Sugar (7 page)

They’d been BFFs ever since, at least until Liz had gotten knocked up by another actor, a genuine jerk whom Sarah had disliked on the spot. Predictably he’d split as soon as Liz told him about the pregnancy. Rather than have an abortion or put the baby up for adoption, she’d moved back to New York to bring up Jonathan. Sarah was saddened and embarrassed that it had taken cancer to reunite them.

Gloved, goggled, and sheathed by a plastic apron, the oncology nurse walked over with a tray. “These are supposed to be for patients, but I’ll make an exception,” she said to Sarah with a wink. “I only have grape and cherry left.”

“Grape would be great, thanks.” Sarah reached over and took a Popsicle in solidarity. She tore off the wrapper and took a tiny, teeth-freezing bite.

“Welcome aboard.” Liz made a show of fellating her orange Popsicle, drawing dirty looks from the nun but grins from everyone else.

“You’re so bad. I love it!” Sarah exclaimed, glad to see Liz hadn’t lost her spirit in spite of losing so very much else.

Drawing the Popsicle from her lips with deliberate slowness, Liz shrugged thin shoulders. “Someone’s got to liven up this morgue.” She reached for a tissue and used it to wipe the orange stain from her mouth. “So spill it. How was he?”

Sarah hesitated. “I told you, Jonathan’s fine.”

Rolling her eyes, Liz leaned forward as far as the tubing would allow. “Don’t pretend you don’t know who I’m talking about. Cole Canning,” she added in a high whisper.

Oh, crap
.

She sat back. “I almost shit myself when your text came in. I want the dirt, the dirtier the better.”

Darting a look around the room, Sarah resisted the urge to shush her. Thank God she’d worn her glasses! With her blond hair pulled back and next to no makeup, she looked a lot more like an elementary school teacher than an adult film star—or at least she hoped so.

But anonymous or not, she wasn’t thrilled with other people, strangers, being in her business. She might be a sex machine on camera, but off it she’d always been reserved, even kind of shy. Around the room, ear buds now lay on laps. Eyes opened. Heads cocked their way. Even the Catholic sister had dropped her rosary and appeared perched on the edge of her seat. Another few inches and she’d be in danger of toppling.

“Well,” Liz prompted, tapping her hospital footie.

Still Sarah hesitated. Weird though it was, she was still old-fashioned about a few things, not many but a few. One of them was that in her personal life she didn’t fuck and tell. But clearly her friend wasn’t going to let this one go.

“Right, sure. It . . . he was . . . good.”

Liz rolled her eyes. “Good, that’s all I get? C’mon, be a sister and throw me a bone. Is he like hung?”

This time Sarah didn’t hold back. “Shush!”

Gaze glinting, Liz nodded. “Okay, you don’t have to say a word. Just blink when I’m getting warm. Medium?”

Sarah didn’t bat an eye. He was so not medium, not anything close to average.

“Large?”

Again, no blink.

“Extra large?”

This time Sarah blinked—twice.

Liz let out a whoop, drawing a scowl from the battle axe nun. She raised her tube-free hand in a high five. “Extra-extra large! Excellent!”

Sarah smiled. “I had something in my eye.”

“The hell you did. Holy fucking cow, I know a lot of women and a few men who’d give an eye tooth for a night with that guy without even knowing the size of his package.”

It wasn’t an exaggeration. That morning while waiting for Liz to finish getting ready, Sarah had run a Google search on Cole. She’d figured him for rich, but she’d never imagined he came from one of New York’s most elite families, his family’s global financial services firm on par with the late Lehman Brothers. Apparently the Canning name was but a notch or two below “Cuomo” or “Kennedy.” Any thought she had of weakening and calling him up for another “date” had shriveled on the spot. He was old money as well as a prominent personality on the city’s social scene, the executive director of his family’s charitable foundation, which focused on kids whose parents had cancer—speak of serendipity!

But what had floored her most was his war record. At the diner, his oblique reference to Hell had frightened her, but now it made perfect sense. He’d meant Iraq. Given his pedigree and connections, enlisting as a grunt during the Surge made no overt sense, but he must have had his reasons. His military occupational specialty, explosive ordinance disposal, was another surprise. Considering he still had all ten fingers, he must have been pretty fucking good. When his convoy ran afoul of a makeshift bomb planted by the insurgency, he’d run into the flames, risking his life to carry a crippled soldier to safety.

From war hero to professional schmoozer, talk about a leap! Clicking through a myriad of media clips of him at one black-tie fund-raiser after another, always with a different stunning woman as arm candy, she felt her post-coital high from that morning dip. Even if she was willing to risk the publicity, which she wasn’t, a man like Cole Canning wouldn’t be caught dead in public with a porn star. Fortunately he wouldn’t have to risk it. The information exchange had been one-sided. She hadn’t given him her phone number—or her last name.

“By the way, did he say what the ‘A’ stood for?” Liz’s question startled her back to the present. “Don’t tell me, let me guess. Awesome?” She grinned.

Guilty at having drifted, Sarah repeated, “The A?”

Liz gave her an exasperated look. “His middle initial.”

“Oh, right. I didn’t ask.” Once they’d gotten past the standoff over the cell phone, they hadn’t done much talking beyond random exclamations of pleasure. Regrettably that awesome sexual satisfaction would never see a second act.

As if reading her thoughts, Liz asked, “When are you going to see him again?”

“I’m not,” Sarah said and left it at that.

Liz’s smile slipped. “Why not?”

Sarah hesitated. “Last night was a onetime shot, a slice-of-life moment, nothing more. Besides, like you said, he has women lining up to fuck him.”

Liz lowered her voice. “Excuse me, Miss AVN Hall of Famer, it’s not like you’re chopped liver.” She sank back against the headrest with a sigh. “You gotta grab your bliss while you can. Believe me, if I were in your place, I’d be texting him right now to set up meet-up numero duo.” She glanced down at her flattened chest, and her eyes filled. “Sorry.” She swung her face away. “Chalk it up to the chemo brain— first foggy thoughts and now poor impulse control.”

Heart in her throat, Sarah reached out and caught a fat teardrop on its downward roll. “Liz, honey, it’s going to be okay.”

“Yeah, I know, it’s just . . .” Dropping her Popsicle stick onto the tray, she turned to look at Sarah. “My breasts, I really miss them, you know?”

It was all Sarah could do to swallow over the lump lining her throat. “Sweetie, I can’t even imagine.”

Liz reached for the box of tissues. “All those years, they were such a big part of who I was. When the script called for a brunette with big tits, I was the go-to girl. And now look at me—no tits, no hair. Shit, I don’t even eyebrows anymore.”

“They’ll grow back in after you finish the treatment, your hair too.”

So far as Sarah knew, that was true. Over the past several weeks, she’d blown through the brochures in the waiting room and then visited every reputable medical web site she could find. By now she had the cycle of treatment, side effects, and recovery memorized. Like an adult film, the process was highly formulaic, even scripted—only cancer’s script seriously sucked.

Liz paused to wipe her nose. “Yeah, I know. Too bad my boobs won’t grow back, huh?”

Sarah reached out and gently squeezed her friend’s shoulder, feeling sharp, knobby bone where once generous flesh had been. “Give reconstruction a shot. Plastics have advanced light years from what was possible just ten years ago. They’re doing amazing things.” Jesus, could she possibly sound more like an infomercial!

“I will. I mean, assuming I . . . get that far.”

What she meant was if she survived. Sarah fought back the panic that came with considering the alternative. She would not cry, not when Liz was going through so much and being so brave about it all.

“You’ll get there. You
will
. You’re the strongest person I know.” The latter wasn’t only a pep talk. It was the truth.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But if something—”

“Don’t say it.”

Liz reached out, gripping her hand. “Sarah, please, I have to say it, and you have to let me. I’m fighting this shit with all I’ve got, but we both know that might not be enough. In case it’s not, in case I, you know, die, I need to ask you. Will you take Jonathan?”

Struggling against crying, Sarah said, “Oh, Liz, I—”

“Look, I know it’s a lot to ask, too much, but you’re the closest to a sister I’ve got. Even if Steve were to step up and finally be a father, he’s a stranger to Jonathan. Besides, I wouldn’t trust him with a cat, let alone my kid. And since my mom broke her hip last year, she’s doing good to take care of herself. My Bible-thumping brother and his wife are still out in Kansas. Trust me, Jonathan would
hate
it there.”

“I was going to say I’d be honored. Jonathan’s a great kid.”

He was. What she didn’t add was that she’d always wanted to be a mom. Like so many career-minded women, she’d assumed she had plenty of time—to make her mark, to meet and marry the right guy, to start a family. Only Mr. Right had yet to show. At thirty-four closing in on thirty-five, her window for motherhood felt frighteningly finite.

Tears sparkled in Liz’s eyes. “Really?”

Sarah reached out and took her other hand, the one without the IV, and gently squeezed. “Yes, really. Now no more talk about dying. Let’s flag down that nurse for another round of popsicles and concentrate on getting you well.”

Back at his Upper West Side apartment, Cole stripped off his tuxedo and stepped inside the marble-tiled shower stall, reluctantly lathering away Sarah’s scent. If only she were that easy to scour from his thoughts. Scenes from their sexy night together followed him beneath the jets of steamy water. Giving up, he jerked off, shouting Sarah’s name as his release overtook him.

Toweling dry, it struck him. Why shouldn’t he see her again? Not only was she hot and beautiful, smart and smart-ass, but she obviously wasn’t looking for a regular relationship, either. She was like the female . . .
him
.

Her matter-of-factness should be a relief. Instead he felt frustrated. Until now, he’d always been the one to do the post-coital pushing away. The role reversal didn’t sit well with him.

Disgruntled, he pulled on sweats and padded into the large living room. Even on weekends, he was hardly ever here. When he was, he always felt at loose ends. During the two years he’d been deployed, he’d had little time to himself and virtually no privacy. His personal space had been measurable in inches, not square feet, let alone more than two thousand of them. Stripped of the regimented routine and the oddball security of living in such close quarters, he didn’t feel so much free as . . . lost. Even after being back for two years, any unscheduled time weighed on him. Planning the simplest solo activities could trigger tremendous anxiety. His executive assistant might not realize it, he hoped she never did, but at times she’d literally been a lifesaver. Humbling as it was to admit, he still had a hard time being on his own. Structure was his friend, free time his enemy. Maybe he should get himself a dog, someone to walk and feed and look after on a regular basis. On second thought, God no!

Looking around, he fought down the agitation by cataloguing his more obvious options. He could go for a run or workout. Sure, he’d just gotten clean, but it’s not like a second shower would melt him. He could go into the office and tackle the pile of grant proposals awaiting his approval. He could eat something. He probably should. Most of those diner carbs had been burned having hot, sweaty sex with Sarah. But though he’d been starving at her place, bothering with breakfast suddenly seemed like too big of a hassle.

Stacks of moving boxes crowded the four corners of the room despite him having moved in six months ago. He’d lived with them for so long he scarcely saw them anymore, but out of the blue he found himself wondering what Sarah might say if she were here—a crazy thought since he never brought women home. Her loft must be one-tenth the size of his pre-war classic six, and yet everything had seemed to fit without crowding. His sister, Chloe, the feng shui enthusiast, swore he was blocking all kinds of positive chi with his clutter. He didn’t know about that, but suddenly he wanted the boxes gone, done, out of there. Juiced to get going, he grabbed a pair of scissors from a kitchen drawer and started in.

Hacking through cardboard and packing tape, he felt as though he were unearthing the contents of a time capsule. So that was where his blue cashmere cardigan was, good to know. He came across the medal case holding his Silver Star and tossed it back inside. “For Gallantry in Action.” Ha! Running through an explosion he should have seen coming to salvage what was left of his team had been a case of too little, too late. The Army might have honored him with a medal, but minus both legs, Joe had spat in his face. Cole hadn’t blamed him, not then and certainly not now.