I often wonder if my house were burning down, would the smell of smoke wake me up? I hope never to find out, but the aroma of bacon absolutely brings me out of slumber.
Rolling over to find Hendrix gone, I’m lucid enough to piece together he must be cooking breakfast.
I exit the bed and drag his T-shirt from the floor and over my head. Because the floor in this old house can be chilly, I pull on a pair of warm socks. I use the restroom, brush my teeth, and pad toward the kitchen.
As I come out of the hallway, the sight of him at my stove makes my heart trip. Not because he’s only in his boxer briefs or that ninety percent of his fabulous body is on display, but because he’s an integral part of my life now. Standing there cooking us Christmas breakfast, he looks like he belongs.
I finger the diamond earrings in my lobes. After our first round of lovemaking, Hendrix insisted I put on the earrings and then he settled on his back in front of the Christmas tree. He made me ride him so he could watch the diamonds sparkle. God, I love his weirdness, but also, it was hot.
Moving up behind him, I say, “Merry Christmas.”
I press into his back, my hands at his waist, and rest my cheek against the warm skin between his shoulder blades.
Hendrix turns, moves us away from the stove, and wraps me in a big hug. “Good morning.” His mouth comes down on mine for a gentle kiss. When he pulls back, his eyes are teasing. “Did you tell me you loved me last night, or was I dreaming?”
“Not a dream,” I assure him. “I do, in fact, love you.”
Grinning, he kisses me again. His palm cups my ass, and he gives it a squeeze. “I love you, too, and I would love you more if you cooked the eggs. I’m decent at bacon, but my eggs tend to be inedible.”
“Oh, I know.” I laugh as I pull free of his embrace. “Now that we’ve laid out our feelings, I think I can be honest with you when I say I should be the primary cook in this relationship.”
Hendrix slaps me on the ass with a smile as I move to the stove and take over the bacon. It still has a few minutes to go.
Hendrix makes me a cup of coffee with the perfect amount of cream and sugar. He hands it over and leans a hip against the counter. “I need to hit the road as soon as we eat.”
I sip my coffee, moan slightly over how good it is, and put the cup down so I can flip bacon. “I know. I hate it, but I know.”
“But then I’ll be back for the home game Saturday and won’t have a road game for six days, so we’ll do lots of shacking up then.”
I laugh and move to the cupboard for a plate. I layer paper towels in preparation for the bacon, to soak up the grease.
Hendrix’s phone is on the counter nearest me, and it dings with an incoming text. I grab and hand it over to him and move back to the pan. He doesn’t spare it a glance but crosses his arms while holding it.
“So, I was thinking,” he says tentatively, his tone pulling my attention. “Would you mind if I moved some clothes and stuff here?”
Whoa… that’s big. I turn to face him, tongs in hand. “You’d want to stay here rather than me bringing stuff to your place? Your place is so much nicer.”
His phone chimes again with an incoming text, but it’s ignored. “I don’t know about that.” Hendrix looks around my house with a soft smile. “This is a home. It’s cozy and lived in.”
“It was built in 1969 and has paneled walls,” I reply dryly. “And creaky, drafty floors.”
Three successive dings hit Hendrix’s phone, and it’s enough to drag his gaze away from me.
I unload the bacon from the pan onto the paper towel-lined plate. “And to answer your question, of course I don’t mind you leaving stuff here. I want to spend every night with you when you’re in town, but I’ll happily go to your place if you’d rather. As long as we’re together, and I just realized… man, we’re moving fast. Throw a few I love you’s around, and we’re practically moving in together.”
I laugh but he doesn’t laugh back, and I turn to face him, realizing he’s been quiet while I’ve been chattering. “What’s wrong?”
His gaze is still pinned on his phone, but he asks in a cold voice, “Do you know Carmine Betta?”
My blood turns to ice, and fear wells inside me.
“I can see that you do,” he grits out as his gaze lifts to mine.
“It’s not what you think,” I blurt out, throwing the tongs on the counter and turning off the stove. I don’t even know what he’s looking at, but his glacial stare and the flat set to his mouth tells me it’s not good.
“Oh really,” he drawls sarcastically. “Because I think you talked to a reporter by that name who’s written a very long article about the Titans.”
He turns the phone my way, and I can see the title, Insider Says Titans’ Woes Are Pervasive.
“No, Hendrix,” I exclaim as his head dips to read more of the article. “I didn’t.”
“You did, Stevie,” he grits out as his eyes race over the words. “There’s information in here only you know.”
“What?” My head spins. I told that reporter nothing—except my mom blabbed about Stone and Harlow. But that’s moot. They’re engaged.
Hendrix’s phone rings, and he answers it. After listening a moment, he says, “Yeah… I just read it.”
I’m stunned to inaction and can only helplessly take in the disgust in Hendrix’s expression when his eyes meet mine. He sighs after listening to whomever is on the other end of the line. “I don’t know. I’ll call you later.”
He hangs up and walks back to my bedroom. I use the opportunity to dive for my iPad in the living room, pulling up Chrome and googling the article.
My stomach churns as I start to read:
As most sports fanatics know, the Pittsburgh Titans hockey team was obliterated in a devastating plane crash earlier this year. What fans might not know is the lengths the team, and owner Brienne Norcross, will undertake to keep the organization flush with cash. Players who weren’t on the plane when it went down, dubbed “The Lucky Three,” are spiraling out of control—car crashes, punching fans in bars, and one player even leading his girlfriend on, only to dump her and hook up with a stranger within hours. I’ve got all the dirty details of the Titans’ imminent demise below.
Vomit rises in my throat, and I swallow it down. “No, no, no, no, no,” I moan as I continue to read… really just skimming, but none of it is sinking in. I see phrases that stick out, each one a jab in the heart, but I can’t process it fully.
… dumped his girlfriend in a bar and hooked up with his current girlfriend the same night…
… almost came to physical blows after Highsmith’s nonchalance over wrecking Bateman’s Porsche…
… considered a threesome with women in Mario’s but ultimately couldn’t with his possessive new girlfriend watching…
Movement catches my eye as Hendrix comes out of the hallway, fully dressed, his duffel over his shoulder. He’d packed for his trip home to Columbus so he could leave from here.
I drop my iPad on the couch and scramble to intercept him. He pulls up short when I step in his path and tries to walk around me. I move as fast as he does, panic spurring me on.
My hands go to his chest. “Please… just listen to me.”
I almost start crying when he steps back quickly to avoid my touch, and I can see there’s more disdain than anger in his expression. I repulse him, and I don’t know how to make it right.
“I didn’t talk to that reporter,” I say, my words flying out of my mouth with urgency.
“Don’t fucking lie,” he snarls. “The article mentions Rachel, and that is the one piece of information only you know.”
The vomit rises again, but I swallow as Hendrix tries to move around me. “Wait… yes, I met with that reporter. But only for a few minutes to see what he wanted, and I didn’t tell him a single thing. I swear I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says and fakes left. When I try to block him, he moves right faster than me to reach the door.
He unlocks it and jerks it open, a cold gust of December air hitting me, but I can’t feel it. I’m already frozen deep in my bones. I don’t know what to say, but apparently Hendrix does.
Spinning fast, he looks me up and down. “You’re a fucking piece of work, Stevie. You let me fuck you, hold you, bare my soul to you about my sister. You told me about all those horrible things your mom did to you, and I saw how hurt you were when the trust was broken. I know she’s been using you for months, and I actually was pained when you figured it out. But you know what?”
Tears pool in my eyes, and I can only shake my head.
“You’re only looking out for yourself.”
“That’s not true,” I insist.
“If it wasn’t true, you’d have never gone to meet a reporter. That right there was a betrayal… just making that decision to go. So anything you say means nothing to me, Stevie. Absolutely nothing. And all your talk of loving me… God, I’m a fucking idiot for believing it. I feel sorry for you because you don’t know how to love. Like mother, like daughter.”
If he’d slapped me in the face, it couldn’t have hurt more. I stumble back, the force of his words sapping every bit of my energy.
Hendrix turns for the door. I’m numb, physically weak, but I manage to say, “You said you loved me. You told me what we have is special and that we had to hold tight to it.”
It means nothing to him. Hendrix walks out, shutting the door quietly behind him, and I feel like my world has ended.
I don’t know how long I stand there in complete shock, but eventually I drop onto the couch. I stare at the tree for what seems like an eternity, and eventually, I pick up the iPad.
I attempt to read the article, but it’s so painful. It’s filled with stuff that yes, other people might know, but also facts only I’d know. I start and stop several times, interrupted by bouts of tears that obscure my vision while I try to breathe through the pain seizing my chest.
The worst are the pieces about Hendrix… intimate details about his sister Rachel’s death and how being the pallbearer for his best friend’s funeral was one of the hardest things he’s ever done.
I lean back on the couch and stare at the ceiling, trying to will a fresh bout of tears away.
How in the hell did Betta get that information when I didn’t…
Bolting straight up, I’m hit with the truth of how this came to be. I push up off the couch and run to my bedroom.
I make a beeline for the tall dresser where I laid my journal just two days ago. I’d written in it the morning after the Titans’ Christmas party and a few lines before I darted off to work. I’d already pulled the page out to gift to Hendrix the day before and had even wrapped it and put it under the tree.
But no… the journal’s gone.
That’s where I left it, right?
It’s what I remember—I was sitting in bed. Hendrix had already gone to the arena. The journal was on my bedside table, and I wrote a few lines. Then I got up and set it on the dresser.
Just to make sure, I tear my house apart. I yank open drawers, closets, pull back bedcovers. I look under my bathroom sink, behind furniture, and in all my kitchen cupboards.
When realization sets in that it’s truly gone, the next logical conclusion is that someone stole it—and there’s only one person it could be.
My mother.
She knows where my spare key is and she took it, gave it to Carmine Betta, and he wrote that article using all the private words I’d recorded in my diary.
He pulled out information to use against the Titans in a salacious article without my permission.
And oh God… all the personal details I’d put in there not only about my feelings for Hendrix but embarrassing information about our sex life. I’d written a lot about the things he did to me, and my face flames with the realization someone has read that stuff.
A snarl rips free of my throat as I locate my phone. I call Hendrix so I can tell him what happened.
He answers on the second ring, but before I can say a word, he says, “Don’t contact me again.”
I’m stunned when the line goes dead. I start to call him back but then decide against it. He’s so mad right now, I need to let him cool off. Instead, I send him a text that simply says, I’m so sorry. It wasn’t me, but I’ll explain if you call me back. I love you.
I know he’s driving, but he has talk-to-text. Maybe he’ll message me back, but I can’t waste time gazing at my screen. I hurry and dress, sparing a moment to throw fish food in Shenanigan’s bowl. “Merry Christmas, buddy.”
As I’m headed for the door, my phone dings, and I pull it out of my pocket. It’s from Hendrix. I don’t want an explanation. It won’t matter. The minute you met with a reporter was the minute our relationship was doomed. I won’t ever move past that, so please leave me alone.
Agony swells and rolls through me in a debilitating wave. Is he being serious? He won’t even let me tell him the entire story?
But on the flip side, he has a point. I did know when I walked into that coffee shop that I was choosing loyalty to my mom over Hendrix. Even with my staunch position I was only going to listen to what the reporter had to say, merely meeting with him was an absolute stab in Hendrix’s back.
He has every right to cut me out and not want to hear a damn thing because there is no true excuse.
My feet are leaden as I grab my coat and head out the door. It doesn’t really matter as far as Hendrix is concerned, but I need to have my mom look me in the face and tell me why she did it. I also want my journal back.
The drive to the house my mom shares with Randy takes no time at all. There’s hardly anyone out as most are tucked away celebrating Christmas with their loved ones.
Another intense jab of pain hits me square in the chest that I’ll never have that with Hendrix. He’s on his way to his parents’ house, where I’m sure he will relay to them how awful I am. They’ll hate me the way he does.
I pull into the driveway and see my mom’s car, but not Randy’s. My fury is on a low simmer as I make my way up the porch steps and knock on the door.
I wait, and no one comes.
I knock more. Then I bang on it.
There’s no sound from inside, and the curtains on the front window are closed.
“You looking for Mandi?” a voice calls out.
Turning, I see an elderly woman walking a tiny dog dressed in a Christmas sweater. I trot down the steps. “Yeah… I am. Do you know where she is?”
“St. Lucia,” the woman says. “Left yesterday. Apparently came into some money and was all excited about taking an impromptu trip to a tropical island.”
It’s just one punch after another, and I actually bend over slightly as my stomach twists. “She came into money?” I ask in disbelief.
The old woman shrugs. “Said it was an inheritance. Ten thousand dollars. Personally, I told her she should put it in savings, but she said she needed a romantic getaway with her honey.”
“Oh God,” I mutter, turning away from the woman as I realize everything my mom told me about being in trouble was probably a lie. Or maybe it wasn’t a lie, and she has no intention of returning from St. Lucia. I doubt money laundering thugs would search for her there.
“You okay?” the woman calls to me as I walk like a zombie to my car.
Am I okay? I don’t know because right now, I’m just… blank. Everything in my life has been blown apart. I woke up this morning with such joy and hope driving my every step. And now I’ve been used, vilified, and worst of all, abandoned.
Not by my mother—that I cannot be shocked by.
But Hendrix left me. When the going got tough, the man who I thought would work himself to exhaustion to accomplish something left without a backward glance. He cut me out of his life so swiftly, I can’t believe it was much of a hardship for him. The pain is so bad, I attempt to stuff it away. I tell myself over and over again I’m better off without him.
I get in my car, crank it, and put it in drive. My eyes are dry as I wander aimlessly through the mostly abandoned streets until I find myself in front of my father’s house.
I’m not halfway up the steps before the door opens. He takes one look at my face and without knowing a single fact, somehow he knows the whole story. He meets me at the door, pulling me into his arms. “I’m either killing your mother or Hendrix. Which is it?”
“Neither,” I murmur, because truthfully, I’ve somehow managed to push the pain so deep just so I can breathe, I can’t even find the energy to care about it.
“Come on inside,” he says, arm around my shoulders. “I’ll make coffee and breakfast and you can tell me all about it.”
“Not right now.”
My dad’s arm falls away, the concern in his expression increasing. I never refuse to talk about my feelings with him.
“I’m tired. Mind if I lie down for a bit?”
“Of course not,” he says, looking very unsure of himself.
“Wake me up in an hour. I have to go open the bar.”
“Carrots,” he says gently. “You don’t have to open the bar. Take a day off. If you want to sleep and be left alone, I’ve got you.”
I shake my head. “No… I just need a bit of time alone. But I want to open the bar. There will be people expecting it, and I don’t want to let anyone down.”
He studies me a moment, and I can almost see him warring with whether to let me be a grown woman who makes her own decisions or to lock me in my bedroom and force me to stay here.
Finally, he lifts his chin toward the staircase. At the top and to the left is my childhood bedroom. “I’ll come get you in an hour.”
“Thanks, Peas,” I say with a half-smile and turn away from my dad to trudge up the stairs, away from the worry in his eyes.
