Cherished (9 page)

“Journey On” started playing, one of the songs recorded by Ace's band. She lifted her head to find his phone. It was on the nightstand but stopped after several seconds, then started up again. On the third go-round, he stirred, grabbed it.

“Yo.” His voice was gravelly, his body unmoved. “Angela? Where are you?” He sat up suddenly. “You're what?”

Heather looked at him. Emergency?

“Listen, just close the door and put the key in the ignition. The alarm should stop.” He paused. “All right. How far away are you? . . . No, no problem.” He sighed. “I said it's no problem.” He paused. “Love you too.”

A ton of bricks landed on Heather's heart. She closed her eyes so she could keep skipping through that field.

Ace got out of bed. “Heather?”

Would it matter if he thought she was asleep?

“Heather!” He reached across the bed and shook her. “Sorry, you have to go.”

“What?” She squinted. “What do you mean?”

“My girlfriend's on her way. She'll be here in less than an hour.”

She sat up. “Your girlfriend? If she means that much, why am
I
here? And why is she coming at midnight, anyway?”

Ace expelled a long sigh, running his fingers through his spikes. “We've been having trust issues.”

Wonder why
.

“She knows Mallory Knight is here this weekend. We used to date. She said she wanted to surprise me, but I think she's checking up on me. Ooh, boy”—he rubbed the back of his neck—“if she hadn't had a problem with the car alarm when she stopped for gas, I wouldn't have known she was coming till she knocked at the door.”

Heather was reeling. “Well, what am I supposed to do?”

“I can give you some money for another room. They've probably got some last-minute cancellations. But other than that, I don't know. I'm sorry.”

Ten minutes later Heather was pulling her suitcase back down the long hallway. She just wanted to find a good place to cry. And lie down. Her head was still spinning, and she suddenly felt like vomiting.

She pushed the Down button for the elevator, then the Lobby button, and leaned against the wall, head drooping. When she got off, she wandered over to the registration desk, where a lone man was reading a book.

“Um, I need a room.” Her voice was so slight she barely recognized it.

“Ma'am, we've been booked for months. There are several conferences in town.”

“No cancellations?”

“I'm sorry. None.”

Heather felt tears of despair rising. “Could you give me some numbers for other hotels around here?”

He hadn't moved, his finger poised as a bookmark. “I could, ma'am, but I'm hearing everything's sold out in the area. It's just one of those weekends.”

Heather nodded and turned, staring into the distance. What was she supposed to do? She couldn't drive the several hours it would take to get home, not feeling like this. Even driving far enough to find a hotel with vacancies seemed too ambitious. She barely had strength to stand, and she felt like—

She turned back. “Where's your restroom?”

He looked up from the page. “Across the lobby, down that hall, ma'am.”

Hand to her mouth, Heather hustled as fast as she could, pushed open the bathroom door, and entered the first stall, leaving her luggage just outside. The second she leaned her head over the toilet, she vomited, again and again. Sweat beaded her forehead, and she thought she would faint. She sank to the floor, but just as she did, her stomach heaved again and she moved her face over the toilet, emptying whatever was left of the food. She grabbed toilet paper and wiped her mouth, then more to wipe her forehead, shaking all the while. She flushed the toilet and sank against the beige wall.

Right here was a good place to cry.

The sobs that had been gathering in her chest spilled out.
Why? Why did this happen?
How could Ace just put her out like that? He'd
invited
her. He'd
slept
with her. She laughed into her sobs. None of that mattered to him.
She
didn't matter to him. She never mattered. She was the one who could walk into a room and grab all the attention, the one guys tripped over themselves to get to, the one who never had a problem finding someone to hook up with. But she was never the one who mattered.

She was the one who got kicked out of men's beds.

Heather pulled her knees to her chest, the scene from eight months ago vivid in her mind. She knew she'd entered forbidden territory, sleeping with a married man. But she and Scott had met in the choir, sung duets, had good conversations. He was unlike any man she'd known, a sincere man who actually wanted to live right—and she wanted a man like that, a special man, to want her.

She knew what she was doing—flirting in a nonflirtatious way, gaining his friendship. She felt special whenever she was with him, and she dared to imagine herself with him, really with him, the one he'd love and adore.

But the fantasy died the day Dana burst into the room and caught them in bed. Scott made his position clear. He loved and adored his wife. Heather needed to stop calling.

Now here she was once more, the dispensable one.

She felt sick again. Not a vomity sick but a cheap and filthy sick. How could she give herself to Ace, to Scott, to others, and receive nothing in return? Nothing but an aching loneliness. And a feeling of worthlessness.

Who
was
she, anyway? Just a tramp? She'd heard the whispers. When Scott confessed before the church, he didn't implicate her by name, but many in the choir suspected . . . and called her names under their breath. And maybe they were right. An empty laugh escaped.
Admit it, girl
.
Of course they were right
.

“You're beautiful, baby,” her mother always said. “You've got the look men fantasize about. Use it to your advantage.”

That's what her mother had done. Heather couldn't remember a time when her mother didn't have a man in her life to care for her in some way. She and Heather's dad had been married four years, but after their divorce Heather watched a parade of men move into and out of her mother's life. She'd never felt comfortable around those men or with her mother's lifestyle. No one ever said it outright, but it just seemed wrong, spending the night with different men. Definitely wrong that she'd basically left Heather to raise herself. Her mother was the last person she wanted to emulate . . . and yet . . . A new wave of tears emerged. Wasn't that exactly who she'd become?

Her head fell on her knees. Didn't her mother ever feel used herself? Didn't she ever feel absolutely empty? Because that's how Heather felt. She hugged her knees, trembling.

I can't live like this. I don't want to live like this. But what do I do
?
God, help me
.

The tears flowed harder when she heard her own heart crying out. Who was she to ask for God's help? Tramp. Adulterer. Served her right, getting kicked out of that room after all she'd done. Why would God care about her?

God loves you, Heather. Don't ever forget that. He cares for you
.

Heather lifted her head and looked around. The words were so clear, as was the voice. Logan.

She'd known she couldn't stay in the choir after all that happened. When she told Logan she was leaving—not just the choir, but the church too—he asked why, but she'd said she didn't want to talk about it. She wondered if he suspected, but if he did, he didn't let on. He simply left her with those words: “God loves you, Heather. Don't ever forget that. He cares for you.”

She blew it off at the time. Who didn't know that? But now, right now, those words loomed like a lifeline, and she wondered if she could grab hold of them. She wondered if they were true. She needed that talk with Logan.

Heather reached over and pulled the straps of her purse toward her, digging inside for her phone. She scrolled through the contacts.
Please be here
. It was—Logan's cell number. He gave it to every choir member and said to use it freely, always stressing that the choir was about more than singing; it was a ministry.

But how would he feel about ministry with an ex–choir member at one in the morning?

Heather rose and left the stall to wash her hands, splash her face, and think it through. She knew Logan well enough. Cool guy, approachable and friendly, but one could only get so close. At least that's how it seemed to Heather, maybe because he never regarded her like most guys, never gave her that extra glance or extended hug. But they'd worked closely together because she sang solos on songs he'd writ—

Heather's eyes almost popped out of her head. Logan was a songwriter. He'd mentioned going to this conference other years. What if he was here?

She sighed, sobering fast. Still, that didn't mean she could call him right now. And yet . . .
now
was when she needed that lifeline. She wouldn't have any peace until she talked to him. She just had to.

Heather picked up her phone again and called. She lost hope after a few rings, but then heard, “Hello?”

“Hi, uh, Logan? I'm sorry to wake you.” She still didn't sound like herself. “This is Heather Anderson, from the choir?”

“Hey”—he cleared his throat—“Hey, Heather. What's going on? Is everything all right?”

The question almost made her cry again. “I just . . . no. Everything's not all right. Um, something you said to me awhile ago came to mind, and I have some questions about it. I'm wondering if you might be here at the Indianapolis Hilton.”

“You're at the hotel?” he asked. “Yes, I'm here, but . . . you want to talk
now
? Can't it wait until—”

“I don't know what else to
do
. . .” She'd tried to hold back the tears, but her voice broke. “I got put out of the room I was staying in, and I'm down in the lobby bathroom . . .”

“It's all right,” Logan said. “Listen, I'll meet you in the lobby in ten minutes. Okay?”

Heather gulped back tears. “Okay. Thank you, Logan.”

H
EATHER SAT IN THE SEATING AREA OFF THE LOBBY,
staring at the floor. The sound of heels breezing through made her look up. A sharply dressed woman headed straight for the elevators. Had to be Ace's girlfriend. She hung her head again and, from the corner of her eye, caught someone else approaching.

She turned and saw Logan. For the quickest of seconds, her heart did the little skitter it always did when she saw him, as if surprised he was still as good-looking as last time. The dark features, close-cropped hair, and that Spanish swagger—that's what she called it, after learning his mother was from Madrid—were easily distracting. But the skitter never lasted long around Logan. He dealt too straight for that.

Heather stood, suddenly self-conscious with so much leg showing beneath her mini, not to mention the tight shirt. But she had greater concerns than that. “Logan. Thank you for . . .” Emotion choked her words.

He gave her a light hug. “Heather, come on, sit down.” His eyes swept her luggage as they sat on the sofa. “Tell me what's going on.”

Now that he was here, she didn't know what to say, where to start. She took a deep breath. “When I left the choir, you said God loves me and cares for me. I need to know if it's true.
Really
true.” She paused. “For someone like me.”

He frowned. “Someone like you?”

She stared at the floor a few seconds before looking at him. “I'm not a good person, Logan. Did you think I joined the choir at Living Word because I wanted to worship?” She looked down briefly again. “I joined because you all were gaining national attention. That's why I came to Living Word to begin with. Someone told me I had a soulful voice . . . and lots of recording artists start in the church, so . . .” She shrugged.

Logan stayed quiet, listening.

Heather grabbed some toilet tissue she'd stuffed into her purse and blew her nose. “And I came here for the same reason, trying to jump-start a singing career . . . and I guess I was kind of looking for love too.” She felt the tears starting up. “It took getting put out of a man's room for me to see how messed up my life is.”

“Heather . . .” Logan shifted his knees more toward her, his brown eyes piercing. “Jesus wouldn't have had to die on the cross if our lives weren't messy. I thank God that He would love someone like
me
. None of us is ‘good.'”

She blew her nose again. “Oh, Logan, you've never done anything near as bad as me.”

Logan gave her a thin smile. “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I've done my share. Yet for some crazy reason, God loves us and cares for us anyway. And He forgives us. It's really true. That's why He sent His Son.”

Heather had sat in church Sunday after Sunday hearing Pastor Lyles talk about Jesus. Yet only now could she really hear His voice.
Sin. Repentance. Forgiveness. Savior
. Didn't seem fair, really, that God should forgive her so easily. Or love her so easily. She'd always thought she had to earn someone's love . . . and even then it never worked, after all the trying. The tears spilled over.