meet me?”

“Be at The LaClaire Restaurant in an hour.” He plants his hands on both sides of the door. “Brooke, I prefer your real hair. You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” I say reluctantly and close the door. I glare at Allison, who looks pleased with herself. “Why did you put me on the spot like that?”

“Like I said, you need closure. You’ll never get past this if you don’t talk to him. Your anger toward him is eating you up inside.”

“I’ve had this anger for years and I’m fine.”

“Look,” she tightens the towel around her body. “You’re not doing this for him. If you ever choose to forgive him, you’re doing it for yourself. Forgiveness is a form of healing.”

“I don’t know what I’ll say to him,” I say, my shoulders slumping forward.

“You don’t have to hide your feelings. Be as honest as you can, pour out your anger. Let him deal with it.”

“Fine.” I run a hand through my hair. “But I can’t promise I’ll tell him about Eric. He made the choice not to be a part of my son’s life.”

“I guess seeing him is a good start.”

“Are you sure you’ll be able to stay home today? Seriously, I really don’t have to go. You and Leon are my priority, not Derrick.”

“No, it should be fine. I’ll get a substitute teacher to teach my geography class. You go and do what you have to do.”

“Actually, there’s no reason why you should stay home the entire day. The LaClaire is not far from here. I should be back in about an hour. You could still go to work then, if you want.”

“That would work. Thanks so much.” She chews on a fingernail as she always does when uncomfortable. “But Brooke, after today, I think you should return to your apartment.” She pauses. “Don’t get me wrong. We love having you here. It’s just that you shouldn’t let him stop you from living.”

“You’re right,” I say. “You’re so right. I won’t let him chase me out of my own home.”

18

Brooke

I walk into The LaClaire Restaurant to find it empty except for two waitresses. No customers are sitting around the damask-covered tables under the crystal chandeliers hanging from the high ceiling.

My heart lightens. Did Derrick decide not to come after all? He’s not here and I happen to be ten minutes late.

I consider walking back out the door before he shows up. If he really wanted to talk, he would have been here. Avoiding eye contact with the waitresses, I turn to head back to the glass doors.

A woman’s voice stops me in my tracks. I turn around to find a forty-something-year-old woman walking toward me with a warm smile.

“Are you Miss Rayner?”

“Yes, I am.” I shift, wanting to ignore her and walk away.

“Mr. LaClaire is waiting for you on the terrace. You can go right ahead.”

I curse inwardly but nod. “Thanks.” I hold my handbag closer to my body and follow her through the empty restaurant, nodding at the other waitresses as they greet me.

The first thing I see, once we exit the interior dining area, is a buffet of everything one can imagine to have for breakfast, at the table where Derrick is sitting.

“You’re late.” He gets to his feet. “But it’s fine. I have all the time in the world.”

He pulls out a chair for me and I sink into it before my knees give way. “I don’t.”

“I appreciate you coming to meet me.” He sits back in his chair. He’s wearing a crisp white shirt with blue white-washed jeans. He looks fresh and relaxed.

Hot fury flushes through my body. He has lived his life so carefree, doing what he likes while I went through hell. “Please have something to eat while we talk. I thought maybe you might be hungry.”

I place my handbag on my lap and hug it, needing something to comfort me, to shield me from my discomfort. “It’s okay, I’m not hungry.” I try not to look at all the food, try not to smell the bacon, the eggs.

“You sure?”

“I’ll just have a drink.” I reach for a glass of orange juice, the glass cold beneath my fingers as I lift it to my lips. It takes all my energy to keep it from sloshing as my hands shake. I take a sip and put it down again. “What do you want from me?”

He leans back in his chair. “First, I want to tell you that I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what exactly, Derrick?”

“I didn’t have the right to follow you and to show up at your friend’s place unannounced. I went too far.”

“You’re right, you had no right.” I drink more juice, the coolness melting the heat of anger building in my belly. “I wish you would leave me alone.”

“Look, I let you down. I was a kid and I was a jerk. But the fact that you’re working at The Mirage tells me that you’re having some kind of troubles and even though we’re not friends or anything, I do care about you.”

“Care about me?” My eyes blaze in his direction. “Suddenly you care about me?”

“Yes, I do.” He flings out a beige napkin and places it on his knee. He pours himself a coffee. Through the steam rising from the cup, I watch his face. There’s no remorse there. “Why is that so hard to believe?” he asks.

“You’re such an asshole. You think I can close my eyes and pretend the past never happened?”

He puts down the cup and reaches across the table for my hands but I snatch them away, almost knocking over the orange juice. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

“I had no idea I hurt you this bad.” He rubs the back of his neck. “For what it’s worth, I truly am sorry. I know it’s coming a little too late, but I really hoped you would still take my apology and allow me to make it up to you.”

“I don’t know what you can do to make it up to me. Too much has happened.” I push back my chair and get to my feet. “I’m sorry, I can’t look at you. It hurts too much.”

I blink away the moisture clouding my eyes. I refuse for him to see my pain. “I never want to see you again. If you dare follow me again, I will call the police.” I step away from the table and turn to leave.

“I know you’re in financial trouble.” He pauses to allow his words to sink in. “You’re in debt.”

I turn around slowly, fire burning in my chest. “You’re getting into my business now? You’re so full of shit.” My temperature rises as I imagine him making calls to find out private information about me.

“You wouldn’t talk to me, so I had to find out what’s going on.” He leans back in his chair. “I want to help. Let me pay off everything you owe.”

As much as I want to rush out of the restaurant, I can’t move. So I stand there, frozen, goosebumps scattering on my arms. “You . . . You want to pay—”

“It’s the least I can do. Please, come and sit . . . talk to me.”

I do as he says only because my legs won’t let me stand longer and I’m too shocked by his offer to even do something as simple as walking. “Who gave you the right to get into my business?” I should be glad, grateful that he wants to help, grateful that I no longer have to do things I’m not proud of to pay off my debts and save for college. But at the same time, he has invaded my privacy. He opened the door to my life and walked right in like he owns it.

“You need help. I have the money, and I’d be glad to spend it on you.” His eyes soften as he reaches for my hand again. The heat of his hand seeps through my skin and I want to pull away but I can’t. I’m frozen. I’m not sure how I feel at this moment. I’m both furious and relieved. I lean forward and rest my head on the table, my eyes closed. He puts a hand at the back of my head and I lift my face, smothering a sob. “Why are you doing this? Why now?” I whisper.

“It’s hard for me to imagine you selling your body for money. You must’ve gone through a lot.”

“What do you know about my life? What do you know about what I went through?”

“Not much, I have to admit. I’m sorry, Brooke.”

I shake my head. “Why should I accept your money?”

“Would you rather be drowning in debt than accept my help?” He reaches for his phone. “I know it was wrong to get in your business but—”

“Damn right, it’s none of your business.” I clench my hands, my nails digging into my palms. “You know what? Fine. I’ll take your money, but I want to pay you back every penny.”

“I don’t want you to pay me back. It’s a gift. I’m offering you my help, expecting nothing in return.” His phone rings. He glances at it but does not pick up. “I’m not asking anything from you. I can have the money wired to your account by tomorrow morning. After today, you don’t even have to see me again. But, promise me, to never go back to The Mirage. Start over. There are so many things you can still do with your life.”

“There are many things I wanted to do with my life, but I didn’t get the chance because I had to focus on survival. If I choose to return to The Mirage, it’s my choice. And I will pay you back. I don’t care how long it takes. I refuse to be indebted to you. You never wanted to be a part of our lives and I don’t know why that should change now.” I swipe away the tears, furious at them for unveiling my weakness. “I needed you.” I choke on the words. “He needed you.”

A crease appears between his eyebrows. “What are you saying? Who needed me?”

“Eric, that’s who. He needed you and you were not there. You chose not to be there. So why are you here now? Is your guilt too heavy to bear?”

“Who the fuck is Eric?” His phone rings again and he presses a button to silence it, eyes filled with questions. “What’s going on here?”

I moisten my lips. Of course he doesn’t know Eric’s name because I never told him. “Eric . . . our son.” I purse my lips. “The name reminded me of—”

“Derrick.” The phone falls from his hand and hits the table with a thud. When he speaks, his voice is damaged. “Our son?”

19

Derrick

“I have a son?” A few little words and my head feels about to explode. “How could that be? We used a condom.” I search through my memories of the day we had sex, looking for a clue as to how she could have gotten pregnant, but I don’t recall the condom breaking. Could I have put it on wrong? A manufacturing error perhaps?

She narrows her eyes, confusion clouding her features. “I don’t know the answer to that question. All I know is that I got pregnant and you were the—” she chews on her bottom lip. “You were the first guy I slept with.”

Her revelation pushes me off the roller coaster that’s my emotions and I hit the ground hard. “I’m so sorry . . . I had no idea.” Now I feel like even more of a dick for fucking her and walking away.

She leans forward in her chair, her eyes darkening. “What game are you playing, Derrick?”

I push myself to my feet, plant my hands on the table. “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that question?” Overcome with rage and confusion, I stumble back until my back hits the cool, metal railing of the terrace. My hands grip the railing so tight, the blood drains from my knuckles.

Brooke’s eyes widen at the same time her cheeks fill with color. Beads of tears tremble on her eyelids. “I don’t understand.”

“That makes two of us,” I shoot back.

“You knew about Eric.” She shakes her head. “Why the hell are you pretending not to know?” The hurt and confusion in her eyes and words gives me pause but I charge forward in my anger, seeing only red. I move forward again, grab the edge of the table. “How would I know? You never said a word. You went away, remember? You disappeared from Magnolia High without saying a word. So tell me, how exactly should I know about the pregnancy?”

She gets to her feet but sinks back into her chair, moving her hands up and down her upper arms, rubbing away the goosebumps. “I told you.” Her whisper is broken. “I told you, Derrick.” Maybe she thinks if she repeats it enough times, I’ll believe it. The only thing it does, is infuriate me even more.

I pull out my chair hard and crash into it. I grab a cup, fill it with coffee and drain it while it’s still a bit too hot. If only the caffeine could drive off the headache erupting inside my head. “Repeat that. Repeat what you just said.” I lean forward, barely seeing her through the sudden blur in my vision.

“I said I told you and you didn’t want to be involved. You said you had other plans for your life, that you were not ready to be a father.” She grabs a napkin and blows her nose then crumples it in her hand, clenching it tight.

I swipe a hand across my mouth. “That’s ridiculous. How could I have said those words to you when we didn’t talk since—”

“You said it in a letter.” She jams a hand into her bag and pulls out a clear bag with torn papers inside. A knot at the top keeps everything contained.

She dumps the plastic bag on the table and points at it with a trembling finger. “There, those are your words.”

My phone rings as I reach for the bag. Cursing under my breath, I pick up. “What?”

“Hey, Derrick, it’s me, Bryant. Why the fuck won’t you pick up your calls? I’ve been trying to reach you all morning.” Bryant’s voice sounds strained on the other end.

“This is not a good time.” I grit my teeth. “I have a life, too, in case you didn’t notice.”

“Put it on pause. Lance needs you. He needs us.”

I rise again and walk over to the railings. My eyes focus on the spray fountain below. “What’s up with him?”

“He’s in the hospital. He overdosed on his pain medication.”

My hand clutches the railing as the blood drains from my face. “Is he okay?” My voice is a rumble inside my throat.

“He’s stable but he’s being kept in the hospital for the next few days for observation. I think we should all change our plans and get to Cabo sooner than planned.”

“You think it was intentional?”

“He says no, but who the hell knows? But it happened. Now we have to get through it as a family.”

“I agree.” I glance at Brooke for a moment before turning away again. “I’ll be on my way. Where are you?”

“We’re in Hawaii. But we’ll be leaving immediately.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You think he’ll be fine until we get there?”

“Jia is watching him like a hawk. I also had a chat with the doctors. He’s in great hands.

“That’s good. I’ll be on my way soon.”

As soon as we hang up, I call the LaClaire jet pilot. “Get the plane ready. We’re flying to Mexico. We should be in the air within an hour.”

After the call, I return my attention to Brooke. I’m still reeling from her news.

“My brother, Lance, is in the hospital in Mexico. I have to go and see him.”

“Sorry to hear that,” The dagger of steel has disappeared from her voice. “Go and be with your brother. There’s nothing more for us to talk about, anyway.”

“Wrong.” I pour myself another coffee and down it. “My driver will take you to your place. Pack a bag, get my son, and we’ll continue this conversation on the plane.”

“That’s not possible. I have—”

“I don’t care what you have to do. Make it happen. You owe me that much. If it’s work you’re worried about, I’ll pay you for your time.”

“Don’t you get it? I cannot go to Mexico with you.” She pushes back her shoulders. “I won’t put my life on hold because Derrick LaClaire demands it.”

“I’m paying off your debts. You no longer need that job.”

“I’ll be the one to decide that.” She runs a hand through her hair. “You can’t tell me what to do.”

“Fine.” Annoyance scorches the back of my throat. “Get on the plane with me—you and my son—and once we reach Mexico, you can either decide to stay in Cabo or the pilot will bring you back here. If that’s what you want.” I set my jaw so tight it aches. “This conversation is going to happen, whether you want it or not. Make sure you bring my kid.” Before I speak again, I run my tongue around my mouth to combat the dryness. “I also need your account details.”

To my surprise, she nods and pushes her chair back.

“One of my drivers is waiting for you outside the restaurant. I’ll see you at the jet in half an hour.”

Brooke doesn’t speak as she walks away without looking back. Watching her disappear into the restaurant, I call Bruce to give him the instructions.

My eyes fall onto the plastic bag with the torn papers. As though in slow motion, I lift it from the table, raising it to the level of my eyes, studying its contents without opening it.

Having no time to deal with this right now, I stuff it into my pocket and rush out of the restaurant and into the underground garage, where I’d parked my Mercedes E-class, three months ago.

As I drive through town, Brooke’s words ring over and over in my ears. Eric. Eric. Eric. I have a son and his name is Eric and I’m only finding out now?

One day of passion made me a father and I was none the wiser. I feel insulted and betrayed, but at the same time, the core of my heart is heating up with something I’ve never experienced before. Something warm, comforting.

I’d never planned on having children, not for a while at least. I’m only twenty-four, for God’s sake. But weirdly enough, I’m not reacting the way I thought I would in this kind of situation. Fear is the last thing on my mind.

20

Brooke

I step into my apartment, slamming the door, leaning against it before sinking to the floor, my head in my hands. Derrick’s driver is waiting downstairs. We don’t have much time but I need a moment alone.

How could Derrick pretend he didn’t know about Eric, after all the letters I sent, after his response? He’s the one playing games and he thinks I’m the one at fault.

Still trembling on the floor, I pull out my phone and call Allison. In a few words, I explain what had happened.

She doesn’t respond immediately. In the silence Leon’s tiny voice asks if mommy is sad. “Brooke, what if he’s telling the truth? What if he really doesn’t?”

“What if he really doesn’t what?”

“What if he doesn’t know about Eric?”

“That’s impossible. You know I’m not lying. I mean, you saw the letter he wrote.” A ball of frustration builds inside my chest. “He’s the one who’s lying.”

“Honey, from what you’re telling me, he sounds really pissed off. If he’s that angry, maybe there’s some other explanation.”

I massage my forehead with my fingertips. “I don’t see what other explanation there could be. He made it clear he didn’t want Eric.” My teeth sink into my lip so hard it starts to throb like my pulse.

“Calm down, sweetheart.” Allison pauses. “What does he want you to do now?”

“Apparently his brother is in a hospital in Mexico. He wants me to fly with him there.”

“What for?”

“Apparently to finish our conversation. The phone call came while we were talking.”

“So he wants you to accompany him?” She clears her throat. “For how long?”

I raise my shoulders and let them drop. “He didn’t say. He said if I decide I don’t want to stay in Mexico, as soon as we land, he’ll get off the jet and his pilot will bring me back to Boston.”

“You might not want to hear this, but I think you should go.”

“But I promised to look after Leon.”

“You don’t need to. I’ve decided to take the rest of the week off. I already called the school.”

“How is he feeling?”

“He says he feels a little better. At least the fever is gone for now.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” I chew my knuckle. “I’m still not sure about this Mexico thing though. You really think I should go?”

“I think you should go. Do as he says, at least until he pays off your debts. And don’t feel guilty about taking his money. He owes you big time. With your debts paid off, you’ll be able to save more for your education.”

“Fine, I’ll go. But I won’t stay in Cabo with him.”

“Do whatever your heart tells you. Let’s talk when you get back.”

I get my documents together and I’m about to leave the room when I spot one of my bras for work, hanging on the back of my desk chair. I remove my phone from my purse and call Hector.

“Hi there, Brooke. You’re not sick, are you? You don’t sound well.”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“Fantastic. So why are you calling? You’re supposed to be getting your beauty sleep so you can be refreshed by tonight.”

I swallow hard. “I’m sorry, Hector. But I’m calling to let you know that I’m not coming back. I quit.”

“What do you mean you quit? You can’t just quit.”

“Yes, I can. And I just did. I’m sorry, but you know the only reason I wanted to work for you was because I was desperate.”

“Yes, what changed?”

“My financial situation has changed.”

“You’re kidding, right? You can’t do this to me. I have you booked in the white room several times tonight.”

“Get one of the other ladies to take my place.” I sigh. “I have to go. I’ll call you in a few hours to explain. I’m really sorry about this.”

The doorbell rings and I run out of the apartment, rehearsing how I would explain Eric’s absence to Derrick.

“Sorry I took so long,” I say as I slide into the passenger’s seat. “I needed to take care of a few things.”

“That’s fine.” The driver’s eyes glance at my hands. “You’re not taking a bag?”

“No.” I glance out the window. “I don’t intend to stay in Mexico.”

“Very well. Let’s get going.” He turns the key in the ignition.

The airfield is only ten minutes from my apartment.

The jet is white and sleek, with the LaClaire logo on its tail.

A rush of dizziness sweeps through me as I climb up the steps. My life is about to change. If he keeps his promise, by the end of the day, I’ll be debt-free. The idea of being financially free makes my head spin. I’d be able to focus entirely on saving up for my studies without the debts swallowing up most of my income.

The interior of the jet resembles a luxury, spacious living room and it’s much bigger than my little apartment.

“I’m glad you decided to come.” Derrick’s tone is flat, dry. He points to one of the leather seats. “Have a seat.” He glances at my hands, the way his driver did. “You’re not staying in Mexico, are you?” A dark cloud flits across his features. “Where’s my son?”

“He’s not coming. And yes, I’m not staying in Mexico. I’m only here to tell you whatever you want to hear. I want your pilot to bring me back.”

“When I get back from Mexico, I want to see him.” His phone rings and he picks up.

I ease myself into the leather chair with a sigh of relief.

We don’t speak again as the jet lifts into the sky. Derrick is on the phone with one of his brothers for quite a while. When he’s done, he offers me a glass of lemonade. I take the glass from him, searching his face for signs of guilt. I see only sadness.

“You should have brought him.” He runs a hand down one side of his face. “I wanted to see him. Don’t you think you’ve kept him from me long enough?”

“First, explain to me why you didn’t want anything to do with him in the first place.”

“Like I said before, I had no idea you were pregnant.”

“The proof that I’m telling the truth is in the bag I left you.” On second thought, maybe I shouldn’t have ripped up the letter.

He digs into his pocket and pulls out the bag filled with pieces of his letter. “This here tells me nothing. You tell me the truth. I want to hear it from you.”

“When I found out about the pregnancy I tried to talk to you at school, but you were clearly no longer interested in me, after getting what you wanted. So, I left you alone. I had to drop out of school a year before graduation because my life had changed.” I blow out a short breath to gain control. “A few days after I left, I felt bad for not trying harder to speak to you. I thought you might want to know. So, I found the address of one of your family businesses on the internet and sent you a letter.”

“And you say I responded to the letter?”

I nod. “You did. And you made it clear that it was my problem.”

“Why the hell would I do that? Do you think I am some kind of monster or something?” His entire face is tight with rage.

“That’s what I thought at the time. I was hurt and angry, but I had to suck it up and pull myself together for the sake of the child I was bringing into the world.”

“Let’s be clear about one thing, Brooke.” He plants his hands on the armrests of his seat. “I never got a letter from you.”

“Then what’s that?” I point at the bag next to him. “Why don’t you go ahead and piece that letter together, read it. After that, tell me if I’m a liar.”

“Answer me one question first.” He tilts his head to the side, eyes narrowed. “Where the hell is my son? Why isn’t he here?”

“Because he can’t be.” I reach into my handbag and pull out a picture frame, stare at it for a moment, and hand it to him.

“What’s this?”

His question feels like a knife to my heart. “It’s his sonogram picture.”

He looks up at me, his lips set in a thin line. “Please tell me you didn’t give him up for adoption.”

I shut my eyes tight. “No, Derrick. I didn’t. Eric is dead. He was stillborn.” I lower my gaze to the picture frame. “That’s all I have left of him. That, and memories of how he felt inside me.”

“No.” Derrick’s eyes widen. “He’s dead?”

21

Derrick

In heartbreaking silence I watch as Brooke slumps forward, hands around her stomach as she breaks down. I should go to her, do something to make her feel better. She lost a child. I lost a child. We lost a child.

How is it possible that in one moment I discover that I’m a father, and in the next I find out my son is dead? Here I was thinking being a dad wouldn’t be too bad. On the way to the airfield I’d imagined how it would be to meet my boy for the first time. I’d been calm about it, excited even. Now it’s over. If I feel this much pain about a baby I never got to meet, how must she be feeling? She carried him for nine months.

Feeling as though I’m wading through water, I rise from my seat and go to stand next to her. I hesitate for a split second before placing a hand on her head. She lifts her head a fraction, then drops it again. I bend down in front of her, the sudden need to see her eyes burning through me.

“Please, please look at me.”

Her eyes are tinted red as her gaze meets mine. “You really didn’t know about—”

I place a hand under her chin. Her tears trickle into my palm. “I swear to God, Brooke. I had no idea.”

“But—the letter.” Her lips tremble.

I glance at the little bag. “I don’t know who wrote it, but it wasn’t me.” I make a mental note to get to the bottom of it later.

“You really didn’t know?” The dark cloud of resentment that had tainted her eyes since she found me waiting on her doorstep, lifts. Of all the girls I met, she has the most beautiful eyes. Even though I never meant for memories of her to stay with me beyond the moment we spent together, the image of the warm, coppery tint of her eyes remained with me.

She must have been wearing contact lenses at The Mirage because the eyes looking back at me had been china blue. If she had shown me her real eyes, I would have recognized her instantly. I would have remembered. As she looks at me now, the beauty of her eyes drowns in pain.

She’s no longer the strong woman who told me to back off. She’s back to being the girl I knew back then. My heart clenches at the thought of how I treated her. I may not have turned my back on her concerning the baby, but I used her. I took what I wanted and moved on, without thinking of her feelings.

I place both hands on her cheeks. “I’m sorry.” My voice is low and tortured. “I was a stupid kid in high school. I treated girls like shit. I only saw them as a piece of ass.” Disgust rolls through me. Disgust for sleeping with prostitutes, most of whom have gone through shit and turned to prostitution out of desperation. I always paid them well, but still I saw them as objects, there only to satisfy my needs.

“Please forgive me.” I smooth back her hair. “I’m sorry for everything.” Lance was right. Brooke is my weakness, the one forcing me to stop and put myself under a magnifying glass, finding nothing I like there. “Please promise me you won’t return to The Mirage.”

She gives me a watery smile. “I don’t need to. If you’re still paying off my debts.”

“I keep my promises.” Feeling heavier than I’d ever felt before, I sit next to her on the couch. I’m no longer touching her but I still sense a connection between us, one that trumps physical contact. Our son may be dead, but he left something behind. He bound us together.

I don’t dare think about where we’ll go from here but I’m starting to see that the desires my conscious and subconscious mind have aren’t aligned. I place my hands on my knees, tip my head back and close my eyes.

“Please, tell me everything.” My voice is a croak inside my throat.

She shifts beside me and doesn’t answer immediately. When she does, her words come out in splinters. ”What . . . what do you want to know?”

“Start with the day he was born.”

“He was born in a women’s shelter.”

“A shelter?” My eyes fly open. I twist to face her. Before thoughts take over, I reach for her hand. It’s cool and small in mine. “I’m so sorry.”

She drops her head. A strand of her hair hangs in front of her face, swaying as she breathes in and out. “When my stepfather found out I was pregnant, he threw me out. I had nowhere to go. I stayed for a while in a homeless shelter. While there, I met a woman who took me to a shelter for pregnant women. She took me under her wing.”

Her words, her pain hit me so hard I curl my hands into fists. I normally pride myself on being fearless and strong, but I’ve never felt as weak as I feel now. Weak and furious that I wasn’t given the chance to lighten her load, a load she had to carry because of what I’d done to her. “How long did you stay at the shelter?”

“Until Eric was born. I mean when he . . .” She blinks several times. “After the stillbirth, I lost it. I was in a dark hole. I wanted the pain to go away.”

“What did you do?”

“I took pain medication. I thought . . . I thought I’d feel better. I only got worse and I became addicted—”

“Jesus.” Clenching my teeth, I slam a fist into my thigh. I reach for her, hold her tight to my body. My eyes heat up again. “Stop. If it hurts too much, you can stop.”

“I don’t.—I don’t want to stop.” She draws her feet onto the couch, hugging her legs, her chin resting on her knees. “It helps a little.” She pauses before speaking again. “It got so bad that I was forced out of the shelter. On the streets, I was completely alone, and my depression made it hard for me to hold down a job. Each time I thought of my baby, my world plunged into darkness.”

I’m holding my breath as I take the framed photo from the couch and grip it hard. Fire burns in my eyes as I walk away without a word.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

I don’t answer because a rock inside my throat is blocking the words from coming out. I keep walking until I find myself locked inside the bathroom, surrounded by expensive wood, marble, and fabrics, feeling like shit. Still holding the sonogram photo, I close my eyes and press my forehead into the wall. I give myself permission to cry.

I allow myself ten minutes alone, imagining the pain Brooke had to endure. The torture I feel doesn’t even come close to how she must have felt. That’s why I pull myself together and exit the bathroom. She needs me now. I wasn’t there when she needed me most, but I’m here now.

I find her gazing out of the small window of the plane. For a few seconds, I stop to stare. In spite of what she has gone through, she’s even more beautiful than she was in school. I imagine her sitting there with a baby in her arms. An invisible knife rams into my gut and twists.

I don’t think as I cross the space between us, pull her to her feet. My mouth searches for hers. She tastes of tears and heartache. The only thought that slips through my mind as I lower her onto the comfortable couch and peel her clothes off, is that I want more than anything to erase her pain, even for a moment, to make her feel better the only way I’m able to right now. 

I don’t remember much of what happens between the removal of our clothes and me burying myself into her. But as I slide into her, our foreheads pressed together, our breaths heating up each other’s faces, my hands around her firm ass, holding her together, one thought drops into my mind. I’ve never been one to put down roots, but she feels like home. And for the first time in my life, I’m making love, not just screwing.

In our moment of shared pain, I’ve found something I didn’t know I was searching for. A need that used to send me to all corners of the world, forced me to walk into all kinds of dangers. Something that made me jump off planes, walk on coals, surf on dormant volcanoes, and run from bulls. It’s not something after all. It’s someone. It’s Brooke.

The way I feel now, is the same way I feel when up on a roller coaster. In her arms, I feel the thrill of soaring and the fear of falling. In her arms, my thirst for adventure is finally quenched.

22

Brooke

Funny how emotions change just like that. I’ve spent years running, trying not to get lost, only to lose myself in the man I’ve hated for a long time, the man I never wanted to see again, the man who sliced my heart into two. Now, as I spread my legs wide open, all I want is him, every inch of him. I want him to go deep, to fill the empty spaces within me, to drown in me as I’m drowning in him.

I move my body against him, grinding, arching my back, screaming out his name as I had done at The Mirage. This time I don’t have to hold back. Opening myself wide is both thrilling and terrifying.

My impatience growing to explosive proportions, I wrap my arms tighter around him, my breasts crushing against his hard chest. My lips find the crook of his neck. Nothing has ever tasted better than his sweat. His heart thuds against mine, his breath heats my skin. His dick feels like it was made for my body. As it moves in and out, I’m desperate to give in to the orgasm that begs to be released but I don’t want it to end. But my orgasm wins, spreading like fire inside my belly, roaring and raging before it explodes mere seconds before Derrick also gives in to ecstasy.

His face is pressed into my shoulder as he whispers my name. Something inside me shifts, sliding back into place. The pain becomes a memory, a blur in the distance.

He moves his lips to my ear as we pant in each other’s arms. “Stay.” His voice is muffled against my skin. “Stay with me in Cabo.”

“Okay.” Like emotions, plans have a way of changing out of the blue. I suddenly want to be where he is. If it’s Mexico, so be it.

“You were amazing.” His fingers trace the length of my spine. “You’ll be the death of me, I swear. Woman, you’ve got skills. You’re hands down the best sex I’ve ever had.”

I don’t respond. But something is shifting inside of me again. The piece that had slid into place to complete me, is sliding back out, leaving emptiness behind. Reality doesn’t give me a warning before crashing into me. Some of those things he said sound familiar. Other men said those words to me before, strange men. In a few words, he reminds me of how low I had gone to make money, how dirty I allowed myself to get. He thinks I’m still the innocent girl he used to know.

Even though I don’t intend on prostituting myself ever again, Derrick has seen that part of me. There will be times he might make remarks that remind me of working at The Mirage. Once a prostitute, always a prostitute. The knowledge that Derrick has seen the dirtiest part of me makes me realize as much as I want this beautiful dream, I can’t have it.

I watch him dispose of the condom, as I pick up my panties and get dressed. It hurts to know that everything is different again. For a moment there we had been swept up in a cloud of passion, but it’s only a matter of time before we break each other’s hearts.

“What are you thinking?” He picks up his jeans. “You seem far away in your thoughts.”

“That’s because I am.” I reach for my linen dress. “Derrick, it won’t work.” I lower myself back into the couch.

He sits next to me. “What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.” I close my eyes. “You and I can’t be. There are many painful reasons why this is all we’ll ever have. You’ll always remind me of the baby I lost . . . our baby.”

He takes my hand and holds it tight. “Brooke, after what happened just now, you can’t tell me you want this to be over already.”

“We were never together, not even for a moment. This was all a dream, a chance for both of us to hide for a while. But now it’s over. It was beautiful. I promise you, it was amazing, but I have to go back to the US.”

“You said you’re staying—”

“I want to. I really want to, but I can’t. I have obligations, I have pieces of my life to pick up and fix.”

“You don’t have to struggle anymore. I can take care of you from now on. I’m here now.” He runs his thumb over the top of my hand.

“No.” I give a small smile and withdraw my hand from his. “I won’t let you do more than pay off my debts. I won’t be a kept woman. I prefer to stand on my own two feet. I’m strong enough now to rebuild my own life. Seriously, don’t feel pity for me.”

“It’s not pity I feel for you. What I feel is—” He shakes his head as though he changed his mind about what he was about to say. “I want to be there for you. You’ve suffered so much and I wasn’t there.”

“You weren’t there because you didn’t know. Whatever happened between us in the past, I forgive you. Let’s stop here and start new chapters in our lives. I’ll start fresh and you can continue traveling the world. Continue doing the things you love.” I smile at him. “I’ve read the papers. I know how you love chasing amazing adventures. I won’t be the woman that stops you from living your life to the fullest.”

“Why don’t we write those new chapters together? I don’t want to do those things any more. I now know that I was seeking danger to find a sense of life. And you’ve just shown me what life is all about. That’s what I want. This.”

“This is what you think you want. Tomorrow, you might feel differently. You’re a free soul. I don’t want to chain you.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Is it something I said that made you change your mind? You looked so happy.”

“No, it’s not what you said,” I lie. “But Derrick, don’t forget how we met again, where we met. I was a prostitute. I sold my body to many different men. Would you ever be able to forget that?” The heat of shame fills my cheeks.

“I don’t care what you did. You did what you had to do. I’ll never judge you for that. But I wish you would allow me to make up for the past.”

“You already have, in more ways than I can ever imagine.” It’s not only about the money he’ll give me. Making love to him has repaired me in a way I cannot explain. It has made me realize how much I care for this man and that I have to move away before we both hurt each other. “Whether you like it or not, there will be times where you will think of me as a prostitute, and if not you, then someone else in your life. I don’t want you to live a life of shame on my behalf.”

“They wouldn’t dare.” His nostrils flare. His words should give me the confidence I need to know he will protect me from the world but I’m still terrified.

“You’ll be surprised at how people react to different things.” I slide my gaze from his. “Have you told anyone about me? Your brothers perhaps?”

He doesn’t answer. My heart twitches with pain. That’s all I needed to know. “I’m sorry, but this is how it has to end.” I kiss him on the cheek. “We’re from two different worlds. We have to go our separate ways. But know this, this time, you’re leaving me changed in a good way.”

23

Derrick

“Come on in,” I call out and the door to my bedroom opens.

Grace LaClaire, Bryant’s wife, steps into the room. The flowing, white kaftan she’s wearing makes her look fresh and happy, as happy as she makes Bryant.

My brother had also gone through a lot and Grace had entered his life in time to repair it. I’ve never envied what they had before, but since meeting Brooke and talking about Eric, every time I see them together, every time I watch them gaze into each other’s eyes, an ache unfurls inside my chest. For once, I want what they have. And not just with anybody.

“What have you got there?” In her hand is a sheet of paper that looks as though the pieces have been sewn together, a patchwork.

“This, my friend, is your letter. I’m done.” She closes the door behind her and gives me a bright smile.

“That was fast. I didn’t even think you’ll be able to fix it.”

She comes to sit on the bed and hands it to me. “The hardest part was keeping Bryant from seeing it.”

“Thanks for not telling them.” Grace is the only person in the family I confided in about my story with Brooke, about the baby. The only story the others know is that of the prostitute I was obsessed with for a short while. They don’t know her real name.

I will tell them eventually. They’re my family and they deserve to know that they would have been uncles to a little boy, if he hadn’t died. For now, I want to keep everything to myself, to digest it all, to heal. The last couple of days had been rough but caring for Lance helped distract me.

Yesterday, we drove Lance to a rehab facility on the edge of town because as soon as he got home, he started drinking harder than ever before. He fought us tooth and nail, but in the end we made him see that he was playing a dangerous game with his life. He still insists he had not wanted to commit suicide, but the pills he had taken—which almost killed him—had been washed down with booze to create a deadly cocktail in his system. The doctors said he was lucky to be alive.

Currently, he’s not speaking to any of us, but that’s fine, as long as he’s safe. He can be furious now, but he’ll come around.

“Just so you know, I didn’t read it.” Grace tickles Liam’s foot. Giggles erupt out of her son, who’s lying next to me on the bed.

Liam is a happy little man. The two of us have spent a lot of time together the past week. When I’m with him, I try to get hold of the feeling I would have had if I had been with Eric, how my son would have felt in my arms. Sometimes when Liam giggles, I pretend I’m listening to Eric. At times the sounds in my head are comforting, sometimes they hurt. But I can’t stop, can’t escape the pain of losing my son. Late at night or while running on the beach, I wish Brooke were here to talk to, the one person who truly understands the pain.

I’d failed at convincing her to stay. Since we parted, we had talked on the phone twice. The last had been two days ago, when she thanked me again for paying off her debts and told me it would hurt less if we both let go. She wants to escape the pain and I want to swim in it. As long as she’s not in my life, I’ll continue to drown in agony with no one to save me.

Ignoring her wishes, I called her again last night and this morning. She didn’t pick up or call back. I’d been tempted several times to return to Boston, to show up at her door again unannounced, but I realize that forcing myself into her life won’t change anything. I’ll have to live with the guilt and the regret for the rest of my life, and with the memories of her.

“I wouldn’t have minded if you read it,” I say to Grace. “You already know everything. I’m just curious to know who wrote it.” I glance down at the letter.

“We should leave you alone. You’ve been such an awesome babysitter. But you need some time to process all this. He needs changing, anyway.” Grace lifts Liam off the bed and holds him to her body. He grabs hold of a golden strand of hair and brings it to his mouth, drooling on it. “I’m so sorry again about what happened to your son. I can’t even imagine how you must be feeling.” She reaches down to touch my arm. “If you ever need to talk some more, I’m here. And I won’t say a word to anyone, unless you want me to.”

“I appreciate that, Grace. I’ll tell them when I’m ready. I can’t do it now.”

“I fully understand. By the way, Bryant said dinner will be ready in fifteen minutes. Will you join us?”

“I’ll be down in a bit. I need a minute.”

Grace leaves and I squeeze my eyes shut for a long time, holding onto the letter I supposedly sent Brooke, dreading to read it. Finally, I find the courage and step onto the terrace. Two minutes later, I’m back inside the room, feeling as though I’d been hit by a truck, experiencing Brooke’s pain. I may have been a bad boy, but those words could never have come from me. I still have a heart. I’d never have treated her so callously.

Who the fuck wrote the damn letter? I don’t recognize the handwriting.

Needing to talk to Brooke, I dial her number again. No answer. I leave a message.

“It’s me again. I know you don’t want to hear from me anymore, but I wanted you to know again that I’m sorry. I read the letter. I swear to God those words didn’t come from me. I would never have treated you that way. I apologize for what you went through because of someone else’s cold-heartedness. I’ll find out who it was. I promise you that.

“Please call back. There’s still so much we need to talk about. We can get past this and start fresh. You only need to say the word.”

I hang up and stare at the letter, trying to look past the faded black ink, to decipher the handwriting. Perhaps it would have helped if it had been written in cursive rather than print. Pissed off that I’m getting nowhere, I throw it onto the bed, where it falls next to the phone.

Anger raging through me, I drive my fist into the wall, gritting my teeth as pain explodes through my knuckles.

Maybe I should tell my brothers sooner than later. They might be able to help me figure out who destroyed my life. What if Brooke hadn’t been sent the letter? What if the baby died because of the pain she had been carrying? If someone hadn’t been so determined to keep us apart, maybe Eric would be alive.

The door is pushed open and I swivel around to find Bryant watching me, concern written all over his face. He closes the door. “You okay?” He crosses the distance between us and comes to stand an arm’s-length from me. “Something’s going on with you. Don’t deny it.”

“Yes.” No point in hiding the truth. If Bryant noticed, I’m sure everyone else did as well.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I’ll tell all of you at dinner.”

Bryant folds his arms. “It must be huge. Does it have something to do with Lance? He’ll make it through this, you know. We have to hold on to that. Rehab is a step in the right direction.”

His gaze moves to my bed. He picks up the letter with a frown. “What’s this?”

I consider taking it from him, but I change my mind. Maybe I should go ahead and tell him before everyone else. “This is mom’s handwriting. Why is the letter addressed to someone named Brooke?”

My stomach drops. “Mom? That’s Mom’s? Jesus!”

“Yeah, her fancy handwriting, used only for official correspondence, since she hated typing.” He turns the letter over in his hand. “I’m surprised you don’t remember. Who the hell is Brooke? And why does this letter look like it survived a storm?”

I’m unable to speak from the shock raging through my system. My own mother ruined my life? Why would she do something like that? The year I slept with Brooke, was also the year our parents died. In fact, they died about six months after. Mom carried a devastating secret to her grave. If she had lived longer, would she have told me?

“Derrick, are you with me?” Bryant waves the letter in front of my face. “Who is Brooke?”

“The woman I told you about a while ago . . . from The Mirage.”

“The prostitute?” His brow crinkles with humor. “Why would mom write a letter to a prostitute?”

“Do not call her that.” I jam my hands into my pockets and pace the room. “Mom went to great lengths to keep us apart.”

“I don’t understand. Mom knew—”

“The woman from The Mirage is Brooke Rayner.”

“You’re not serious. You mean your old flame from school?”

“Yeah.” Before talking to Brooke, I wouldn’t have admitted to her being an old flame, just some girl I once fucked. But I guess she’s an old flame. She’d left a little fire burning inside my chest, one that got revealed at the same time the truth came to light. The flame I had been hiding from the world and myself for years.

“I’m sorry, man. It must have been awkward to see her at The Mirage.” He sits on the bed. “But I still don’t get why Mom wrote to her. What did they have to talk about?” Bryant drops into the chair at my desk and flattens the letter on the glass table. “Holy shit.” He looks up with wild eyes. “Derrick, you’re a father?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m not.”

“You mean she lied and Mom knew about it? Was that why she wrote this?”

“She didn’t fucking lie.” The words explode out of my mouth like sharp stones. “She was pregnant with my child.”

Bryant dips his head to the side. “And where’s the child?”

“He’s dead, okay? He is dead and I didn’t get a chance to be there for her because Mom decided to mess with my destiny.” I blink away the heat in my eyes but it refuses to be banished.

“Bro, I’m so sorry.” Bryant comes to put an arm around my shoulders. “What Mom did was wrong. I can’t believe she did something like that. But you shouldn’t keep this to yourself. We’re your family. Don’t carry this burden alone. Come down and tell the others.”

I nod and a few minutes later, we’re all sitting at the dining table, and my brothers are staring at me, stunned by my revelation.

“Mom once said that she was worried some girl may show up at our doorstep claiming to be pregnant with your child.” Caleb reveals. “Maybe she really thought Brooke was lying. And she wanted to protect you.”

“She should’ve let me deal with my own business.” I retort. “She should have insisted on conducting a paternity test to find out the truth. We don’t live in the Stone Age, for God’s sake. What she did destroyed not only one life but three.” I blow out a breath. “She didn’t give a damn.”

My brothers nod, lost for words. Grace wipes her cheek with a napkin.

“Now you all know. I’m out of here.” I toss my napkin onto my plate, on top of the untouched honey-glazed chicken Bryant had prepared, and rise from the table. “I’ll be back next week to see Lance.”

“Where are you going?” Bryant asks, gazing up from feeding Liam his baby food.

“Don’t go and do anything stupid,” Caleb says. “I’m sorry about what happened, but you will make it through. You’re a LaClaire, don’t forget that.”

I shoot him a glance. “It’s easy for you to say. You’re not in my shoes.” My temples throb with rage. “If any of you needs me, I’ll be in Boston.”

“Why don’t you—”

“Let him go, Caleb,” Neal cuts him off. “Time alone helps sometimes.”

Having lost a child himself, Neal is the only one in the position to understand my pain. “Call us when you’re ready,” he continues. “We’re here for you.”

24

Derrick

The day of our parents’ funeral was the last time I stepped into our Beacon Hill family estate. I never thought I’d return before it’s sold. Four months ago, we all decided there’s no use in keeping the property when none of us want to live here, to be surrounded by all the memories of our childhood, to be reminded of Mom and Dad and the pain of their loss.

My childhood home was once my haven. When I walked through the door into the sunlight-splashed rooms, I turned my back on the crap outside and found peace. Not anymore. Now, as I make my way through the hallways, past covered furniture, the air that fills my lungs is tainted by secrets and betrayal.

I stop at the bottom of the stairs, clutch the banister with both hands, and dip my head forward. I lift my head, tighten my jaw and climb the stairs, disturbing dust, sending it swirling upward to my nostrils. Except for covering the furniture, we haven’t touched the house since the day of the funeral. Everything is where Mom and Dad left it.

I ignore the black and white pictures on the walls of our big, happy family. My mother’s face is in most of them and I can’t handle seeing her right now.

Our parents’ living area take up the entire second floor, made up of a room bigger than most people’s apartments, two bathrooms, a gym, and even a small movie theater. Although Mom and Dad were not the kind to rub their wealth into other people’s faces, they did enjoy it.

I plant my hands on the heavy oak door leading into the bedroom, and push it open. More dust is released after years of being trapped. I wave away the dust particles and stride in, halting in the middle of the room. I wish I didn’t have to be here, but I feel this is where the secrets are kept. I need more answers than Brooke could give me.

Above the king-size bed, a painting of my smiling mother covers most of the wall, painted by Lance. My heart clenches at the sight of the woman I used to love, the woman who gave me a family when I had none, the woman who treated me like her own flesh and blood.

I turn away, lift my heavy feet one by one off the carpeted floor. I head for her lavish walk-in closet. I flick on the light. The luxury chandelier’s sparkle is buried beneath a coat of dust but sufficient yellow light pours in. The mirrored walls, creamy-white furnishings with gold accents, frosted glass, and endless rows of hanging space, make Mom’s closet look like a high-end boutique. Except for the fact that it’s empty.

As stated in her will, the clothes, shoes, and jewelry had been donated to several of her favorite charities. She prided herself on being a philanthropist. She used to be an inspiration to all of us. If only I knew then what I know now. How could she have cared for people in need and then turn her back on her own grandchild? Surely she understood the pain of a child rejected by his parents.

Blinded by rage, I charge toward the closet island, grab the crystal knobs, yanking out dresser drawers in my scramble for answers.

Most of the drawers are empty. The jewelry, scarves, perfumes, and other valuable items have long been given away. I don’t stop opening and slamming drawers shut until I find the ones I’m interested in, the ones carrying paperwork.

Receipts, contracts, photographs, notebooks and pens. Nothing that brings me closer to the truth. Even though my other brothers confirmed that the letter was written in Mom’s handwriting, a part of me doesn’t want to believe it. I need to see some other kind of proof that seals the deal.

When I reach the bottom drawer on the right, my breath is coming in hot puffs and my temples are throbbing. It’s locked, and there can only be one reason why. I didn’t come across a key in any of the other drawers. I’m about to turn the whole place upside down searching for it, but the best way to complicate a search is to have no plan.

I drop onto one of the cushioned seats, my gaze sweeping the entire room, thinking of where Mom would hide something as important as the key to her drawer of secrets.

My cell phone rings, cutting through my thoughts.

“Bryant, what’s up?”

“Just checking to see if you’re all right.”

“Don’t worry about me. Life’s just great.” I give a sarcastic laugh.

“It’s okay to admit you’re hurt. I’m your brother. I’m here if—” The sound of a baby crying cuts him off. “I’ve gotta go. Call if you need anything.”

I get to my feet. “Actually, maybe you can help me out with something. Do you by any chance know where Mom kept the keys to the drawers in her closet?”

“You’re at the house? What are you doing there?”

“It’s my business.” I form a fist with my free hand. “Can you help me out or not?”

“Sorry, man. I have no idea. But Caleb might, since he knew where everything was when we were kids.”

“How could I forget?” I smile genuinely in spite of myself. “Cool, let me give him a call.”

“Derrick?” Bryant says before we hang up. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

“Thanks. I’ve got to go.”

I dial Caleb’s number. Bryant was right. Mom and Dad were never able to hide anything from the guy, as though he had some x-ray eyes or something.

“Should I consider myself forgiven? I didn’t mean to upset you, bro. You know I care.” Caleb’s voice is filled with nothing but concern.

“I know you didn’t.” I sigh. “I might have overreacted. I apologize.”

“No need to. Thanks for calling.”

“I’m actually calling to ask if you know where Mom kept the keys to her closet drawers.”

“As far as I recall, she only locked one of the drawers. She hid the key in her bedside drawer. Are you there now?”

“Yes.” I step out of the closet back into the room.

“Okay, go to her side of the bed and open the drawer.”

I do as instructed. “Done. There’s no key inside.” My heart cracks around the edges as I push aside a framed photo of Mom and Dad. “It’s pretty much empty.”

“It’s a long drawer. Pull it out completely. There should be another miniature drawer inside it, right at the back.”

I yank the drawer out and sure enough, there it is, another small drawer. “Found it.”

“Bingo. The key should be inside there. Is it locked?”

“Yes, but a key is left inside.” I turn the key and pull out the drawer. One silver key rests at the bottom. “Thanks, Caleb. I think I got it.”

“Anytime. I’ll leave you alone now. Call if there’s something else you need.”

“I appreciate that.” I end the call and return to the closet. A few seconds later, the drawer is open and inside is a brown leather-bound journal and a stack of envelopes with the LaClaire Enterprises logo.

It doesn’t take me long to find what I’m looking for, two letters nestled between the pages of the journal. I’ve never seen Brooke’s handwriting to recognize it, but the words say everything I need to know. The words that jump of the pages make my head hurt.

I’m pregnant. And it’s your baby. Brooke Rayner.

I can’t believe my mother was so cruel. How could she do this?

By the time I finish reading the first letter, it’s completely disfigured. Feeling like one of the bulls in Pamplona, I charge out of the closet and go to stand in front of the large painting of my mother. She looks stunning in a powder blue evening gown, the Cognac Tourmaline ring that she wore all the time, glinting like her jade green eyes. With each heartbeat my anger is blinding me to her beauty.

“Why?” I demand of the painting, my eyes burning up again. “How dare you make this decision for me? How dare you not allow me to make my own mistakes?”

Mom used to say I was the irresponsible one, the most reckless and impulsive one of all her kids. And yet, when the opportunity for me to be responsible presented itself, she robbed me of the chance. She didn’t give me the chance to prove I could be responsible. I would never have turned my back on my child.

“You had no right to rip my heart out.” I say the words through gritted teeth. “No right.”

“You thought you were protecting me? Well, guess what? I love you but you broke my heart.”

Shoving the letters into my pocket, I leave the room, drunk with fury. I almost regret not asking Bruce to drive me to the house. He doesn’t even know I’m in town. I’d wanted to deal with my demons alone. Behind the wheel, my head is swimming. I blink several times and focus on my destination. Brooke.

* * *

It’s 9:00 p.m. by the time I get to Brooke’s apartment. When she opens the door, her eyes are drowsy with sleep but instantly clear and widen the moment she sees me.

“Not again, Derrick. You have to stop this.” She tightens the red, faded bathrobe around her body. “I told you we can’t—”

“You decided that. I didn’t.” Without waiting for another word from her, I move her back into the apartment with my body, holding her to me, enveloping her lips with mine. She tastes of mouthwash.

She places her palms on my chest and pushes me away, eyes sparkling. “Too much has happened.”

“I know. But we need each other. We can start over. You and me, we can create better memories.”

“Derrick, no.” I drown her words with a kiss.

She pushes me away yet again. I take a step back.

“It won’t work. I’m not the girl you used to know. I’m tainted, broken, damaged by everything that happened to me.”

I place a hand on her cheek and she leans into my palm. “Your brokenness started with me,” I say. “Let me piece you back together.” I draw her to me. This time, she’s the one who initiates the kiss.

I don’t know how we end up in her bed, but we do. This is my chance to show her how I feel, to heal her wounds as best I can. I can’t turn back the clock, but maybe I can create our own clock. I kiss her for a long time, swallowing her words, kissing away her tears, marking her with my lips as I move down her body, removing clothes as I go. I pull down her pajama pants together with her panties. She arches her back to make it easier for me. I lower my head to her stomach, kissing the faint stretch marks below her belly button, staying there for a little while, imagining how her stomach had looked with our baby inside it.

She moans when my tongue dips into her belly button. Happy to satisfy her, I push up her legs, place them onto my shoulders, and push my tongue into the moist place between her legs. She arches her back, whispers my name, hands clutching the pillows on both sides of her. Taking my time, I slide my tongue in and out, thrusting and withdrawing, running it in circles, tasting her as she now screams out my name.

Her hands move to my head, her fingers digging into my hair. I move my head from side to side to create as much pleasure as she deserves. This moment is not about me, not about my own pleasure. It’s about the woman who carried my baby, the woman I didn’t even know I needed until she showed up in my life again. I don’t care what she’s done. I want to start over with her, right here between her legs, where it all started in the first place.

I make her come so hard her body tells me I have reached a place where no man has ever gone, not even the ones who paid her for sex. She’s mine. Brooke is all mine.

Once the moment is over, she slides away from me. Averting her gaze, she pulls on her pajama bottoms and closes her robe. She moves to the door.

“Don’t do this,” I whisper. “There’s something about us, something that won’t let me go. We need to be together.” The pressure inside my heart expands, tightening my chest to the point of bursting. “I found your letters. It was my mother who wrote to you. I’m so sorry.” I try to reach for her but she steps away. “I promise, I would have been there for you and the baby if I had known. You know I was adopted. I would never have rejected my own child.”

She wraps her arms around herself. “I know now it’s not your fault. You don’t have to feel bad for me. You don’t have to feel you have to make things good again. You already have. You feel guilty and you’re hurting too much to make the right decision at this moment. You lost a child, and in some way, you’re losing your mother because of what she did to you. I don’t want you to wake up one day and think you made the wrong decision.”

“I think I love you.” The words that come out of my mouth knock me back so hard I take a few steps back as though they had been said by someone else. But then I pull myself together and repeat them because in a moment of pure clarity, I know they’re true. “I think I love you. It has always been you.”

Brooke shakes her head and opens the door. “Thinking is not enough. You need to know for sure. Please, let’s move on from this.” Her chin trembles as she speaks. “One day you’ll find someone who will heal the wounds you’re carrying. If we stay together, we can’t heal. We’ll always remind each other of the pain. Every time I look at you, I’ll wonder if my baby would have had your eyes.” She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to keep him alive long enough for you to meet him. And I’m sorry things can’t be different.”

I stare at her for a long time, the silence stretching between us like a rubber band. But no words come through my tight throat. The thought of losing her forever slices through me, but her eyes tell me she has made her choice, and it’s final. Not wanting to hurt her any more than I already have, I kiss her forehead.

“I know, Brooke,” I say a little too late. “I know I love you.”

With the taste of her still on my tongue, I walk out the door.

I’ll have to find another way to get closure.

25

Brooke

I squirt a small mound of ketchup into my plate, and dip one French fry in before biting on it. I chew quietly as I watch Hector studying my face in silence.

“What are you thinking?” I ask.

“That you look different.” He takes a swig of his beer and leans back in his seat as though to get a better look at me.

“I do feel different,” I say honestly.

It’s been three weeks since I saw Derrick and sometimes I lie in bed at night, wondering if I made the right decision to walk away from a future with him. Sometimes, in a secret corner of my mind, I fantasize about him showing up at my door again. But if he does, my answer would not change. I don’t want him to feel he has to take care of me. I’ve gone through more than many people are able to withstand and I emerged feeling stronger than ever before. My only desire now is to live a life where nobody judges me, to build a life I’m proud of.

There were times I considered leaving Boston to start somewhere else, but I decided to stay here because this is where my baby was born. Sometimes I feel Eric’s presence around me. I talk to him and it no longer hurts. I may be crazy, but I feel as though he’s somewhere watching over me. Thinking of him now brings me peace instead of pain.

“You never said what happened with you, why you left without warning. Did you come into some money or something?”

“Sort of. An old friend decided to help me out.” My thoughts drift to Derrick, and the place that used to hurt every time I thought of him feels numb. There’s also an emptiness there and I know it will remain with me for the rest of my life. No one else would be able to fill it.

I pick up a napkin and swipe it across my lips. “Hector, I asked you to lunch because I want to apologize. It was unfair of me to walk away the way I did . . . from one day to the next. You were so kind to me. I shouldn’t have treated you like that.”

“Look, I’m over it. I guess I always knew you’re not the kind of girl who would stay in the business. You’re destined for bigger and better things. If you found what you’ve been searching for, all I can do is wish you well. You deserve to be happy.”

“You have no idea how much that means to me.” I place both my hands on my flushed cheeks.

“And it means a lot that you reached out to me. You have a good heart, Brooke Rayner.”

I give him a watery smile and return my attention to my food, watching as other guests enter and exit the diner, listening to the laughter and conversations around us, the soundtrack of life. For the first time in years, I feel alive. Breathing is easy again.

“So, what are you doing with your life these days?” he asks.

“Quite a lot of exciting things, actually.” I bite down on a smile. “I’m taking GED test preparation courses at Silvercrest Community College. I plan to go to college after, to study psychology.” I sip my lemonade. “I’m also working at Clive’s Bookstore part-time.” Derrick had given me a bit more money than I needed to pay off my debts and he insisted I keep it. I immediately put it into my savings account to go toward my studies. What I earn from the bookstore goes toward my monthly expenses.

“I’m really proud of you. You’re a great example that it’s never too late to start again. With your drive, determination, and heart, you’ll make an awesome shrink one day.” Hector runs a hand over the sheen of sweat on his brow and grins. “To be honest, I kind of felt guilty about letting you work as—”

“Why? You didn’t need to feel guilty. I chose the job. I needed the money.” On the LaClaire jet, I had not told Derrick that the moment I knew I’d hit rock bottom was when I found myself sitting by the side of the road, my hands around a bottle of vodka, even though I’d never tasted alcohol before. It was clear, at that moment, that I could either choose to drown in the booze or swim back up. I chose to swim.

I pulled myself together, got myself a waitressing job at Tony’s Diner, where Tony allowed me to also rent the closet-sized studio apartment above the diner. When I wasn’t waitressing for Tony, I worked at the coffee shop where I’d met Allison. Both jobs drained me and the money I made was never enough to live on.

Before I knew it, I was swimming in the kind of debt that keeps one up at night. My desperation brought back the depression that led me to lose both jobs and the apartment. One day, a year ago, I walked past The Mirage and it became clear what I had to do.

“I’m glad you’re no longer doing it though.”

“Me, too.” I throw my head back and laugh. “Thank you for giving me a chance when I needed it.” Now I have the opportunity to turn my life around, to make other choices that will build me up instead of leaving me feeling ashamed and disgusted with my body.

“Whatever happened to that guy who showed up from your past?” Hector lifts his burger to his lips and takes another bite. A small trail of ketchup catches on his beard.

“Actually, he’s the friend who helped me out with my financial situation.”

“I see.” He finishes to chew. “No wonder you look so different. You’re in love.”

I peel my gaze from his. I want to tell him he’s wrong. But I decide to be honest with him and with myself. “The truth is, I do feel something strong for him and we have a bond. But at this point in my life, I’m not ready for a relationship. There are too many things between us that would stand in the way.”

“Well, that’s a shame. How does he feel about you?”

“It’s not important how he feels about me.” I pull my plate closer, continue eating. “I need to focus on getting my life back on track before I can even consider any kind of relationship.”

“I guess that’s a wise decision.” He squeezes my hand. “Brooke, I wish you a lifetime of happiness.”

“Thank you.” My phone beeps on the table. Without picking it up, I glance at the message lighting up the screen. As my mind registers each word, the French fry between my fingers falls into the ketchup on my plate.

I’ve been arrested. I need to see you.

My heart is in my throat as I pick up the phone to read the rest of the message.

“Brooke, are you okay?” Hector’s fingers feel cool on my hand. “You look pale.”

I look up but don’t see him. “Hector, sorry. I have to go.” I rise from the chair.

26

Brooke

A chill trickles down my spine as I gaze up at the metal gates surrounding the jailhouse. Why am I even here? When I responded to Derrick’s text message, half an hour ago, I received a call from his lawyer, who instructed me on where to go, without telling me what happened. Apparently Derrick wanted to tell me himself.

As I’m led through the gates, I feel somewhat responsible for him being behind bars. My rejection could have driven him to do something terrible, something to ease his pain.

I hand over my belongings and allow myself to be scanned, unable to stop trembling.

“Are you okay, Ma’am?” One of the guards asks me, and I nod and force a smile. The truth is, claustrophobia is getting the best of me as though my freedom is being snatched away. The scream of police sirens, the smells of metal, sweat, and cigarette smoke make me want to turn and leave.

Clasping my hands in front of me, I follow a guard into the waiting room.

Only a few of the white tables are occupied. I’d never been in a jail before. This one reminds me of a hospital room, white-washed and sterile, smelling of industrial cleaner and sadness.

I draw in a shaky breath and sit at the table the guard points to, listening to the sounds of jail as I wait for Derrick to arrive.

A woman at a corner table is crying into a crumpled tissue. The man she’s talking to attempts to reach for her hands, but one of the guards yells for them to stop touching. They both lean back in their chairs and the woman clasps her hands together. At another table, a boy with an arm covered in tattoos is talking to a frail-looking woman with snow-white hair and a hard face.

After what seems like hours of waiting, Derrick finally walks through one of the sliding doors opening into the room. The moment our eyes meet, his entire face breaks into a smile. For a prisoner, he looks rather happy. Could it be he broke the law to catch my attention, to pull at my heartstrings? If this is some kind of manipulation tactic, I’m not even sure whether to be flattered or pissed off.

“Brooke, I didn’t think you’d come.”

I lean back and cross my arms. “Why are you here, Derrick? What did you do?” He better not be manipulating me.

We both lower our gazes to his swollen knuckles.

My stomach drops. “Were you involved in a fight?”

“I did what had to be done. Hey, it’s okay.” He leans forward and whispers. “No need to worry about me. I’ll be out on bail within the hour. My lawyer, Fred Barret, is on it.” His face lights up. “Once I’m out of here, we’ll be a family. No one will ever stand in the way of us being together again.”

Hot, red pain grips my heart. “Don’t do this. Not again.”

“You came.” His hand hovers over mine. He glances at one of the guards before he brings it back to his body. “The fact that you’re here tells me you love me. You don’t need to say it because I already know. And soon we’ll be complete. You, me, and our little boy.”

His words take a moment to sink into my dizzy mind. “What—what are you talking about?”

He leans back, still holding my gaze. “Eric . . . I’m talking about our son. He’s alive.”

My stomach drops. “Derrick, I know you want this to be true, but Eric is dead. I was there, remember?”

“Did you see him? Think carefully, Brooke. Did you see his co—”

“No, okay? I didn’t see his corpse—him. I didn’t want to . . .” My words dissolve on my tongue. What I want to tell him is, I wanted the memories of my baby to be perfect, to remember his healthy body as it moved on the ultrasound screen, his heart beating. “This is crazy. Our baby was stillborn. I didn’t see him but he died.”

“I know how this sounds. But I’m telling you, he’s not dead.” Derrick’s eyes are clear, confident. He seems to really believe what he’s saying. “I saw a photo and knew instantly it was him. I felt it here.” He places a hand on his heart. “You have to listen to me. I won’t lie to you. They stole our baby.”

“A photo? That’s bullshit and you know it.” I clench my hands into fists, glare at him. “Why are you doing this to me? Why are you torturing yourself? Let it go. Just. Let. It. Go.”

Derrick leans forward, clasping his hands on the table. “You have to believe me. The last thing I want is to cause you any more pain.” He lays his hands flat on the table. “I visited Mother Care a few days ago. I wanted to see where Eric was . . . born. I needed to find closure.” He shrugs. ”I thought I’d make a donation as a way to thank them for being there for you. As soon as I mentioned money, I was led to the office of the woman who owns the place. On her desk was a photo of a six-year-old boy.”

“And you—”

“I knew without a doubt. As soon as I left, I called a private investigator friend of mine. He found out where the woman lives.”

“Deena,” I say softly.

“Yes. Deena Neeson is her name. This morning, I showed up at her house. Guess who I found playing in the yard?” His face brightens.

“Eric? No.” I lift my fingertips to my lips. “That’s impossible.”

“He was kicking around a red ball. I wanted to talk to him but her husband came out of the house. He ordered me to get off his property. So, I clocked him. I wasn’t going anywhere without our son.”

Trembling, I tighten my arms around my middle. My skin feels cold to the touch. “It can’t be—it—no.”

“I just got off the phone with a detective friend of mine. He found out that Mother Care is an organization that operates under the disguise of taking care of young, helpless pregnant women with nowhere to go. But in truth, all they care about are their babies. Deena Neeson and her entire family are baby sellers. They’ve been in this business for six years now.”

“Oh my God,” I breathe. Deena had approached me at the homeless shelter. She and her sister had taken such good care of me, covered all of my pregnancy-related medical bills. My mind reminds me of the call I had made to her some weeks ago, how she wouldn’t come to the phone.

“Tell me you believe me now.”

“I don’t understand.” His words are swimming inside my head and I’m trying to catch them, to string them together in a way that makes sense to my fractured mind.

“They sell babies to childless couples, Brooke.”

“They might have started the home with good intentions but, somewhere along the way, they saw a twisted money-making opportunity and grabbed it, hurting many people in the process.” A muscle in his jaw twitches. “You were their first victim. We’re lucky they kept our son. Some mothers might never get their kids back. I had planned to go and see the place Eric was born. I never expected to find him.”

My mind takes me back to one rainy morning during my stay at Mother Care, when Deena had confided in me about the miscarriages she’s had. I asked why she and Jack were not considering adoption. What she said then now chills my spine.

“There has to be an easier way than adoption,” she’d said and ended the conversation.

“But . . .” Sorrow closes up my throat. “How could I not have known? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Don’t you remember anything suspicious at all? What do you remember about the birth?”

“I was in labor for ten hours. I reached a point when it got to be too much. I couldn’t go on but they forced me to keep pushing. They said they could see the baby. Deena’s sister, Verla, gave me something to drink. She said it will help with the pain. I fell asleep.” I touch my trembling lips with the tips of my fingers. “When I woke up they told me the baby died.” I remember being hysterical, accusing them of lying.

Eric was everything to me, the only family I had, my only hope. To hear that he was dead drove me out of my mind. I remember many arms holding me down, Deena and Verla telling me to stay calm. Verla had plunged a needle into my arm. Whatever she put into my system sedated me.

I was in a hazy fog for a week. One day, Deena walked in and told me to quit taking the meds and pull myself together. She said as much as she wanted to help me, they didn’t have enough beds for the women who really needed them. When I refused to leave, she had me forced out. In less than a year, I was back on the street, homeless again.

A suffocating sensation squeezes my throat shut. It’s a struggle to breathe. “They took him away from me? Are you sure? Eric is really alive?”

“Yes.” Derrick’s face brightens at the realization he has hit a chord. “They call him Jack. Jack Neeson.”

“Jack,” I whisper the name and then my head jerks up. “I need to go. I need to see my son.” I shoot to my feet. The chair falls to the floor. I don’t pick it up.

“You can’t, not yet at least.” A smile tugs at the corners of his lips. “Don’t worry about him. He’s in great hands. My lawyer contacted Child Protective Services, and the police are on the case. We can’t have him, until it’s confirmed he’s our son. I gave a DNA sample. If you want to do the same, call my lawyer. He’ll fill you in on everything.” He pushes a business card toward me, even though I already have his lawyer’s phone number on my phone from when he called me.

I take the piece of paper, holding it tight. “What if—Derrick, what if the tests prove us wrong? What if it’s not really him?” My vision blurs, distorting his features. “I can’t lose him a second time. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle it. You have no idea what I’ve been through.”

“You won’t. It’s him, trust me. He has my eyes and your beautiful red hair. He’s our kid.”

“Time’s up,” a guard calls out. Breaking the rules, Derrick grabs my hand. “I’ll make it all better again. We’ll be a family.” He grins. “Say you love me, Brooke, and that we’ll be a family.”

I bite my bottom lip, overcome with emotions. “I think so.”

“Don’t think.” He lets go of my hand when a beefy guard shows up at the table and glares at him. “This is meant to be. You know it. I know it.”

I nod and turn to leave. The only thing I know at this point is that I want to see my son.

“I’ll call you as soon as I’m out of this place,” he calls after me as I disappear through the door.

Outside the gates of jail, I sink to the ground right there in public and break down. I cry for the years I’ve lost with my son. I scramble to my knees and pray to God that Derrick is right. I finally pull myself together and get into my car.

Forty minutes later, I pull up in front of the Mother Care building. It’s changed from when I last saw it, with more floors and a fresh coat of mint green paint covering the cracks. The garden is now well-manicured with a playground that looks brand new.

I’m tempted to get out of the car, to barge into the building and demand answers, but the moment my hand touches the handle, the door to Mother Care opens and two cops in uniform exit, carrying boxes. They lock the door behind them.

Overcome with emotion, I lean my head against the steering wheel and cry all over again. Derrick could be right after all.

27

Derrick

My hands bunch into fists at my sides. Brooke is sitting next to me and our eyes are fixed on my flat screen TV.

The young reporter makes a half-turn to the Mother Care building, looming behind him. He turns back to the camera.

“Ladies and gentlemen, behind me is the place where close to two hundred young mothers, most of them teenagers, were deceived into believing the babies they gave birth to were stillborn. The truth is, Deena Neeson, the owner, and her family, have been running a baby selling business for close to six years. They fooled young mothers into thinking they have found a home. They fed them, dressed them, and even covered their medical expenses, only to drug them during childbirth. When they came to, they were told the devastating news that their babies had died. Soon after, they were pushed out the door to make space for new pregnant mothers.”

I take Brooke’s hand and allow her to hold onto me for comfort and strength.

“You okay?” I ask, although I know the answer.

She gives me a shaky smile. “Ask me again after we talk to your lawyer.”

“He’ll be here soon.” I glance at my watch. Where the hell is he? He said he would be here at 11:00 a.m. He’s fifteen minutes late. Every second feels like an eternity when one is waiting for life-changing news.

The reporter is now interviewing a woman with stringy, caramel hair and mascara running down her cheeks. Several other victims of Mother Care have been interviewed in the past hour. Brooke could have been one of them, but she refused to be interviewed. She’s only interested in one thing, the child she thought she lost.

“You were pregnant at sixteen. Were you going to keep the baby?”

“I was young and far from ready to be a mother, but I was determined to learn . . . to be a good mom. I would never have given up my baby.” Tears glisten on the woman’s pink cheeks.

“You must have been really upset to hear your baby was stillborn.” The same question the reporter had asked the other victims.

“I was devastated. They didn’t even give me the chance to hold her . . . my baby in my arms. They said seeing the corpse would only make it harder for me to let go.” The woman runs a palm across her cheek, smudging the mascara across her milky skin. “They pretended to be good people. They made me feel like part of a family.” She lifts, then drops her hands at her sides. “Sorry, I—I can’t do this.” She walks away from the cameras and collapses into another woman’s arms.

I flick off the TV and sling an arm around Brooke. She leans into me for a few seconds before she gets to her feet, pacing the room, shaking out her hands, trying to get rid of the nervous energy. Fear flickers on her face, the fear of disappointment, more pain.

A dark cloud settles on my mind, dimming my confidence. What if I’m wrong? What if it turns out that the child I saw wasn’t really Eric? I spent so much time trying to convince Brooke that our son is alive. Instincts lie all the time. It would tear her apart to find out her baby really is dead or was sold. I’d never forgive myself.

An ache drives through my heart. I should have waited for the results before getting up her hopes the way I did. I had been so excited, I couldn’t wait to tell her. Now everything could blow up in my face and I might lose her.

Melissa, my housekeeper, walks in with a silver tray and places a pitcher of water on the coffee table.

“Thank you, Melissa. Now, I think you should start your weekend early.”

“Are you sure? I just started.” She straightens her slim frame.

I reach for a crystal water glass. “There’s not much to do around here. Go home. Spend some time with your granddaughter.”

Melissa is in her fifties. She became a grandmother for the first time two months ago. She’s a warm woman with the energy of a horse. Not once during her time working for me did she call in sick. A year and a half.

“Thank you, Mr. LaClaire. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Melissa walks out of the living room, and I fill Brooke’s glass with chilled water. I wish I could offer her more than just water. She’s been with me since 6:00 a.m. but refuses to eat anything. She didn’t even touch the breakfast Melissa had placed in front of her.

“Thanks,” she whispers and raises her glass to her lips. She only takes a sip. She lowers it to the table again. The moment the bottom of the glass touches the table, the doorbell rings.

Melissa, who still hasn’t left, goes to let Fred in.

Fred walks in carrying his shiny, black briefcase.

“You’re late, Fred.” I stand to shake his hand.

“I apologize. I had some things to take care of. I wanted to have all the answers before coming to see you.” He squeezes Brooke’s hand.

“Take a seat, Fred.” I wave toward the opposite couch. “Tell me you have good news.”

Brooke leans forward, her elbows resting on her thighs, hands in a prayer gesture, eyes on Fred.

Fred snaps open his briefcase and pulls out a sheet of paper. He hands it to me, his expression stoic. The guy always carries the same expression, whether he’s happy, pissed off, or in-between.

Brooke draws closer to me and we read the piece of paper together. She jumps to her feet, clutching her chest, panting for breath. She hurries from the room. The door to the downstairs bathroom slams shut, the sound vibrating through the entire house.

My hands calm and controlled, I place the paternity results on the glass table next to the tray and stand. “Excuse me, Fred. I’ll be right back.”

I knock on the bathroom door. She doesn’t answer. The water is running on the other side, but the sound of her sobs still make it through the wooden door. I refrain from knocking again. She needs time to process the information. I lean my back against the door, drawing in ten deep breaths. I push away and take a step toward the hallway. The door opens and she’s standing there, her cheeks glistening, eyes bloodshot. All I can think is that she’s never been more beautiful.

I tug her into my arms, one hand on her back, one buried in the curly locks at the nape of her neck. “It’s all right now,” I whisper into her hair. “Our son is alive.”

She pulls away and gazes up at me, a smile spreading across her face. “You were right. You were so right.” She leans back into me, holding on tight. “It was him.”

“It was.” My own eyes burn with moisture.

We return to the living room hand in hand to find Fred drinking a glass of water. His lips twitch in a smile, his face muscles barely moving. “I’m glad to be the bearer of good news.”

“Thank you, Fred.” I sink back onto the couch, pulling Brooke down with me.

Fred hands Brooke another page and she smiles at him. “What’s this?”

“Proof that you’re the mother. You only saw the paternity results.”

“Oh.” She smiles brightly, and lowers her gaze to the paper at the same time I do. She looks up at me. “We are his parents.”

“You’ll make an amazing mom.” I trace her cheek with a fingertip and give her a soft kiss on the lips, the first since the last time she asked me to walk out of her life.

When we pull back from our intimate celebration, I turn my attention back to Fred. “Where do we go from here, Fred? What are the next steps?”

“Well.” He takes another drink of water. “The next step is to meet your son. I’ve arranged everything.” He snaps his briefcase shut.

“You have?”

“Have I ever let you down?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Never.” I chuckle. “Tell us where to pick him up. We’ll leave now.”

“Just stay where you are. He’s coming to you. Someone from Child Protective Services should be here with him any moment.”

Brooke gasps and rushes to the window facing the driveway, like a child waiting for Santa. Ten minutes later, a white Toyota Corolla pulls into the driveway. Brooke’s hands fly to her mouth before dropping away as she starts to laugh and cry at the same time. We join her, even Fred who hardly ever laughs. She rushes to the door and we follow.

We come to a screeching halt at the top of the steps. The joyous laughter dies the moment a six-year-old with hair the exact same color as Brooke’s emerges from the car, holding on to a worn-out teddy. A woman with salt and pepper hair appears next to him. She whispers into his ear. He nods and takes her hand. Together, they move toward the steps.

Brooke hurries down the steps and she’s about to pull Jack into her arms but stops and puts them behind her body, probably realizing that, to him, she’s still a stranger.

“What’s your name?” he asks her as I join them at the bottom of the steps.

She lowers herself to his level. “I’m Brooke, your new mommy.” She sniffs. “You must be Jack.”

“Jack Neeson,” he corrects and wild grief rips through me. “I already have a mom but she’s in prison. She did something bad. I can stay with you until she comes back.”

Brooke is quiet for a moment, but she soon puts on a brave smile and stretches out her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Jack Neeson. We’d love to have you. You can call me your second Mom.” She looks back at me, hurt evident in her eyes. I wink at her to promise her it’s only a matter of time before he accepts us as his parents. For now, we’ll take what we can get.

“Hi, Jack.” I ruffle his hair. “I’m your second dad. We’re so happy you came to live with us.” This morning, Brooke and I made a decision that if Jack is our son, we would move in together and grow together as a family.

“Okay.” He shakes my hand.

I place an arm around Brooke’s shoulders. We have a long road ahead of us, and Jack still needs time to get to know us, to trust us, to accept us as his real parents. And it will take time for the wounds to heal, but I’m never letting either of them go again.

“Jack, do you think we could give you a welcome hug?” Brooke asks cautiously.

She’s dying to hold him and I pray he doesn’t reject her. He nods his head and walks into our embrace.

“I love you,” Brooke whispers. I’m not sure if she’s talking to me or to Jack. But it doesn’t matter because we are one. If she loves him, she loves me.

Epilogue

Years Later

“Crystal, I’m happy you feel better. Remember to call me any time you feel the depression coming back.”

“I will. Thank you for seeing me without an appointment.” Crystal Lake is one of the Mother Care victims, one of the many unlucky women who were not reunited with their children.

Deena and everyone who was involved in the Mother Care business have been sent to prison for many years. But the wounds they inflicted remain in the hearts of many broken women. Women like Crystal.

Some wounds take a long time to heal. Others never heal at all. Losing a child is one wound that never goes away. Every time a woman looks down at her stomach, she remembers the baby she used to carry.

For many years, after Jack was returned to us, I felt guilty for being one of the lucky few. That’s one of the reasons why as soon as I opened my private practice, I offered many of the victims my professional help.

As soon as Crystal walks out the door—her shoulders still hunched from carrying the burden of pain—my personal assistant, Dawn, pokes her head around the door. “Brooke, your husband is here to see you.”

“Send him in. Please hold my calls for the next hour. And before you go to lunch, give June Smith a call to find out how she’s doing. She hasn’t been here in over a month.”

“Consider it done, boss.” Dawn gives me a salute.

When Derrick walks in, wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt, a rush of pride and joy shoots through me. The idea that he’s my husband always takes my breath away. We got married three years ago on the LaClaire, his brother Bryant’s luxury cruise ship.

He crosses the room and gathers me into his arms. “Good afternoon, Doctor LaClaire,” he whispers into my ear, his stubble tickling my earlobe.

“Good afternoon, luckiest man alive. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

He stands back but keeps his hands on my arms. “Since it’s Friday, and I don’t have any urgent meetings, I picked Jack up early from school. I thought we could all go to lunch.”

“Where is he now?”

“Advising Dawn on what to get Marion for his birthday.”

“I see.”

Dawn’s son, Marion, is one year younger than Jack. They were inseparable from the day we introduced them. Jack would definitely know what Marion’s birthday present wishes are.

With a mischievous grin, Derrick returns to the door and locks it. “Since our boy will be occupied for at least five minutes, how about we do something about our little project? We have to be extra quick though.”

“You can’t wait to be a daddy again, can you?” Stifling a giggle, I unzip his jeans as we head for the couch.

“Wrong. I can’t wait to be a daddy to your babies.”

Before we can get started on the baby-making sex, a knock on the door causes us to jump apart. We listen to a soft squeak as the door handle is pulled down.

“Mom, Dad, are you in there?” Jack calls from the other side.

“Damn,” Derrick mouths.

Stumbling, we adjust our clothes quickly, like teenagers caught in the act.

“We are in here, honey.” I can’t stop giggling as I smooth down my skirt. “Is everything all right?”

“Yeah. Can I sleep over at Marion’s tomorrow? Can I tell Dawn it’s okay?”

“Tell Dawn it’s okay.” Derrick sits down at a chair by my oak desk, pretending to not have any dirty thoughts running through his mind.

When I open the door to let Jack in, he’s already gone.

With a shrug and a smile, I return to my desk and pull out a drawer. “I have a present for you.” I hand Derrick a small, rectangular gift wrapped box with a silver ribbon.

“You spoil me.” He lifts the lid, then looks up at me. “Is this—” he breathes. “You’re not—”

“Four weeks, baby.” I lift the positive pregnancy test from the box, my insides vibrating with excitement. “Looks like you won’t have to wait much longer, Mr. LaClaire.”

He sweeps my feet off the floor and swings me around, laughter pouring out of him. “This is the best news I’ve heard all year.” He allows me to sink to the floor, and kisses every inch of my face. “But what a naughty girl you are for wanting to take advantage of me even though you already got what you want.”

“A girl has needs.” I kiss him full on the mouth. “And you did promise on our wedding day that you’ll meet them all.”

“That’s right. Every single one of them.” He pulls me against his body. “Now, let’s celebrate.”

THE END

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