Ice Steam (Loving All Wrong #3) (40 page)

I stood and walked back over to the recliner, sat down and resumed staring into the fire.

“You can’t stay locked up in here forever, Alina,” he said. “You have a son, a job, people who love and care about you, and two men who are waiting for you to make a decision.”

“The sun is shining,” I told the fire. “The world is doing quite fine without me.”

After a long stretch of silence, he asked, “How are you not pissed at me for what went down with Davian?”

As I closed my eyes, a tear squeezed out. “Because if you hadn’t interfered, I never would’ve experienced Xavier Xander.”

I didn’t hear him leave, but I knew he was gone.

It wasn’t another two days before I switched on my cell and sent a general message to everyone, letting them know I was alive and well and would contact them once I was in L.A.

Then after hiding for another couple of days, I let the sun kiss my skin as I drove home to my new, living family.

JK’s sports bike was absent and his Jeep was present which meant he was—
hallelujah!
—not around to give me crap. Once inside the house, I hugged Sylvie, the housemaid, who was baking in the kitchen, telling her how much I missed her cooking. I really did.

Amanda, Saskia’s BFF, the same one JK called in to replace me, was painting her toenails in the living room, an eyebrow arching up when she saw me. “Hey, heart-breaker.”

I rolled my eyes, smiling even though my facial muscles groaned at the gesture—seeing as they hadn’t had much exercise over the past couple of weeks.

Amanda was a fierce but gorgeous, voluptuous, caramel-skinned Brit, who rode or died for Saskia. Since international NBA star, Zane Zekiel, had proposed to her, she’d been scarce. And the house had never been the same without her. So when she told me Saskia and Jacob were asleep, I plopped down beside her and we chatted about the happenings of L.A.

When our chitchat got curtailed by a phone call from aforementioned fiancé, I gave her privacy and drifted off to Saskia’s floor.

Saskia forbade people from coming up to her floor and knocking on her bedroom door to bother her, but I didn’t care, and I especially didn’t knock, because she had been an intrusive bitch. A pain in my ass. She was A, for hell’s sake—well technically it was Tex, but she anonymously fed the secrets. It was all
her
.

Leaning against her doorjamb, I watched her and Jacob for a moment. Seemed the baby weight was starting to pile on, as her cheeks were now a little cherub-like, her lips were full and plump like she’d been in a kissing match, and her rack was at least a cup size bigger.

Lying on her side, with Jacob curled around her protruding gut, she was even more beautiful with the weight, peacefully innocent and content in sleep.

And my son,
oh God
, just looking at him hurt. He was Davian. From the dark brown hair on his head to the red, pear-shaped birthmark on the sole of left foot. I thought I’d escaped him in L.A. but I hadn’t, because here he was in front of me, screaming, “
Choose me! Choose me
!”

This is what was right. My son deserved a family, a mother and a father who loved each other, who would sit at the dinner table and eat together. Who would watch television and play board games together…and I couldn’t imagine denying him that.

Pushing off from the doorjamb, I kicked off my slippers and walked over to the bed, climbed in and made a C behind Jacob, fingering his hair and peppering dozens of kisses to the top of his head and on his chubby cheek.

Then I curved an arm over him and splayed my fingers on Saskia’s pregnant stomach, which woke her.

Her eyes opened, those big gray irises like jewel disks, and registered not an ounce of surprise. After a full two minutes roaming her gaze over my face, she gave me a sleepy, lopsided smile and whispered, “A is for Ally.”

“You’re a meddling bitch,” I whispered back. “And I wanna kill you.”

Placing her hand on top of mine which was splayed over her stomach, she closed her eyes and said through a yawn, “You love me.”

I sighed, resting my chin atop Jacob’s head between us. “That I do.”

I spent the rest of the week with my family, settling back into what was familiar, getting so comfortably relaxed that I was loath to go back to L.A.

But, of course, with each day that sailed by, Saskia’s accent was in my ears, reminding me I needed to go back and sort the mess I created.

“I’m so bloody pissed at you for dragging Xavi into this,” she’d angered. “This could have been so much cleaner, you know? All you had to do was tell Davi he has a son, get your man back and have your HEA. Xavi, he doesn’t deserve this. He’s been through a lot, yeah?”

I hadn’t told her the truth behind Davian’s exit, because then she would have a ton of questions. For one, she had no idea the kind of man Chad really was, and JK didn’t want her—well,
us—
to know of Chad’s nature. But I knew my cousin, knew he was a killer. Chad knew I knew. JK didn’t. I merely played oblivious around others. And Saskia was better off not knowing the gore, so I kept most of the truth from her.

I also didn’t tell her I’d found out Xavier and Jess used to sneak around, or that there was a chance he hadn’t just seen my pictures on the internet and decided he wanted me, but came after me for different reasons, malicious reasons. I didn’t tell her because one, she was Team Xavi and thought he was all innocent and I didn’t want to burst her bubble. And two, because I could care less how Xavier found me. I was only glad he
did
.

Jacob was missing the following Tuesday when I was packed and ready to head back to L.A. After frantically searching each room, bellowing out his name, Sylvie tattled: JK had stolen my son and snuck off with him to work. This nettlesome move of his, I did
not
miss. At all. Some things just never change.

Putting on some lipstick, I pressed a kiss to a Post-It note, wrote “Mommy Loves You” under the lips print, and placed it in his play pen.

Then I hugged and kissed Saskia goodbye, promising her I would do the right thing, and boarded the plane back to the toxic city of Los Angeles.

“Miss O’Hara, it’s so nice to see you again! I trust your trip was relaxing?” the concierge greeted me when I wheeled into my apartment building.

“It was alright,” I mumbled, heading for the elevator, not in the mood for small talk.

“Oh, a package was delivered here for you two weeks ago. Please, hold on one minute.”

He disappeared through the door behind his desk, and returned with a huge rectangular box, and I instantly knew what it was. A custom guitar I’d ordered for Xavier a while back.

I made to take the package from him but Mel appeared out of nowhere, taking the package and accompanied me up to my big, empty apartment.

After Mel left, I poured a glass of Chianti, took a sip, savored it, then collapsed on a sofa. There went my alcohol-free diet. Have been cheating on it since France. But let’s be honest, was it even possible for a girl to make such a heartbreaking decision without even a drop of alcohol in her system?

My heart has been all over the place since the plane landed. My hand trembled each time I picked up the phone, which resulted in me dropping it like it was on fire.

Mick Xander advised I go with what was in the heart. And Dad advised I do whatever made me smile.

What if what’s in your heart isn’t what makes you smile? Just because something is in your heart, does it mean you are content with it there?

Sometimes the heart hurts so excruciatingly bad, like a blazing ball of fire no amount of tears can drown out, so much so, you find yourself wanting to reach inside your chest and rip it clean out to make the pain stop.

Sometimes you find yourself wishing you didn’t have a heart, so you could smile without feeling, smile without caring. Just
smile
, with no regard for the heart and what it wants.

Go with what’s in your heart.

What if what’s in your heart is no good for you? What if it’s not what you want to settle for? What if you want
more
than what the heart wants?

I made another attempt to pick up my phone, and this time, probably due to the liquid fortitude, my hand didn’t shake.

While Davian called and texted me at least five times a day—“
I get it. You need some time to think. But this is driving me crazy.
”, “
Please, at least pick up so I can hear your voice.”, “Let me know you’re still mine. Let me know I haven’t waited too long and lost you to him
”…and many more of that nature—Xavier hadn’t called or texted even once since I left him at Rennes Airport.

Last week, when I’d messaged them both, letting them know I was taking some time to myself to think things through, Davian had replied with an immediate phone call—which went unanswered—and Xavier had replied with a simple text: “K”.

Xavier, unlike Davian, didn’t have much confidence in us. He believed there was only so much he could say or do to sway me to his side, so he was waiting in silence with an air-thin hope of me choosing him.

While Davian knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that I was his. He had the confidence, the gumption, to have made Xavier walk away, give up, when he’d seen us together. The connection between us was one that, when we were together, could not be denied. The force, the energy, the bond, the history, so strong it was damn near palpable.

Davian never once deemed Xavier as a threat; his confidence in our bond was that unwavering.

Yet,
he
was the one panicking now.
He
was the one blowing up my phone.
He
was the one begging for assurance.

I opened a fresh message, added both their numbers as the recipients, then typed out, “
Where can we meet?”
, staring at the words for a long moment before hitting Send.

Almost immediately, two locations pinged back to me. All I had to do now was pick one.

I got up and unwrapped the guitar. A blood-red beauty. Back when I was deliriously happy with him, I’d wanted to get Xavier a “just because” gift, and ordered this.

Now it was up in the air.

Both Xavier and Davian played guitars, so I would simply bring it with me to whatever destination my decision took me. Whoever won, it was theirs.

Deciding to leave Mel out of the drama this time around, I went down to the garage and revved up the Mercedes convertible Chad had bought me the first time since I got here. Top down, prize guitar riding shot gun.

I drove at moderate speed, enjoying the ride, wind combing through my hair.

And then I was there, decision made.

Parking the car on the curb with painstaking care—translate
delaying
—I powered up the convertible top, picked up the guitar, and took not so confident, not so sure steps toward the building. Heart pounding and reverberating like a gong in my chest, I pushed open the metal door and walked inside.

Kurt Cobain was croonin
g at a low volume, and my head twisted and turned on my shoulders as I took in the place, absolutely loving how the re-polishing was coming along.

He was sitting by the bar, back to the door, but had swiveled around upon hearing my entrance. As I approached, he stood up, then promptly sat back down again, clearly anxious.

Offering him a hesitant smile, one I hoped held the promise of a happy, successful future, I set the guitar down on top of the bar counter, and his curious, hopeful eyes slid to the instrument.

There was a slight curve to his infamous, well-gushed-about lips when he asked, “That for me?”

I knew he would love it.

Throwing him a wider, much more confident smile—okay, a
grin—
I walked up to him, shimmied myself between his strong legs propped up on the barstool, locked my arms around his neck, touched my nose to his, and breathed against his lips, “You’re the beat I want to keep. It’s
you
.”

To be continued….

I
would like to thank my God, first and foremost, for bringing me safely into a new year. For shielding me when I ran to him for refuge, answering me when I cried out to him, and changing me for the better, little by little, day by day. I’m alive because of no other but
Jehovah.
My
Rock
.