Chapter Seven

Michaela

Ten Years Later

December 26^th

 

These sheets don’t feel like mine.

Why am I naked? I never sleep naked.

I opened my eyes in a dark room. As my sight adjusted, I saw nothing was in the same place as my bedroom in the apartment I shared with Moira.

I sat up, keeping the sheet over my breasts, and memories began resurfacing.

Christmas wedding. Adult eggnog. Green eyes.

Earth-shattering orgasms.

Dread sunk my stomach.

The room wasn’t as dark as it initially appeared, light poking in around the curtain on the window. Steeling my nerve, I turned my head.

Black hair, a bare male shoulder, and a defined arm. Shit.

Michaela, what did you do?

Going home with a man wasn’t something I was known for. I didn’t date!

Not since—

Not going there.

Alcohol wasn’t something I did, either, but…

Get out of here before Lincoln wakes up.

Right. At least it wasn’t an inner spring mattress. I moved off of it without any squeaks or groans, then crept around looking for my clothes.

Underwear, good.

A bra.

Right. My dress had been shed outside the bedroom. He’d been…eager.

Thank God the door was open. I only had to sneak out of his apartment.

The rustle of covers. I froze.

Slowly peeked, and he’d only rolled onto his back.

The universe doesn’t completely hate me.

One last glance at the sexy man who only seemed bad on the outside, then I ran on my toes down the short hall and into the living room. A street lamp shining through a corner window showed where my dress had landed.

Shoes. Jacket. Purse by the door.

I checked my phone. Still had charge. Thank you. I could call a car here.

As soon as I knew where here was.

Couldn’t help leaving his door unlocked, but outside seemed like a safe-enough neighborhood. The vehicles in the parking lot were current and not held together by duct tape.

I made it down to the street, saw a bigger intersection a short walk down, and opened the car service app when I read the signs. In my buzzed-on-eggnog lust, I hadn’t paid attention to the address he gave the cabbie.

How sound-proof were those partitions?

While I waited, I prayed to anything listening that the ride-share driver to come wasn’t a rapist or serial killer. Then, with any luck, Mo would be sound asleep and this night could be forgotten. No need to ever see Lincoln or his devastating smile ever again.

Once my inner thighs stopped protesting movement and my…

Well.

Once the physical signs of sex were gone.

Like my hair. My hands flew to feel the mass of curls on my head. I’d pinned them back into a bun for the wedding—

Shit.

My guitar.

I groaned. I’d have to return to Mrs. Lindsey’s to get it from her barn.

At least they were people that respected instruments. Considering Beth’s kindness so far, I knew it wasn’t in any danger, but this was mortifying. Not only was it irresponsible, but everyone would know what I did. It would be obvious I left with Lincoln.

Wouldn’t it?

Lust really short-circuited a woman’s brain.

Lust and loneliness.

I checked my watch. After midnight. I couldn’t return now. The fare to go all the way back to the Lindsey’s house then my apartment was too much. The only reason I hadn’t driven to the compound this time was because they sent a car. Could I hope another one of those private taxis was still there and only pay for one stop?

No. And I had another problem—I didn’t know the gate code.

Walk of Shame was the only option. The bobby pins had fallen out of my hair, so I braided it into control and secured that with a tie from my purse. No girl with these curls went anywhere without pins or clips or even a rubber band. Never any guarantee the hairstyle you left home with would be the same by the end of the day.

Especially the Just Been Fucked Hair.

A quick check with a compact mirror showed I was presentable enough for the hour. Another check of the app on my phone for the time remaining for the driver to show up. If I stood at this corner too long, someone might get the wrong idea, if you know what I mean.

It updated to show five minutes, I sighed in relief, and leaned on the light pole.

When the driver was a middle-aged woman, I relaxed even more.

“Have a good Christmas, love?” she asked in a faint British accent. Lots of ex-pats in L.A.—the highest population outside England, if Jeopardy trivia was to be believed.

“Definitely memorable. Thanks for coming out at this hour.”

“Eh, gives me somethin’ to do. Clock is still eight hours off. Where to?”

“Home.” I told her the address while her app caught up.

“You’re out there a ways, aren’t you?”

“Sorry. I was at a party.”

She deflected with a wave of her hand. “Oh, no, not a complaint, an observation. I’m wide awake and certainly don’t mind a bit of dosh on Christmas. Well, get comfy. Warm enough?”

“Yes, ma’am.” On the contrary, I was losing my jacket. She was blasting the heater.

A KOST deejay announced the latest carols played; there were a couple ads, then the next Christmas song started. Between the temp and the familiar holiday comfort sounds, I drowsed.

I was barely aware of the driver getting on the freeway to head east and only came alert when she came to a stop at the bottom of the off-ramp to take home.

“There she is…”

“Sorry. Long day.”

“Well, you’ll be in your bed in a short while.”

“Yeah, it’s only a couple miles that way.” I leaned forward in the backseat. “How long have you been in L.A.?”

“A month. Came out for a job that’s delayed. Drivin’ to make ends meet in the meantime, as we all do. You sound like a local.”

“Close enough. I hope everything works out for you.”

“Holly, by the way. Thank you, dear. I’ve never been off my luck too long, so I expect good things in the New Year.” She glanced in the rearview mirror. “Pretty girl like you must be in show business.”

I laughed. “Sort of. I sing at gigs around the county. You know, coffee shops, bars, weddings…”

“I knew it! Ah, well, here we are, safe and sound. Any time you need a chauffeur…”

I chuckled. “You’re definitely getting a good review, Holly. Thanks for the ride, and Merry Christmas.”

“Cheers, love. Off you go!”

I got out, shut the door, waved, then continued into my apartment complex, keeping my senses peeled. This neighborhood was fine during the day, but unsettling noises happened at night. Christmas was usually quiet after the local parties dispersed, but I was never complacent.

I climbed to our third-story unit and quietly let myself in. Mo should be in a food coma after her family’s feast and fast asleep at one in the morning. The living room was dark except for our tree. I hung my jacket and my purse on the removable hooks next to the door.

We drilled and nailed no holes in these walls so we could get the security deposit back one day. At least that was the hope.

My sensible heels made no sound on the carpet as I snuck to my bedroom. Only once inside did I relax. My best friend would not miss that something had changed for me if she saw me now and I didn’t want to spill those beans.

I changed into pajamas and considered getting into bed right then, but I needed to pee, remove my eye makeup, and brush my teeth.

Ugh.

The simplest things seem exhausting when you’re tired and the night had caught up to me. The almost-nap in the car had only made my body determined to fall asleep ASAP.

Especially since I hadn’t rested well leading up to Christmas.

More providence when Mo didn’t stick her head out of her room after my bathroom trip. Then my Walmart flannel sheets felt like the softest, warmest thing ever.

For a few hours, all could be calm and silent and I dreamed nothing.

When morning shone through the egress window, I felt refreshed.

Nine hours. Wow.

Oh God, legs are stiff!

The effort to get out of bed was another matter. Muscles that had never gotten that particular workout protested my attempt to stand and walk to my closet, let alone to the bathroom. How would I explain my movement in a way that wouldn’t result in an interrogation?

One rooted in love and best intentions, but an interrogation nonetheless.

Okay. Stretching. And rubbing the tight spots. I’d been in one position all night, so it was only a matter of making my legs remember how to function again.

Who knew sex with Lincoln would do more than a gym class?

Once I finally wasn’t walking like a ninety-year-old, I left my bedroom to start the morning routine. Mo had a shift at Target today, but I didn’t remember when. The apartment didn’t smell like breakfast, so either she was long gone or sleeping in.

A shower further made me feel normal again, and then I was starving.

I placed a bowl of oatmeal in the microwave and checked my phone. One missed call from Mrs. Lindsey. One e-mail from Paypal saying I’d been paid. One text from Mo saying she’d bring home groceries from work with her employee discount. She got paid today, too.

Two missed texts and a call from Lincoln.

Geeze, buddy, what part of one-night-stand wasn’t clear?

If a girl stays the night, she’s probably interested in a relationship. If she doesn’t…

Those were the rules I understood, anyway.

I listened to Mrs. Lindsey’s voicemail message. “Hi, Michaela, we found your guitar in the barn and brought it into the house for safekeeping. I assume you’ll want it back today, so let me know when you’re arriving. Thanks.”

Did I want to look at what Lincoln said? Or delete? How did he get my number?

Curiosity getting the best of me, I opened the texts:

Did you go home?

Never mind, of course you did. Let me know you got there safe?

They were spaced five minutes apart, sent a little after eight. The missed call happened at eight-thirty. I sighed. The microwave beeped. I removed the bowl of oatmeal and stirred the contents to mix the flavoring and spices.

Did I want to approach this on an empty stomach?

Better to listen while I was alone, then delete.

“Michaela…first, I swiped your number from your Facebook page. I wouldn’t break into your phone or anything. Um…shit, I’m usually smoother at this. Last night was great. Really great. I don’t know why you were gone this morning, but in case you thought I wanted that, I didn’t. I don’t. The hit-it-and-quit-it thing isn’t me, so call me back, ‘kay? I’d love to take you to breakfast or lunch or—” Beep. The message ran out of time in my voicemail.

The bite I chewed became less appetizing. I swallowed it down.

Exactly what I was afraid of.

Last night never would’ve happened if it’d been any other event but a Christmas wedding with a couple intensely in love and so clearly facing an amazing life. Never happened if Lincoln hadn’t been so sweet and earnest and gosh-darn gorgeous since the day he and his bandmate approached me to hire me for the gig.

Certainly never happened if not for the eggnog.

I knew with every look and every word that he was interested in more than getting in my pants, though he’d be happy with that, too.

I was used to men finding me beautiful. Some obvious, some subtle, but I’ve had attention since seventh grade. With my father’s black hair, my mother’s curls and blue eyes, and my grandmother’s coloring—it made me Snow White with a perm. I’d had enough intro to art to understand the human gaze was attracted to opposites and there wasn’t much more contrast than me. Add nearly-hourglass curves in my teens and…

But while the majority of women liked to be pretty, I did not want a relationship now.

Or ever again.

The psychological burns from the last time hadn’t healed, yet, and it’d been ten years.

Pretty much doubted those wounds ever would.

So, Lincoln could be the most amazing partner in the history of mankind and I still wasn’t interested. Would never be fair to him to try when I was permanently broken.

The oatmeal got finished, the bowl taken care of, then I thought through my text reply. Calling back would be too dangerous.

How did you gently let a guy down while being clear?

Lincoln—thank you for the safety check. I appreciate your offer, but I will be unable to take you up on it in the foreseeable future. Happy New Year and be well. Michaela.

Too businesslike? Too cold?

Deleting the first try, I typed Thanks for the orgasms. I’m good for the next ten years. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

UGH. Maybe I should just delete and block him.

But that’d be rude.

This is one of the many reasons I didn’t do this!

Finally, I said, Sorry to worry. I’m good. Happy New Year! And sent it.

Shit, should I have included that exclamation point? That’s how the good-wishes HNY is said, though, right? It was fine. I’d be fine. My message was short and to the point.

Ping! A new text.

Did I want to look? I’d put the phone face-down on the table.

Whoever it was didn’t need an immediate reply.

Eat a banana. A piece of fruit a day kept the doctor away.

I peeled away the yellow skin to expose the white flesh.

The unread text taunted me.

Standing from my chair, I ate walking around the living room. Our Craigslist tree twinkled merrily in the corner, oblivious to my dilemma. I wished I was like Mo with the probable certainty of texts from my boss, but Mr. Strawbridge still used a phone with the dial on the front. He saw no need to cross into the digital age.

When you’ve written dozens of bestselling spy novels for decades, I guess you don’t need to. His pen name was carried in every bookstore in the country and several international airports. He had no children, only a housekeeper and an assistant—me. Ms. Fletcher gave me a budget when first hired to gather the equipment required by his publisher. Not being a tech expert, I looked at reviews for reliability and made my best educated guess. Thankfully, manuscript files weren’t cutting-edge material, but we did need a printer that was economical about ink. He edited his books by hand.

With an empty banana skin in hand, I’d run out of a stall tactic.

Fortifying breath, then I picked up my phone and opened the messaging app.

Caller ID said it was Lincoln Adams.

I found your earring on my living room floor. When can I give it back to you?

My hand checked one earlobe, then the other. I was so tired last night, I forgot I wore them at all. One side had a tiny cross. The other didn’t. Damn.

Any other pair and I’d sacrifice them as lost.

But Uncle Harry sent me tiny gold cross earrings when I got my ears pierced in second grade for my birthday. My favorite—only—uncle was my mother’s brother and her toxicity had put him in an awkward middle between his only sister and his favorite niece. It helped that he lived on the other side of the country, though that meant I hadn’t seen him in many years.

We sent birthday and Christmas cards and his to me always included a check.

There’d definitely been years I relied on those checks.

I typed to Lincoln: Leave it at the Lindseys. I have to pick up my guitar.

Speaking of, time to get dressed and face a second walk of shame.