Commitment (3 page)

He raised his chin, yanking at the noose around his neck until the knot of his tie unraveled. The watered silk slid from his collar with a soft
zzzhut
and trailed behind him as he stomped into the living room. He dropped onto the couch. The lining of his suit coat billowed like a parachute when the pliant leather caught him with a sigh.

“Sarah Ann Waverly,” he blurted. A triumphant smile spread across his face. “She bought the bowl.”

Twisting, he slid down until his head rested on the arm of the sofa. “Misogynist, my ass. I love women.”

He toed off his shoes, let the tie fall to the floor, and unbuckled his belt. The hook on his suit pants gave way and he exhaled his relief. His fingers slid between the buttons on his crisp blue shirt. Absently he stroked his stomach, hoping to calm the twisting sensation in his gut.

The need to connect with someone who understood had him fumbling in the breast pocket of his coat for his cell. His thumb slid across the screen and he tapped a speed dial key. Pressing the phone to his ear, he shifted, trying to get comfortable on a couch built for looks and not comfort.

Once the call connected, he skipped the preamble. “Hey. Do you think I hate women?”

His little brother, Sean, laughed. “Yes. You’re a raging queer. The shoes gave you away.”

“No, seriously…”

“I think you’ve laid more women than I’ve ever laid eyes on. So no, I’d say you probably don’t hate them. Why?”

“
Mehgan
says I’m a misogynist.”

“
Mehgan’s
the shrink?”

Tom pushed his fingers through his hair. “Family counselor.”

“Yeah, shrinks aren’t real high on my list right now.”

“I didn’t ask you to kiss her. I only asked if you think I’m a misogynist.”

“I’m not sure a guy who’s as clumsy as you are could qualify to be a massage artist.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Tom growled.

Sean chuckled again. “Misogyny, no. Misogamy, yes.”

“There’s my brainy Bob the Builder,” Tom said, his smile blossoming.

“If you married that pretty girl from Kenya you could also score on
miscegeny
.”

“Okay, give it a rest, Mr. Webster. Christ, Sean, what do you do, stay up all night reading the dictionary and playing with yourself?” His brother’s silence spoke volumes. Tom squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Sorry,” he said in a gruff whisper.

“Nah, it’s okay.”

Tom’s temper flared. His fingers curled into a fist. The leather sofa bore the brunt of his aggression. “I hate this. I hate that I can’t even blow you shit! I hate that this is still going on! When are you going to end it?”

“I’m sorry my marriage falling apart is taking such a toll on you.”

The ice in his brother’s tone chilled him to the bone. Sean wasn’t the cold one. Sean wasn’t supposed to be bitter and sarcastic. That was
his
job. Tom’s lips thinned into a tight line. His fingers squeezed the phone’s plastic casing so hard it should have shattered, but his plea came out in a whisper. “Let me file the papers, Sean.”

“No!”

“Let me shake her ‘til her teeth rattle.”

“Get in line.”

“Let me do something!”

Sean’s tired sigh blew like a gust of wind down Canal Street. “Tell me about your date,” he said at last. “How come you’re calling me and not making sure she’s
callin
’ your name?”

He tried to smooth the furrows cutting across his forehead. “Well, apparently the fact that I don’t want her ordering new blinds for my bedroom means I can’t commit, and the reason I can’t commit to a woman as evolved and self-aware as
Mehgan
Barlow is that I am a misogynist,” he explained with deliberate patience.

“Makes perfect sense to me.”

“Figured it would.”

“But she chose the wrong one. You’re a
misogamist
.”

“Which one’s that?”

“Hatred of marriage.”

“Ah, right. Well, maybe she just misspoke,” Tom said with a rueful laugh.

“Probably. Heat of the moment and all that.” The two men shared a good laugh at his expense. “So, why were you breaking up with her?”

“I told you, the blinds.”

“No, what’s the real reason?”

“That
is
the real reason,” he insisted, leveraging himself into a sitting position. “First it’s a bowl or some blinds, next they’re picking our matching bands.” Tom ran his hand over his face, dragging at the corners of his mouth. “We both know how well that works out.”

Sean snorted then fell silent.

His gaze roamed the living room, searching for a place to light. It landed on the funky tribal mask
Elinah
Hart gave him. When he ended their relationship she claimed she gave him a priceless family heirloom. He made some snide comment about the ‘Made in Indonesia’ sticker pasted to the inside and she hurled it at him with surprising accuracy. He hadn’t even cared enough to duck.

There were very few people he cared about enough that he’d dodge the blows. Sean was one of them. Sean’s estranged wife, Tracy, another. “How are things?” he asked at last.

“Things are things.”

Sean’s cryptic answer spoke volumes. He and Tracy had been living in a virtual standoff for the better part of two years. “I hate hating her,” Tom admitted.

A few seconds of silence ticked by before Sean cleared his throat. “Things are
gettin
’ a little better.”

His eyebrows etched the furrows in his forehead a little deeper. “They are?”

“Well, it’s not all
War of the Roses
anymore.”

“I have to admit, I kind of admire you for hanging in there. Most guys would have cut and run by now.”

“I don’t have a choice.”

Tom shook his head at his little brother’s stubborn streak. “Yes, you do.”

“No, I don’t. Listen, I don’t expect you to understand. You can’t possibly understand.”

Heat prickled his cheeks, and he turned his head as if Sean was sitting right there—as if he was scared to face the truth shining in his little brother’s eyes. “You’re right. I can’t possibly.”

The silence stretched taut between them. As usual, Sean broke first. “So, you and
Mehgan
?”

“Done.”

“Three weeks? Four?”

“Five, asshole.”

“What’s the record again?”

“You’re like a broken record.”

“Showing your age,” Sean said with a chuckle. “Hell, people don’t even buy CDs anymore.”

“Feeling my age,” Tom admitted with a tired sigh.

“Still dying your hair?”

Tom bristled. “I don’t dye my hair.” Switching to counter-offensive mode he asked, “Where’s your beautiful bride tonight? Holed up in the basement avoiding your ugly ass?”

“Actually, she’s out.”

“Out?”

“Yep.”

“Out where?”

The pregnant pause before Sean answered spoke volumes. “I didn’t ask.”

“Uh-huh. What did your spies tell you?”

“I don’t have spies. I have kids.”

Tom waved a dismissive hand and leveraged himself from the couch. “Po-ta-to,
po
-
tah
-to.” His stomach growled so he padded to the kitchen. Two plates of play food were definitely not going to hold him to the morning, no matter how artfully arranged or how many ethnicities they fused into one. “I say you interrogate the littlest one. He always squeals.”

“I didn’t have to put the squeeze on Kevin. Erin gave up the goods,” Sean admitted, referring to his middle child and only daughter.

“Oh?” He plucked a bottle of water from the fridge then rummaged through a cabinet until he unearthed a bag of potato chips. Scowling at the crumbs dusting the bottom of the bag, he plunged his hand inside. “And?”

“I don’t know where she went, but she’s out with Maggie.”

Tom shoved a handful of broken chips into his mouth and brushed the crumbs from his chest. “Maggie?” he mumbled as he chewed.

“Maggie McCann. Her old roommate? The redhead,” Sean prompted.

He licked potato chip crumbs from his lips, savoring the salty goodness melting on his tongue. Tom didn’t need to jog his memory. Any man who’d ever sneaked a peek at Tracy’s friend Maggie would never forget her.

The mere mention of the name conjured a Technicolor still shot in his brain. Redhead wasn’t a good enough word. Her lustrous hair—cinnamon swirled with a hint of aged burgundy—tumbled to porcelain shoulders, tempting the saints the way it curled against the ivory column of her throat. The translucent skin of a milkmaid stretched over the lush curves of a courtesan. Her green eyes flashed and gleamed with wicked good humor when she smiled. And her smile…That wholesome toothpaste ad smile hit a guy straight in the gonads.

In other words Maggie McCann was the kind of woman he avoided like the clap. Her damn smile packed more punch than an atom bomb and was a thousand times more dangerous than anthrax. “Yeah, I think I remember her.”

Sean snorted. “I’m sure you remember her tits. You practically dove into her cleavage at our rehearsal dinner.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“You’ve seen her dozens of times since then. Some things don’t change.”

Tom couldn’t help it. He did what any good attorney would do when faced with a line of questioning he found untenable, he turned it around. “And some things
do
change. I seem to remember a couple of people who couldn’t wait to get hitched. Now you’re both just sitting around waiting to get divorced.”

“Fuck you.”

“You’re not my type.”

“I’m done,” Sean growled.

The phone went dead. Tom checked the display, inhaling deeply through his nose. Tossing the phone onto the counter, he scowled at the potato crumbs once more. “Way to go, asshole.”

Leaning against the counter, he tipped the bag to his lips and emptied the dregs into his big, fat mouth. Chips clung to his lips. He crumpled the bag as he chewed then stuffed it into the stainless steel trash can left behind by another woman hell-bent on redecorating his life.

“Sherry Hanson,” he murmured to the empty room.

His shoulders slumped as he shuffled from the kitchen. He scrubbed a hand over his face, dislodging the last of his snack. Plodding his way toward the bedroom, Tom berated himself for his insensitivity. Then again, he and Sean rarely pulled punches, physical or verbal. He had the broken nose to prove it.

A beer and a mea culpa. That’s all it would take. He might have to let his little brother get a few digs in, but everything would be okay. Everything had to be okay. Sean wouldn’t stay mad at him. His little brother was the yin to his yang. Or yang to his yin. Whatever. Maybe he’d even let his baby brother flatten his nose again. Then they could call it even and have that beer.

Tom stripped off his suit coat and tossed it over the arm of the overstuffed chair Mary
Sobinski
picked out for the room. He unbuttoned his shirt and yanked it from his arms, chucking it toward the wicker hamper
Jonelle
Middling insisted he needed. The navy pinstripe pants Ann Chandler said cupped his ass perfectly dropped to the floor. He stepped out of them and dove for the bed, needing a few minutes to gather the strength to brush his teeth.

The dull throbbing behind his eyes matched the pulse strumming in his ears. He drew in a breath then expelled it carefully. His fingers slipped under the hem of his undershirt. The hair covering his knotted stomach tickled his palm. A montage of the women who’d drifted in and out of his life played behind closed eyelids, and his brain cataloged each corresponding bit of detritus they’d left behind—the single man’s version of Concentration.

An image of the one woman among many he’d never touched, never tasted, never dared to even sniff, flashed before his eyes. Tom sighed and gave into the temptation. He hadn’t laid eyes on the woman in years, yet he had no difficulty conjuring the memory of Maggie McCann in the wicked sundress she’d worn to some backyard barbeque at Sean and Tracy’s house. White with red polka dots. Halter top. Gorgeous tits. Generous ass.