Love Is Louder (3 page)

“STAT Code Blue!”

What the fuck?

Clenching my hands in fists, I want to break something. Dread fills my stomach like a thousand pound weight, tearing a hole inside me. My heart races, and the room seems to be closing in on me.

Doe. Do Re Mi! Please don’t leave me!

“Cardiac arrest. She’s lost a lot of blood. Twenty-something female. Third trimester. We have to save the baby.”

My heart pounds harder and harder with each second, and an unbearable pressure crushes my chest before I find the voice to speak.

“I’m Mason Marks. Is that Meadow? Is she okay?” I barrel toward the operating room.

“I’m sorry, but you don’t have permission to be back here. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” A middle-aged doctor with silver hair blocks my entry to the room.

He grabs my shoulder and turns me away as two security guards appear. I’m engulfed in a sea of frenzy and adrenaline. Ignoring his warning, I shove past him to get to my sister.

It takes three people to restrain me as I try to peek through the small sliver of glass into the operating room where I see my sister’s blonde hair coated with dried blood and her face covered with an oxygen mask. My heart seizes in my throat, and everything I thought was good in this world fucking disappears in a cloud of smoke.

No!

As I continue struggling and fighting, they lead me farther away from my helpless sister. I can’t do anything for her this time. I wasn’t there for her. I failed her.

Waiting to hear from the doctor is an arduous job. I somehow survive by pacing the hallway and punching the wall several times. Seeing the gash on my hand and the blood oozing from my wounds gives me some kind of calm. It should be me in there, not Meadow.

Please fight. She needs to fight.

Thirty minutes feels like thirty years when the doctor enters the waiting area and meets my tired gaze in the far corner. I shoot up from my chair as my cousin takes my hand, and my mother wraps her arms around my waist. I’ve watched this scene play out on TV a million times, and I can tell by his grave expression the outcome isn’t good. I don’t even ask the question, and he doesn’t wait.

“Hi, Mr. Marks. I’m Dr. McKeon.” My eyes sting with unshed tears as I stare into the doctor’s steely blue eyes, listening to his pragmatic yet forthcoming voice as he stands in front of me with his hands nestled in the pocket of his white coat. “I’m sorry, but your sister didn’t make it. We did everything we could to save her. She lost too much blood.”

All my breath leaves me as I force myself to stand, battling the quaking that bashes against my ribs like a sledgehammer. Coldness winds through my veins like ice, freezing me from the inside out, and loss wraps me in its black cloak, weighing me down.

I try to continue to listen to what he’s saying, his words drifting in and out of consciousness. I don’t ask how or why. It doesn’t matter. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not now, not to Meadow. She had so much to live for, so much to give. With tears running down her cheeks, Cindy gives my hand a squeeze as I close my eyes, trying to compose myself, but it’s useless as my merciless tears free themselves. Releasing them does nothing to alleviate the tightness in my chest.

She’s gone.

The two simple, but harsh words pummel then destroy me beyond repair. I feel as though I’m dying, and a part of me has with my sister. Everything in my soul and in my heart is screaming to bring her back.

How do I move past this tragedy?

I search the doctor’s eyes, wanting answers, needing anything, something to pull me through this.

I blink several times, choking over my words in a whisper. “What about the baby? Did the baby survive?”

I took up yoga as a stress reliever six months ago when James started growing distant and spending less time at home and more time at the office, supposedly taking on more cases as the district attorney. I was afraid of this. It happened with my parents. My dad strayed, but I can’t think that James would do something like that to me. I have no proof, but what else could it be? I’m going to be thirty next year. In one week, it will be four years that we’ve been married. Four long, challenging years. I want a baby. I want a family.

I unlock the front door as I flip through the pile of mail, which consists mostly of bills and unwanted solicitations for cleaning services and takeout menus. Where the hell are my Victoria’s Secret catalog and the latest issue of
GQ
so I can check out the new Calvin Klein underwear spread? Frowning, I drift down the hallway to the open concept living room bathed in white and taupe as sunlight streams through the floor-length windows like rivers of gold.

I drop my yoga mat and bag onto the sofa, toss the mail onto the mahogany coffee table, and plod into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water from the fridge.

Leaning against the counter, still energized from my yoga session, I stare out the kitchen window at the glistening aqua blue water in our Olympic-sized pool, wondering what the rest of my day will entail when my ringing cell phone shatters the calm.

“Shit,” I grumble under my breath as I scamper to the sofa to dig blindly into my oversized gym bag for my phone buried underneath my sneakers and yoga gear. When I see who it is, I swipe my finger across the screen and drop my bag to the floor, spilling some of the contents.

“Hello.”

“Sounds like you’re having some issues.” Ava chuckles.

“Can you tell me why I carry this enormous sack? I can never find what I need.”

“Don’t you know bigger is better?”

“Ugh...not helpful.”

“Stop being so...negative,” she teases, and I frown. “So, how was yoga class?”

“Fine.”

“Sorry I couldn’t make it today.”

“You didn’t miss much. Just a ton of sweaty bodies crammed in an overheated room and a couple of complicated, painful poses were introduced.” I cringe, rubbing my calf.

“Well...I had a new client to impress. Some arrogant blonde, who was referred to me by a loyal customer,” she confides. “She was a real bitch on wheels.”

“I wish I had been there to check out all the action.” I grin, walking back into the kitchen.

“This one was in a league of her own, but I was a professional as always.” She laughs. “Business comes first, ya know?”

“Mmm-hmm...I agree. Have to be on your best behavior, even if you feel the urge to shave off her hair.”

“Ha! I was close. Trust me! You don’t want to get on my bad side,” she says. “Anywho...was that guy you’re crushing on in yoga class today?”

I pull my hair out my ponytail, allowing my dark brown hair to cascade softly over my shoulders.”
Admiring
not crushing and I don’t feel right about it. I’m married.”

“Brie, seriously, it’s only flirting. You flirt with the college guy at Starbucks every morning when you pick up your double shot of espresso.”

“Let me correct that.
He
flirts with me.” I chuckle, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.

“You’re gorgeous, babe. What man wouldn’t want your attention?”

“But…”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re married. I get it, but you’re not a corpse.”

What can I say about Ava with her voluptuous body, dark brown hair, and hazel eyes? She’s a fashionista, loves black, shopping, and shoes. These are some of the reasons why we hit it off. I met Ava at my first yoga class. When she saw me having difficulty with some of the intricate poses, she took it upon herself to become my yoga buddy. I had never heard of the camel or any other of the crazy positions, so she made sure I was doing them correctly so I didn’t pull a muscle I hadn’t used in years.

Ava owns an award-winning hair salon in town called Hairanoia and has been dying to get her hands on my long wavy locks. I trust her skills as a hairdresser, but I’m not quite ready to relinquish control of my hair so she can work her magic, especially when she mentioned the words ‘short’ and ‘choppy’ in one sentence. James loves my long hair, and so do I, so I plan to keep it that way.

“So, how was your date with what’s his name?” I rummage through the cabinets for something to snack on when the doorbell rings.

This is the reason why I had to rush back home as I flick my gaze at my watch. One o’clock on the dot. James made a service call to Marks Service Techs to repair the washing machine that we bought just over a year ago. I grimace at the prospect of making small talk with a bald middle-aged man for the next hour when I should be out shopping and getting pampered at the spa.

Unhappy with my afternoon plans, I trudge down the long hallway to the front door, intently listening to Ava talk about her date from last night with the gym guy when I throw open the front door.

I rescind my comment about a bald middle-aged guy. The technician standing on my front porch looks nothing like that. Not even close. Here, standing in front of me is over six feet of masculine glory. Tingles of awareness ricochet through every inch of me, responding to this trance he has me under.

This man is different from what I’m usually attracted to. James is clean-cut, conservative, tall, and athletic with hair the color of onyx and piercing blue eyes. This guy’s rugged with the perfect amount of scruff on his chin and upper lip with a complexion gilded exquisitely by the summer sun. My arms tense, wanting to bury my fingers in his thick, luscious blonde hair that peaks out from underneath his baseball cap. His lips are etched and full of promise, impossible to ignore with him less than five feet away from me.

A rippling, defined body is hidden underneath his tight white T-shirt while faded blue jeans hang perfectly off his hips. When I look in his eyes that glitter like golden brown topaz, I get lost in them. I see something exciting and forbidden, and for one brief minute, I wonder what sex would be like with him— a thought that makes me feel insanely guilty.

This is crazy. Because my husband neglects me, I’m fantasizing about the espresso guy, the yoga guy, and now, the repairman. Awesome. I need James to pull his finger out and bang me for Christ’s sake.

“Ava,” I manage without stammering. “I’ve got to go. The repairman is here.”

It takes me a minute to realize I’m rudely staring, and a blush has warmed my cheeks.

“Is he hot?” She laughs.

“Seriously.” I almost choke at her comment. “Um...I’ll call you later.” I abruptly hang up the phone and lift my eyes.

“Hi, I’m Mason Marks and at your service,” he introduces himself with a hint of a smile.

Holy shit.

His voice reverberates through my chest. My knees weaken a little at the sensation, and my jaw drops with a soundless sigh. It’s the type of voice that makes women swoon, the type of voice I could listen to all day and never hear enough of. Immediately, I glance at his left hand and take note.
No ring.

Shame on me for even going there. I’m a married woman, not happily married at the moment, but I want to be, and this man in front of me is throwing a wrench into my plans. I notice the tools that adorn his belt, wondering about the tool that is under his jeans. I bet he knows how to use it proficiently and efficiently, just by the looks of him.

Stop already.

“Hi, I’m Brie.” My voice shakes ever so slightly.

His eyes glimmer with heat, searching me as he extends his hand. Ensnared by his presence, I take it without breaking my gaze. His strong, warm, calloused hand envelopes mine as chills race through my body. Instantaneously, I imagine what those two hands can do to me—grip my waist, pull my hair, and overpower me with his strength.

With a small smile, I drop my hand, avert my eyes and let him pass into my house. He takes in his surroundings, peeking at the wedding picture of James and me hanging on the wall. He towers over my five-feet-seven frame.

My senses come alive when I get a whiff of musk and his masculine scent that causes a strange fluttering sensation in my belly. I feel exposed, barely clothed in my purple sports bra and cropped black yoga pants as his eyes skitter across my pierced toned stomach and then up to my face.