Authors: Bridget Lang
Romance: SCREWED (An Arranged Marriage to the NFL Bad Boy) (A New Adult Contemporary Athlete Sports Football Romance) (11 page)
The following days became weeks in which Dean spent in an alcohol and grief laden haze. He no longer waited for evening to use liquor to dull his pain. He’d taken almost all of his saved leave after his confession to Ava.
His commander had rushed the packet through for him, gotten the time off approved in hours rather than days or even weeks. Dean wasn’t sure why he’d done it, but he was thankful. Dean didn’t know how he would face anyone again.
Somehow speaking of James’s death made it more real. Before he’d been able to push it down, distance himself until he almost felt like it was a bad dream. Words had power, though. Deans words brought the darker emotions to life. He’d given the memory of James’s death power, and now it threatened to choke him with every waking breath.
Day after day he fell deeper into the bottle. He wasn’t even sure anymore if he was doing it to escape reality or if he was trying to punish himself for what he’d done, wreck the body that had caused so much grief and pain. A little of both? It really didn’t matter in the end, as long as he didn’t have to sober up and face himself in the mirror.
Things continued on that way for a month and a half. His imposing frame lost muscle mass and when he did bother to look in the mirror he didn’t recognize the tortured sot who stared back at him. That was good, he thought to himself. He hated the strong, confident, arrogant man who’d murdered his best and only friend. Anyone he became had to be better than that guy.
Eventually, though, there came a day that he woke without any liquor in the house. At some point over the last few days he’d misplaced the keys to both his truck and his bike in a drunken stupor, so it looked like he would be going to fetch a bit more liquor on foot. He could have called a cab, of course…but after so many days in solitude, the thought of making conversation with another person seemed an almost insurmountable task.
He would rather walk the two miles to the liquor store than try to speak around the grief in his throat and his heart. Even if he was inclined to, he felt that the words would be large and awkward in his mouth. No, he would walk to the liquor store this time. Then, after he’d had a few drinks to calm the tremor in his hands and the pounding in his head, he’d find the fucking keys so that this didn’t happen again.
The sunlight and heat left him shaking and queasy. His head was swimming and sawdust filled his mouth. Every breath felt too heavy for his lungs, and the sunlight offended eyes that hadn’t seen nearly enough daylight in recent weeks. Even so, something about the walk cleansed him, sobered him at least enough to take an honest look in the mirror when he got home. What he saw left him sick and ashamed. He showered off the sweat and the liquor scent that seemed to be oozing out his pores.
Then he sat on his couch, not sure what to do next. He looked around at the room. It was cluttered with takeout containers and empty booze bottles. Some of the bottles had been left on their sides to leak their last few drops on the carpet, adding the scent of old alcohol to the smell of stale grease. He shook his head in disgust.
That was as good a place to start as any, he supposed. He grabbed a garbage bag and was almost done picking up the worst of the clutter when he saw the DVD that had been laying on the floor since the morning he’d kicked Ava out.
He found his laptop and placed it on the coffee table. With shaking hands, he inserted the disc. It was a series of video clips from his childhood, all of them short, homemade by James and himself. Even through the pain he couldn’t help but smile at their childish antics. More clips followed of them in the service together, at James’s wedding, and at barbecues with James’s family. He watched it all with dry-eyed longing. What had happened? What had he missed? How had his friend slipped so completely off track without him noticing?
The screen went black for a moment, and then Maria’s face filled the screen.
“Hi Dean. I’m recording this because I’m not sure I will have the strength to say what needs to be said to your face without getting mad. I’m sure that however James really ended, it was…bad. I can’t even imagine, and I don’t want to know. I wanted to show you how I remember him though…and how you should too. That’s what he’d want. I get it if you can’t look at me for a while, or ever, without hurting. Just don’t throw out the good memories with the bad, okay? James wouldn’t want that.”
He saw the tears start to fall slowly down her face as she reached forward to stop the recording. He was shocked to realize that there were tears in his own eyes as well. Only a few, too little to actually fall, but still…he thought he’d cried out every last one in his youth. Only a couple solitary tears…but they represented cleansing, and starting over, and he knew what he had to do.
Ava could hardly believe her ears when her receptionist buzzed to say that Dean was there to see her.
“Thank God,” she whispered.
She stood uncertainly as he entered the door. He was thinner, and paler. But there was a new softness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. She waited, not sure how to proceed.
He made his way to her, ignoring the professional boundary of her desk as he always had. Her heart hitched at being so near to him after not seeing him for a month.
“So, I stayed drunk for a little over a month,” Dean began with a rueful smile. “Then, once I finally stayed awake and sober for a few hours at the same time, I thought about James. Then I thought about the things you said.”
He took a deep breath, as Ava waited for him to continue.
“I do need help. I don’t want to tell anyone else what really went down with James. It won’t bring anyone back and it will only hurt everyone involved, the way I see it. The families of everyone who died think that those men died at the hands of terrorists. I don’t want to rob them of that any more than I want to see James’s memory trampled through the dirt… but I need some help to deal with this, so I’d like to make an appointment to come back and see you.”
“You don’t have to come here… I could help you any time you need it, Dean. Day or night.”
“Still, we’ll do it here. You might as well get paid for all the trouble You’ve gone through for me. Before I start with those appointments though, there’s something else I could use your help with…”
The following weekend Dean and Ava walked hand in hand. Maria walked beside them through the park, while her two older children scampered ahead of them toward the playground. They’d just gone out for ice cream, and now they were going to give the children a chance to play themselves out before Maria brought the kids home, and before Dean brought the beautiful woman beside him back to his place.
He reveled in the feel of Ava’s hand in his own. Hard to believe that a week ago he’d been drowning himself in liquor, half hoping he’d follow James to an early grave. Now he felt… at peace. He and Maria had spent the entire time in the ice cream parlor telling Ava stories about some of his and James’s escapades, and he found that he could laugh and remember the past fondly now. Not without a twinge of pain of course, but this pain was bittersweet. After the soul-rending anguish he’d felt before, he could certainly handle bittersweet, especially with a strong woman by his side to help him through.
He couldn’t resist leaning in for a quick kiss, and loved how her lips curved into a smile at the simple gesture.
“Uncle Dean and Ava sitting in a tree—”
“Jenny, that’s enough,” Maria told her oldest daughter in a scolding tone.
Ava just laughed, and Dean couldn’t help but join her.
“I guess we do seem a little whipped,” he admitted with a smile.
“A little?” Maria scoffed, “Ava, this man has never brought a single girl home for me to meet, and you have him eating out of the palm of your hand. He’s most certainly whipped.”
Dean stopped and turned Ava so that she faced him, so that he could look into her beautiful eyes.
“Well, Maria,” he spoke to her, but his eyes never left Ava’s, “For the first time in my life, I’m thinking that being whipped is just fine with me.”
And it was.
THE END
Wealthy rancher
Tanner
neither wants nor needs a wife. The sexy rancher can have a woman any night of the week. Women flock to him. His adopted daughter Chloe, foreman Josiah, and ranch hands are all the family he needs.
Through a cruel twist of fate, curvy
Heather
is alone and penniless. While sorting through her life, she applies to a mail order bride agency. To her surprise, she receives a touching letter. Still, marrying a man she’s never met is crazy. Then again, maybe it’s the fresh start she needs.
Chloe
loves her dad and their life, but she needs a mom. Her dad doesn’t get it. Being the only girl on a ranch is tough. She knows that if it’s gonna happen, she’ll have to make it happen. With her dad’s credit card, the 10 yr.old finds them perfect wife and mother.
She just prays that the letter she wrote the pretty lady in her dad’s name will persuade her to give them a chance…. and that her dad doesn’t ground her for life when he finds out!
The building was a brownstone affair; it looked perfectly innocuous from the outside, sitting prettily within the tree-lined street, amidst rows of other replica houses. Heather double-checked the GPS on her mobile, not daring to walk up the stairs to its entrance just yet. The destination was confirmed to be correct, and eyeing the building again she could see a small silver plaque by the buzzer, indicating that the building wasn’t residential.
Heather couldn’t quite believe that she was actually here. It felt like she was having an out of body experience, and that surely she was living someone else’s life and not her own; because up until one month ago, she had been engaged to her boyfriend of three years, living in a beautiful apartment on the Upper East Side, hosting dinner parties and attending charity functions. She had never stopped to think that her existence as it was might be transient; that the life she had planned for herself could at any moment veer wildly off-course.
Despite the beautiful New York spring day, Heather felt like she was walking around beneath her own black cloud. The stairs up to the brownstone would lead her into the offices of a mail order bride service – the last place on earth Heather would of have imagined herself being just a short month ago.
Taking a deep breath and summoning what little courage she had left, Heather slowly made her way up to the entrance, ready to meet her future.
Sitting in the well-lit office of an immaculately dressed Mrs. Atkinson, Heather quailed beneath the woman’s searching inspection – no doubt taking in Heather’s expensive attire, but also her haphazard appearance, and the dark shadows that rested beneath her eyes.
“And you are how old, Ms. Ayer?” She enquired, pen and clipboard out as she filled Heather’s details into an exceptionally thick form.
“Call me Heather, please. I’m twenty-nine.” Heather smiled at the woman, and tried to look accommodating and warm. Mrs. Atkinson returned the smile, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
“And what is it that you do, Heather?” The woman looked up from her clipboard expectantly. A silence filled the room. Heather hadn’t been gainfully employed for the last three years. Since becoming Bertram’s girlfriend she had dedicated her waking hours to accommodate his business, his weekend schedules, his country club meetings and events. She had cooked, cleaned and ferried clothes back and forth to the dry cleaners. Under the scrutiny of Atkinson’s glare she felt embarrassed, but at the time she’d found her role fulfilling – happy in the knowledge that she was making his life easier, and contributing in the small way that she could to his success.
“Well,” Heather hesitated, drawing out the silence, “I am starting my own baking company – it’s just in the initial stage, drawing out the business plan…but Bergdorf Goodman and Bloomingdales have so far shown great interest. We’re just finalizing the details.”
Mrs. Atkinson finally looked impressed, but Heather wanted the ground to swallow her whole. It had all been a complete lie – or, worse, a dream. A dream that she had floated past Bertram, who had subsequently told her on no uncertain terms would his wife-to-be work as a baker.
“Well – that sounds lovely. We do like the women on our books to have passions and
joy de vivre
. What is it exactly that you’re looking for?”
The question elicited another long pause. What did she want? She really just wanted someone to love her as she was without constantly putting her under pressure to change, to become someone else – a sleeker, more finessed version of Heather. However, it was highly doubtful that she would find her perfect match through a mail order bride service. She would happily settle for companionship, she decided, and that would be all. If she wanted passion and romance, she’d read a book.
“I’d really just like a kind man. I don’t mind what he does or where he lives. I also -” she paused, and took another breath. This was important. “Well, the truth is, I can’t have children.” Trying to say the words without breaking down was hard. But it was a fact, and one that Heather had lived with for a while now. The heavy crashing waves of grief that had first hit her when she found out were slowly being reduced to small, daily sorrows that were now a part of her.
“So,” Heather continued, “it would be lovely if the man in question could have a child, it doesn’t matter how old, or how many – I love children, and it would be nice to be around them.”
Mrs. Atkinson scribbled rapidly down on the notepad and gave her a faux-smile of sympathy. Heather tried to return it, but she knew from experience that women who had children, or didn’t want children, never understood the pain of not being able to give birth. They would always make bright suggestions about UVF treatments, but Heather had tried them all. Eventually they would run out of things to say, and Heather would end up feeling like a social pariah. Some women that she’d used to circulate with, part of Bertram’s social set, had treated her like she was contagious – that infertility could be caught.
“Well – many of the men on our books are divorcees or widows, so that could be a likelihood.” Mrs. Atkinson paused, and sighed. “But, Heather, I must say – we’re unlikely to find you the caliber of man you may have been used to.” She pointedly eyed Heather’s Hermés bag. “Those type of men,” she cleared her throat and shuffled some pages on her desk, “Well, they tend to prefer women who are…let’s say, less curvy. Less, full, perhaps? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Heather’s cheeks flushed bright crimson. She looked at Mrs. Atkinson’s emaciated figure across the desk, and then looked down at her own full-to-bursting cleavage in her dress. She knew exactly what Mrs. Atkinson was trying to say – for all Heather’s breeding and attractive appearance, the men who ruled Manhattan liked their women looking like polished supermodels. Women that only ate salad leaves, had the regulation honey-blonde highlights, and vampish manicures. It was a world that Heather had tried to fit in, ever since she was a young girl. Yo-yo dieting had been her constant companion through high school, and made worse when she met Bertram – who’d insisted on buying her a gym membership and a set of scales. She had even tried to dye her deep chestnut brown hair platinum, but her beloved hairdresser had point-blank refused and stormed out in a fury at her request.
“I understand,” Heather’s tone was cooler this time, “I’m not looking for a Manhattan businessman – just a good, kind man, as I said. That’s all.”
Back on the street, Heather felt shame wash over her. The experience had been absolutely horrible, and she berated herself for thinking that it was a good idea in the first place. She felt incredibly small, embarrassed at her attempt to find a new start in life at a mail order bride service. The two glasses of Merlot that she’d consumed last night, had, at one am in the morning, been great convincers that this was an exciting, revolutionary plan that was going to be the thing she needed to turn her life around. Instead, and unsurprisingly, she chided herself, it had destroyed what little confidence she had left.
She ducked into a small coffee shop at the end of the road to recuperate her dying spirits. As it was late morning, and not yet subject to the chaos of lunchtime traffic, the atmosphere in the cafe was sleepy and welcoming. She went to order at the counter, admiring the plump and freshly baked pastries that adorned every available surface.
“Can I get you one?” the woman behind the counter beamed at her.
“Oh, no. I’m okay – they look incredible though. Is that a frosted lemon curd?” Heather pointed to one of the more elaborate creations.
“Yes! I spend all last week perfecting that recipe – it took me forever.”
“It’s really fiddly isn’t it?” Heather replied, already feeling calmer and more herself.
“Do you bake?” asked the woman at the counter.
“A little.” Heather blushed, recalling the lie she’d told earlier. “I really love baking, but sadly my fiancé didn’t approve – so I’m a bit out of touch.” Heather eyed the pastries, thinking longingly of the soft pastry dough beneath her hands, the slow and agile process of creating delicious treats from a few, simple ingredients.
“If you love it, you should get back into it.” The answer of the baker was so simple and straightforward. Of course she should do it if she loved it. Bertram leaving her may have crushed her confidence completely, but there were definite benefits to him leaving. Maybe it was time to think about what she really wanted, rather than what was expected of her.