Lauren Blakely - Every Second With You

But I haven’t the slightest clue what to do. How on earth can I fend off Mr. Stewart’s random acts of retribution against Cam?

“That man’s crazy. He claimed he’d leave me alone if I shored up his failing charity, but it’s not like I have 50K just lying around. Why does he think I got into the side biz in the first place? Your old man Cam had way too much debt to pay, and I just got myself out of it. Now he thinks I’m going to hand over some blood money,” Cam says, shaking his head.

Tess reaches over and pets his hair. He leans into her touch, and pretends to purr. “Mmmm. That feels good, baby,” he says, and then takes a deep breath. But as he exhales, he winces, his face contorting, his shoulders pulling in.

Shit. I’ve done this to him. I drop my head in my hands. The past is a ghost, lurking in dark corners, hiding in alleys, silent, but dangerous. Even when you think you’ve done your time and made your amends, the past chains you up again, reminding you that you’re a prisoner to all the bad things you’ve done.

Some debts are never paid.

All this time, I thought Miranda would trip me up. That someone from my memoirs would recognize themselves, track me down, and hold my stories against me. But instead, my blood debt is to the man I left alone at a charity fundraiser. A man who loves elephants more than people.

Then my brain hits the brakes, and I swear I can hear my mind backpedal. Not to the gala. But to Miranda.

I raise my head. “Miranda,” I say out loud, her name like a hiss on my tongue.

“Your mom’s editor?”

I can see the deck of cards in front of me, the hand I’ve been dealt. All I have to do is play them right. But I know how to do this. I watched my mother for years. I saw her juggle source after source, story after story. Now all I have to do is play it on the other side. “Cam, do you still have contacts at other papers? Or news outlets? Online? Besides my mom, obviously,” I quickly add.

He blows a stream of air across his lips. “What do you take me for? A one-reporter kind of source? Hell no, baby doll. Haven’t I taught you well? I know everyone .”

“I think I know a way out of this. If there’s a reporter you trust. A reporter who wants to expose the truth.”

Cam nods several times as I tell him my plan. Then he turns to Tess. “Tess, baby, will you bring me my phone?”

“Gladly,” she says.

Within thirty minutes, the ball is rolling. Cam is juggling phone call after phone call, and pretty soon it’ll be my turn to talk. I’m bubbling over inside, giddy with all the possibilities, but strung out on nerves too as I listen to him prime the pump with an online media reporter who he says moves faster than a comet. He covers the phone with one hand, and mouths, “I love this son of a bitch. He’s an eager mo-fo.”

Tess squeezes his arm, proud of her man.

Then I remember my man. My husband.

I dig around in my purse for my phone, but when I find it there are no missed calls from Trey. With the way he’s been on edge for the last week, I figured he’d have checked in by now. I walk over to the window so Cam has some airspace for his calls, and I dial Trey.

He answers on the fourth or fifth ring. But he’s silent, just breathes out a hard, heavy sigh.

“Hey, I have to tell you what’s going on,” I say.

“Oh.” That’s his only reply.

“It’s about Mr. Stewart. And I think it could be good. At least, I hope it will be,” I say, crossing my fingers.

“Okay,” he says, but his voice is dead. It’s as if he’s been turned inside out with emptiness.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sound terrible.”

He exhales, and it sounds like air leaking out of a mattress.

The little hairs on my arms rise. “What’s going on? You’re freaking me out. Where are you?”

“The Lion’s Den,” he says, and my blood goes cold. That’s what he calls his parents’ building, but only when he’s referring to the pull the women there exerted over him.

“Did something happen?”

Another long, deep exhale. “I think I fucked up, Harley. Big time.”

I close my eyes, and press my hand against the wall to steady my swaying heart. Oh god, please don’t tell me he cheated on me. I don’t think I could take that kind of damage. I’d never forgive him, either. “What do you mean? Did you cheat on me?”

He scoffs. “No fucking way.”

“Then get out of their building and come see me. Now . I’m at Cam’s house.”

“What?” He nearly shouts into the phone, and I have to hold it away from my ear. I give him the address, and he tells me he’ll be here soon.

I return to the epicenter of the apartment, to the virtual war room—Cam’s couch and coffee table. After he finishes his call, he points a finger at me. “It’s showtime, baby doll. Henry from the HuffPo wants to talk to you.”

“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath before I call Henry and tell him that I’m Anonymous, the author behind the recent bestselling tell-all sex-tale, and that I was blackmailed into writing it by the editor-in-chief of the publishing house.

Trey

I enter the building of my wife’s former pimp. Technically, this should bother me. But I am wrecked, and all I can think about are those green eyes.

Scratch that.

There are other thoughts invading my brain now, too, smashing into each other like mad bumper cars. Like the fact that Teddy is about two and a half, and the math adds up. Like the fact that she let me fuck her free-range, telling me she was on the pill. Like the fact that she said her husband never had sex with her. Like her saying Teddy is artistic, too, because that’s what Sloan and I talked about—sex and art, art and sex. She was the only one I remotely felt a thing for. She was a painter, and we had that connection, and we talked about creating.

What if we created a kid?

How fucking irresponsible can I be? Knocking up women, left and right. I deserve a million scars. I should be locked up. I need to put my dick in jail.

When I reach the second floor, Harley is holding open the door. She lets it fall shut behind her, so we’re standing in the hallway outside Cam’s home.

This is more surreal than a Dali. But then, that’s my life these days. This month. This year.

She reaches for me, brushes a hand through my hair. Her touch is so soft, so sweet, and I don’t deserve it.

“What’s going on?” she asks, and I can hear the potholes in her voice. They match mine.

I lean against the wall, bang the back of my head against it twice, three times. “I ran into this chick I used to . . .” I let my voice trail off. She knows what I mean, and she grimaces. “I saw her in the lobby with her—” I stop talking, and it’s as if I’m being cut by words. They are slicing my throat, turning me mute.

Then she gasps. “Oh my god. The kid with the green eyes.”

My jaw drops. “You saw him?”

“Before we went to San Diego. When we were having dinner with your parents and I lost my earring in the lobby. Oh my god. He has eyes just like you,” she says, and her face turns pale.

I hold my hands out wide. “I know,” I say, the desperation coating my voice. “And Sloan, she made these comments that made it seem like he was my kid. What the fuck am I supposed to do? I’ve finally started feeling like I’m ready to be a father to our baby, and then this. What the hell? What if I have a kid already that I didn’t know about? And shouldn’t I be here, trying to help raise him or something?”

“Slow down, Trey. Just slow down. Did you talk to her? Did you ask her?”

“No,” I say as if that’s a crazy idea. “I just ran into her. How was I supposed to ask her?”