Forever (7 page)

It also meant everyone knew Marsha Chambray’s son,
fathered by some nameless drifter. The kid who was on the street at all hours, time when some stuff that went down could be attributed to him. Dean lucked out there, too, with the local beat cop taking him in hand, showing him the way. Officer Duncan, unknowingly, was the role model Dean emulated, the profession he decided on the first time the cop caught him acting out and treated him fairly. It wasn’t enough to keep him from running errands for the local crime lord, but enough to keep him out of the limelight and line of fire. The money paid their rent and fed him. His mother never seemed to notice she wasn’t evicted, and drank her meals, pilfering his hard-earned cash.

That emotional inhibition contributed to his inability to form relationships
, too, although it didn’t impair his sexual competence. Without the emotional attachment, he could focus his attention on the physicality. Honed sexual skills, coupled with his appearance—he was well aware he was handsome and took good care of his body—meant women were always available, like a never ending supply. It wasn’t something he wore like a badge of honor, but he needed the release, one of the few he allowed himself.

Checking his watch, he noted how long he’d been lost in reminiscing. Lots to do in the morning, particularly with
an asshole trying to weasel his way into the business. Dean would be a wealthy man in his own right if he cleared his plate of everything but the legitimate side of things, but that wasn’t his call. He had a superior to answer to, however vague and tenuous their connection, and there were expectations to be met. He drained the bottle and chucked it into the bin. His housekeeper would be by tomorrow and he made a mental note to leave her a list of things to pick up, then headed to bed, deciding to shower in the morning. And it wasn’t because he wanted to savor the scent of Amy still lingering on his skin.

****

The room didn’t seem any different at four o’clock. By rights he should be deep in sleep, regenerating, alone in this big, empty bed. Instead he was staring into the dark, senses alert and assimilating any changes in his space as the clock ticked ahead, approaching the time he normally got up. His nose was still full of strawberries, but he could faintly smell Amy. Just a hint of woman and something with grassy overtones. Finally, he got up and hit the shower, scrubbing hard and long, toweling off to fall back into bed and seek that elusive sleep. Nothing doing, so he allowed himself to think about her, resigned to a sleepless night.

He’d had tall, curvy blondes before, being an equal opportunity kind of guy. Hair color, height,
and body shape really didn’t matter to him. If the woman appealed, he set his terms, and they either went along or they didn’t. What was it Randy said so crudely, if accurately? They put out and then he put
them
out. For sure, some of them entertained the idea they would change him, domesticate him. An occasional romp between the sheets, that meant nothing more to him than an intense sexual release, was hardly the basis for what some women anticipated. Those he moved on immediately. The ones who took what he gave them and didn’t cling were sometimes invited back for an encore. Dean knew that made him a shit in the eyes of most women, but at least he was honest. He didn’t prevaricate. It was all he had to give so they shouldn’t expect anything more.

Closing his eyes against what that self
-examination led to, he stifled a groan. Good old mom. Say a big thank you to her for your troubles, ladies. Even now, he couldn’t shake her, not as an adult, extremely successful by any number of other standards. She wasn’t lucid most of the time now anyhow, sparing him to a large extent, but once in awhile the care facility would call and request that he come to visit. And he’d go like a good boy, only to be fucked up for days afterward, yet unable to refuse the summons.

Amy seemed different. He’d been told no before, albeit not in recent memory, and it wasn’t a big deal. He didn’t chase. S
o why had he pursued her? Cudgeling his brain didn’t formulate an answer so he looked at it from a different perspective. If she wasn’t significantly different
physically
than one or two other women he’d had, there had to be something else. He doubted he would have been able to change her mind if it hadn’t been for that scene at Grand Masters—he’d capitalized on it—shamelessly.

Dean jackknifed up in his lonely bed, squinting into the darkness. Fuck. She was like
him
. Something as yet indefinable, but very much a part of who he was, recognized something quite similar in her—uncompromising and defined. She probably had some kind of history that precluded building a relationship. He wondered if she felt it, too, and supposed she did, and might be taking a cautious look. Women were better at the nuances than men. Dean had studied enough psychology to know it.

That mystery solved, he decided to leave it to percolate. It would take some consideration before he acted on it, or not. The section of his brain tasked with puzzling out mysteries and solving quandaries relaxed, and he felt the darkness swallow him up. His last thought was that his brief encounter with his Amazon had been
great
.

Chapter Three

The faint ringing of her cell pulled Amy from a deep sleep. Struggling upright, she pushed at the hem of her robe, now ruc
ked up around her waist, a lump of the material uncomfortable under one hip. She squinted at the clock. Seven-oh-five. Not fair. The phone began to ring again, and she realized it must be in her purse which was … maybe in the living room. The memory of last night descended like the proverbial ton of bricks and she grimaced. Oh, boy. Not even in her checkered past had she committed such a sheer number of faux pas in a single evening. That would be Sandra calling, holding on until seven before she punched in Amy’s number. Well, at least Amy wasn’t hung over. She also wasn’t ready to talk to Sandra yet.

Staggering into the bathroom, she sank down on the toilet, her nether regions tender
and aching dully. The usual morning routine seemed to take a long time. She fumbled the tap on from a sitting position and pushed a face cloth under the stream of hot water pouring into the sink. Squeezing it out one-handed she scrubbed it over her face and neck, daubing beneath her eyes. She winced at the black residue on the pink cloth. Obviously makeup removal hadn’t been on the list last night. Standing to wash her hands, she took a cautious look in the mirror. Aside from a classic case of bed head, the familiar face reflected back didn’t shout out any revelations, belying the churning inside her chest. Shit. Where were the easy answers when one needed them?

Stripping off the robe, Amy dropped it into the hamper, followed by the washcloth and towel. There was another towel draped over the edge of the hamper and she stared at it, willing it to fall inside so she didn’t have to think about the body it had touched. She wandered, nude, back into the bedroom and pulled the pristine white sheets from the bed, rolling the cases off the oversize pillows. She really needed to get the correct size the next time she went shopping—
and
she was thinking inane thoughts to avoid the issue front and center in her head. The linens filled the hamper to bursting and had the added advantage to pulling that towel down inside with them. Only then did she locate her purse and dig through the contents to find her phone.

“Are you okay? I’ve been calling since seven!”

“I’m fine, Sandra. No harm, no foul. Did the deed, the usual.”

Silence. Had she given it away? She thought she’d taken enough time to compose herself…
Amy held her breath.

“I’m coming over. We’ll go for breakfast. Ten minutes.”

“I need to shower first. Make it half an hour.”

“Ten. I’m not leaving you alone to think and mess your head up.”

“Okay.” No point in arguing with an expert. Amy ended the call and took as hot a shower as she could stand.

She could still smell him, and scent triggered people as much
, or more, than visual cues. Hence, the laundry pile. What had she been thinking? This felt pretty awful, the morning after syndrome, but awful in a different way. Usually she just felt used. Today she remembered the sexual vampire analogy and involuntarily touched the hollow of her throat, right where he’d—moving on. Had to. She hurriedly rinsed her hair and the residue of soap from her body, resolutely not thinking. She was wrapped in a bath sheet, her hair wound up in a smaller towel, when the door bell rang.

Heart pounding, she checked the security feed. Sandra. Disappointment and relief warred within as she made her way to the door to admit her friend.

Sandra walked right into her and put her arms around Amy’s waist, laying her head on her shoulder. Amy reciprocated, although she had to drop her head to do it. It had taken nearly six months before she allowed Sandra to touch her, and now she craved the other woman’s caring hugs and little physical contacts like a drug. Sandra’s muffled voice reached her ears.

“You got thrown for a loop.”

Not yet able to go there, Amy extricated herself from her friend’s hold. “I’ll get dressed, fix my hair and makeup. We’ll talk over breakfast, if I even know what it is we need to talk about.”

Sandra sat on the closed toilet seat while Amy applied moisturizer and light makeup, using waterproof mascara, predicting waterworks in her future. Damn. Would she never learn? Pulling her hair up into a clip, she figured it would dry eventually.
Sandra may have the day off, but Amy had work to do this afternoon, so they could only spend the morning together. She had no idea what she’d do without Sandra and worried she’d push her friend away at some point with her constant backsliding. So what if it had been months and months since her last stupidness? She’d not only backslid last night—she’d fallen over the proverbial cliff.

The hamper loomed in her peripheral vision while she brushed her teeth. Shoving the toothbrush into the slot in the china holder
, Amy leaned to open the folding door shielding the upright laundry unit. It was a simple matter to dump the linens and towels into the washer, adding her bath sheet and the towel from her hair, totally comfortable in her nakedness around Sandra. Her friend had seen her in far more revealing circumstances than this. And in much worse shape. Pouring in detergent with a lavish hand she punched the button and lowered the lid. The comforting sound of flowing water filled the room. Sandra made no comment, her silence eloquent.

Amy had to make a brief trip back to the hamper with her clothes from the night before, searching out her panties and bra, picking up her crumpled shirt and jeans. A fresh outfit was easy enough to pull together, despite the fact she’d put her brain in neutral, and she was good to go. The little dress was perfect for the weather, and the halter tie covered Dean’s mark. She lingered over the necklace, but left it in place.
Something
had changed. Sandra hustled her out the door, clearly anxious to get to the debriefing, and after carefully locking up, Amy climbed into her friend’s little car.

“Want to go to Zeke’s?”

“Sure.” The food was good, and the booths big and private in a diner patterned after an old fashioned Italian restaurant. And it wasn’t far. Her body clamored for sustenance, but coffee and eggs would have to do.
Stop it.

Thoughts drifting back to meeting Sandra for the first time
. Amy felt her lip curl and looked out the side window until she could relax it. Trust wasn’t in her vocabulary back then, and trusting someone paid to take care of her made hardly a blip on her thought process. But Sandra persisted, coming in to see her on her days off, assisting in Amy’s recovery, painting the idea of a different lifestyle, a different life. She dragged Amy home with her after being discharged, and Amy went, having nowhere else to go, secretly hopeful Sandra was for real. The thought crossed her mind that the other woman wanted her sexually. They were almost the same age and Sandra had no obvious outside sexual interests, no men or women visiting or calling.

But she soon discovered Sandra’s motives were pure, if altruistic. Sandra saw Amy’s life as a virtual mirror of her own, if taking place several years later and in a somewhat different context. Sandra had been on the streets as a young teen, running from sexual abuse at home, and ironically having to survive in the same way, before fortune smiled when she drew the attention of a street social worker. Sandra was proof that a person could make something of herself
, no matter the history. She went back to school, finishing high school in less than three years, then trained as a nurse. It was no secret Sandra wanted to give back, to rescue people, and Amy was her pet project.

They couldn’t be more different physically. Mutt and Jeff, blond and brunette, statuesque and thin, street smart and college
-educated. But they shared an intense emotional bond, survivors to the core. Amy knew Sandra had it together in different ways than she did, except her libido was in hibernation, unlike Amy’s. Both had been used for their bodies, but while Sandra denied her sexuality, Amy struggled to leash her own. Some people might think that selling one’s body on the street didn’t compare to being the pussy on the arm of a high roller or an aspiring gambler, but there was scant difference. The men were essentially the same, the sexual acts the same, and the cruelty didn’t vary.

The car jolted to a stop
, and Amy jerked her thoughts from the past to the present. While unpleasant to recall, the memories no longer traumatized her, and were far easier to pack away. She only wished she could get a better handle on making appallingly poor choices, although she took heart that last night was the first slip since Vegas. Months ago.

Sandra, who always seemed to know when to keep her own counsel, to allow Amy to think her thoughts, led the way into Zeke’s. The cool air of the place, perfumed with the smells of frying bacon, baked goods and brewing coffee poured out as the door opened. Amy soaked it in, her stomach growling in response.
They were seated by the window, part way down the row of red vinyl-covered booths and chrome tables. Both ignored the interested stares of the primarily male patrons.

“Coffee?” Amy and Sandra
each shoved a cup in the direction of the cheerful waitress.

Sandra raised a brow. “Two specials?” At Amy’s nod the waitress made a note and hustled away.

Amy arranged all the items on the table, setting the utensils at perfect right angles to one another, squaring off the napkin holder, and placing the salt and pepper precisely in the middle of the table. The ketchup bottle was her final project.

“Are you finished thinking?”

“How’d you know to push me, Sandra?”

“Experience, honey, hard-
earned experience. And besides, I know you. I heard something in your voice this morning that scared the crap out of me. I knew if you didn’t get moving, you’d perseverate and figure out a way to lie to yourself. You don’t have much to compare to.”

“What did you hear?” Her voice trembled
, and she made an effort to bring it under control.

“I heard an Amy I haven’t heard before.”

“What?” she scoffed. “You called me after one of my aborted efforts to connect with a guy, like usual, and you heard somebody new? Like a split personality?”

Sandra didn’t laugh, didn’t crack a smile. She kept her big eyes fixed on Amy’s. “What happened, honey?”

“We fucked.” There, crude and to the point.

“Here you go, two specials.
More coffee?” An enormous plate was set in front of them, filled with pancakes, eggs and sausages, two strips of bacon, toast and hash browns. Amy’s stomach roiled in self defense, no longer hungry. Their cups topped up, the waitress moved away, leaving her no choice but to continue the conversation.

“Okay, honey. Whenever you’re ready.” Sandra carved a small section of her pancakes with the same precision she used when dissecting Amy’s pathetic excuses and protests. It was kind of like dealing with your alter ego, albeit without the
Id.

Sulking, she shoved a hunk of sausage in her mouth and chewed it down. After doctoring her coffee with cream, she took a sip. Sandra waited her out. Jesus Christ.

“Okay. There
was
something different. You satisfied? I felt different with a jerk who wants sex with no strings. Isn’t that just a slap in the face?” She blinked back the tears. “I knew it. He told me, warned me. But I just had to go and get into bed with him, just like old times and…”

“Amy, honey. No crime to want somebody.”

“What are you saying?” Other patrons actually turned in their seats to stare. She probably didn’t need to scream at Sandra. She didn’t want to want that man!

Unperturbed, her friend smiled. “You had sex with somebody who touched you with more than just his body. I’m sorry it didn’t end well
and upset you, but it’s okay. I was afraid he’d hurt you physically. It’s progress. Do you see?”

She did not see.
Breathing heavily, she tried to order her thoughts. “I took a guy home with me you warned me against. We had sex. I felt something different. He was an asshole and I kicked him out. I feel shitty about last night. How is that
progress
?” The acerbic whisper didn’t carry as far, but Sandra heard her
.

“You always feel shitty about meaningless sex, being used over and over. At least this time around you got past that. So he’s not the guy for you. You now have a different measuring stick. A chance at a relationship involving
more
than sex.”

Her best friend, her only friend, was certifiable. She decided to share the lube story and was gratified to make Sandra laugh. It made her laugh again
, too, and if she wished for a different outcome, wished Dean Chambray was a different kind of man, maybe Sandra was right. She’d be looking for someone with additional qualities from here on in. Once she figured those qualities out. But God, this shit was tough on a person.

Eating a little more of the decadent breakfast, they talked desultorily about their plans for the day,
about Sandra cleaning her house, and Amy working on a client’s web design request, and they agreed Sandra would make dinner for them both around seven. Amy knew she’d go home and screw the pooch, thinking about what her friend posited instead of getting the job done so she could pay her bills.

They cruised up to her house, Sandra humming along with Adele, something about rumors, Amy wishing she’d eaten more of her breakfast, when she saw it. A big, black truck parked in her driveway, pulled up close behind her Audi, perilously close to old man Zuchinski’s invisible line. Her friend hammered on the brakes and they both rocked against the restraint of the seat belts. Dean leaned negligently against the tailgate, eyes obscured by dark glasses, arms folded over his massive chest. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.