My Always One Read online

  “I do. I think my mom still has wooden shoes with all of our names on them, even Byron.”

  “With the upturned toe.”

  “Yes. If I remember, the shoe is made that way so you can walk. The wood doesn’t flex, so you kind of roll when you step.”

  “See,” he says, “I told you that you’re smart. I’m an architect and I didn’t know about wooden shoes.”

  “You better not make a bid to build the little old lady’s house.”

  Marshal’s gaze narrows as he looks my way.

  “You know...the little old lady who lived in a shoe.”

  The car fills with his laughter. The sound washes over me like a warm shower. It’s so familiar and yet unexpectedly comfortable. I lay my head against the headrest as we approach the Centennial Inn. “Parking is behind the buildings, off Central Avenue between 12th and 13th.”

  Marshal slows and turns into the parking lot, and as the tires bump over the joining of two uneven surfaces, my stomach drops. “Stop.”

  Marshal hits his brakes and we both lunge forward, only to be stopped by our seat belts. “Well, fuck,” Marshal says. “Maybe that’s not his BMW.”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s his.” My eyes go to the second floor of the clinic building. It’s the rectangular building behind the main old Victorian home. As I scan the windows, I feel the growing pressure as my heart thumps against my breastbone.

  Marshal pulls his car next to Jackson’s BMW.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I ask. “We’re leaving.”

  “Or we can go up to that room” —his chin lifts toward the clinic building— “and knock on the door, tell him exactly what we know, inform his companion that she’s most likely being photographed, and let him know if he so much as sends Paul and Jean a fucking Christmas card, you will take his photo collection to Fred Wilson.”

  With each of his phrases, my eyes open wider. “Shit, you’ve thought this out.”

  “You’ve said parts of that.” He reaches for my hand. “I just put it all together in a nice little concise package for you. But hey, honey, if you have a better blackmail in mind, forget mine and go with your gut.”

  I inhale as I look up at the building before us. “My gut says run.”

  “That’s not your gut.” He lifts my hand to his lips and brushes kisses over my knuckles. “It’s not. You are the girl who convinced me to sneak out of my house and walk around the cemetery after midnight. You were the one who took the beer from your refrigerator, and we shared it in the boathouse.”

  That makes me smile. “The beer was warm and gross. I think I threw it up.” I tilt my head. “Now, the more recent memories of the boathouse were your idea.”

  He extends his hand, palm up. “That’s because we’re a team.”

  I lay my hand in his. “Are you sure we can’t be a team back at my place or yours?”

  “We can be a team anywhere. I suggest we walk around the city, grab some food and drinks, and enjoy Holland because you’re not going to let a tiny-dicked asshole ruin this town for you. Besides, I haven’t seen the windmill since fifth grade.”

  I take one more look up at the windows of Feliena’s Room. “Fine. This is better anyway. I won’t need to go to his office. I can get it over with and move on.”

  “As long as I’m with you, I’m all for moving on.”

  My focus moves from the building to Marshal. “I like you with me.”

  “Convenient. Now, let’s go so you can wipe this turd from your wooden shoes.”

  “You really want to walk around the city and riverfront?”

  “I do.”

  I reach for the door handle. “Follow me.”

  The thing I know about Marshal is that I never have to ask him twice or wonder if he has my back because he always does. We reach the outside door as a man I don’t recognize exits with a nod, allowing us access inside the building without a key.

  “That was lucky,” I say as we face the staircase to the second floor.

  “I had it all planned.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  The higher we climb, the more I question my sanity. If this were only about me, I’d walk away and let Jackson enjoy his kink even if it’s wrong, but it isn’t only about me. I see my mom’s face as she showed me the stupid invoice and hear her tone as she fretted about finding the money to pay Jackson.

  Cash out their retirement.

  Hell no.

  By the time we reach the top of the stairs, my shoulders are square and my neck is straight and tall. I turn to the door to room 7, Feliena’s Room, and knock.

  “Just a minute,” a woman’s voice calls.

  I don’t recognize the voice. I look at Marshal as we both shrug.

  The doorknob turns and the door moves inward.

  Ellen’s eyes open wide with recognition.

  “Ellen.”

  She pushes on the door, but Marshal is too fast, blocking the jamb and holding the edge of the door. “Hello,” he says. “I believe we met at The Rooftop bar.”

  “Where is Jack?” I ask.

  “He...he...” She resigns herself to the fact that the door won’t close as she steps back and wraps her arms around her stomach. “He went to get ice.”

  “I’m not going to ask,” I say, “if we can come in. We are.”

  “Samantha” —she begins as Marshal and I enter the room— “I don’t know what to say.”

  I turn and face her. Thankfully, she’s clothed, wearing a pair of tan slacks and a bright orange halter top with a high neck.

  “I understand your dilemma. After all, a speech that includes I’m sorry I fucked your fiancé in your bed three weeks before your wedding probably requires some rehearsal. Don’t bother.”

  Marshal taps my arm. When I turn, I follow his line of vision and I see it. If I didn’t know better, and when I didn’t know better, I thought the object in the corner of the ceiling was a sprinkler head. Now I know better.

  “What?” Ellen asks.

  “I was going to wait for Jack,” I say, lowering my voice, “but there’s no harm in you knowing what I didn’t.” I don’t wait for Ellen to respond. “See that sprinkler head?” I point upward. “It’s a camera.”

  Her eyes widen and her lips form an “O.”

  “Yes, it recently came to my attention that my ex-fiancé has a thing for photographs.”

  Ellen shakes her head. “I don’t believe you.”

  Marshal shrugs. “I suppose that’s your prerogative. I’ll just let you know that not all men are a fan of the bald look. Trim it. Tend it. Just give us something that says we’re not fucking a child.”

  I almost added that we still didn’t know if she was a true blonde but refrained.

  Small noises of shock come from her throat as she takes a step back and the door behind us opens.

  “Ellen, I found—” Jackson staggers before his gaze meets mine. “What the fuck are you doing here, Samantha?”

  “For the love of God, try saying Sami. It won’t kill you.”

  He reaches for his phone. “Get out. I’ll call the police.”

  “Your...” I turn to Ellen. “What exactly are you? His intern? His fuck toy? His girlfriend?”

  “She’s my associate and you’re no longer anything, so this doesn’t concern you.”

  “I bet it would concern Fred Wilson,” Marshal says. “He just happens to be friends with my boss, Jason McMann’s father. Shut up and listen to Sami, or Fred and Martha’s home will be our next stop.”

  “This is none of your business, Michaels.”

  I walk to the desk near the wall and pull out a small tablet embossed with the letterhead of the bed and breakfast along with a pen and hand them to Jackson. “I need you to write a note stating that neither my parents nor I owe you any compensation for any expenses related to our cancelled wedding. And be sure to sign your name.” I look to Ellen. “She can sign as a witness.”

  “Why would I do that?”

 
I sense Marshal ready to pounce.

  Instead, I look Jackson in the eye and relay the message my best friend gave me minutes earlier. “We know about your inclination to photography. We’ve already informed Ellen, but if you do as I say—write the note and leave my parents the hell alone, and I mean alone as in no contact ever—if you do, we’ll leave. However, if you don’t comply, I will take the pictures of Ellen and of you and Ellen to Fred Wilson. I doubt that fucking interns is part of the partnership program.”

  “If you do, I’ll make the pictures of you public.”

  “Go ahead and try,” Marshal says. “I did research. Michigan is one of the states with laws against revenge porn.”

  “Misdemeanor,” Jackson says.

  “No charge looks good for an attorney,” I say, “especially one who recently made partner. And then there’s the whole matter of photographing without consent.” I turn to Ellen. “I assume you signed a waiver before allowing Jackson to take photos?”

  She’s standing taller, looking at my ex with venom that I understand. Ellen’s gaze narrows. “I have not.”

  “Hmm,” I say. “What about the others, Jack? Do you have consent from all of them?” I emphasize the word all.

  Marshal is leaning against the wall near one of the windows that is painted with the telltale greenish-blue paint. Before Jackson responds, Marshal speaks, “Sami, do you know all of their identities?”

  “No.”

  “I believe that law enforcement is better equipped to do that. They can do facial scans and—”

  “How in the hell did you get your hands on any of the pictures?” Jackson asks.

  It seems as though denial is no longer part of his plan. I would hesitate to tell him except I’ve saved every photo onto a flash drive. I spin around, taking in the room. “One time when we were here, you had to send an email, and instead of going out to the car to get your laptop, you used my computer.” I shrug. “You really should be more careful with your passwords.”

  Jackson takes the paper and the pen and walks to the desk.

  We all wait.

  Finally, Jackson stands and hands the pen and paper to Ellen.

  “Are you serious?” she asks.

  “Sign the damn paper.”

  Once she does, he comes close to me, pushing the paper my direction. “We’re done.”

  As I take the paper, I can’t help but laugh.

  Before I can say anything, Marshal reaches for my hand and tugs me toward the door. Speaking to me, he says, “You’re right, he is quick.”

  “I was talking about something else, but yes.”

  “Wait,” Ellen calls as Marshal is closing their door.

  We stop.

  “Could I get a ride back to Grand Rapids?”

  “No,” we say in unison.

  As we step outside into the warm summer air, I lift my face to the sun and inhale. Marshal’s arm comes around me and he pulls me to his chest. “I’m so in awe of you, Sami.”

  “It feels good, liberating.” I lift the sheet of paper. “And my mom will be relieved.”

  “I heard there’s a cute town with a windmill. Would you like to join me?”

  “I would.”

  Marshal

  * * *

  I see Miss Tits and Ass move to the treadmill next to mine. She’s hard to miss with her giant XL fake tits squeezed into a top that is probably a size too small. Hell, the way they’re bouncing, I’m half expecting them to spill out.

  Instead of focusing on her, I concentrate on the music blaring through my earbuds, the increase of the incline on my course, and way the speed is picking up. My mind goes to Sami and the way she handled tiny-dick in Holland last weekend and the look of relief on Jean’s face when we went to their house for Sunday dinner.

  Damn, Sami was kick-ass.

  I know through the years there have been times I wanted to protect her, to save her from assholes like him. A grin comes to my lips as I recall one time in college that I was so certain this arrogant asshole—I can’t recall his name—was going to try to get to her, I kept guard all night.

  In reality, I slept, but I did it while keeping her beside me.

  It was the first time I willingly slept next to a woman. It was also the time I did it with no thoughts of sex on my mind. I was too consumed with kicking the guy’s ass if he showed up.

  Times have changed.

  It would have been easy for me to take care of Jackson the way I handled that guy in college. After I woke to Sami’s tears as she looked at his photo collection, I was willing. I’m definitely able. And I’d do jail time for her.

  That isn’t what she wants or needs.

  One of the parts of friendship that can be difficult is not stepping in, not taking care of shit for her, and allowing her to handle it in her own way. Yes, I encouraged her. Yes, I was beside her and ready to be her muscle if needed. And it worked. By simply being at her side, I had a ringside view of her knockout punch.

  As we walked around Holland, going to the shops, eating ice cream, and having dinner, I kept watching her, wondering if she would be upset that tiny-dick was with Ellen or about the photographs. She had been, but Saturday afternoon she looked and acted exactly as she said.

  She was liberated.

  I adore seeing her happy and carefree.

  After dinner, we drove west until we reached the shore of Lake Michigan, and sitting on the light-colored sand, we watched the sun set.

  There’s no doubt that I’m getting too used to waking next to her. It’s not only waking. I’m getting used to the whole package.

  Crawling into bed beside her and enticing her to put away the Kindle and concentrate on something a bit more strenuous and much more fulfilling.

  After three weeks of off-and-on togetherness, I’m surprised by how fucking ready I am to be inside her. I’d been wrong. Being with the same woman isn’t mundane or boring. Hell no. Each time with her there is something new, something better than the time before.

  We’ve been going at this now for nearly three weeks.

  That thought reminds me of the date.

  Shit.

  In two days, it’ll be her wedding date.

  I scramble to think of something to help her get through that date.

  Of course, my first thought is more sex.

  I mean, it’s a cure-all for what ails you, right?

  It always works for me.

  But for once, I’m not thinking about me. I’m thinking about her. It’s funny how just thinking about Sami reroutes my circulation.

  My treadmill begins to slow for my cooldown. I’m twenty-five minutes into my thirty-minute run when a piercing scream shatters my bubble and scatters my thoughts. I turn just in time to see Miss Tits and Ass in mid-air, before landing herself half on the floor and half on the treadmill.

  Jumping off my treadmill, I offer her my sweaty hand. “Are you all right?”

  She brushes herself off and takes my hand. Her hold lingers as she stands. “I guess you’re my hero. You saved me.”

  I pull the earbuds from my ears, not positive of what she said. I mostly noticed the way her puffy lips moved. It’s a revelation I hadn’t realized was even possible. With this woman’s hand in mine, I see her as I never have.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging; I’m assessing.

  I’m seeing her bleached blonde hair, Botox-enhanced lips, and fake tits.

  Is she pretty?

  I suppose.

  No matter how pretty she is, she’s fake; she’s emblematic of all the women I’ve been involved with. No wonder in the past I haven’t wanted anything permanent. The women weren’t permanent. They were all similar to this woman, an illusion of what is supposed to be sexy.

  “You know,” she says, “since you saved my life, I owe you three wishes.”

  Freeing my hand, I reach for my shirt and wipe the sweat from my eyes. As I do, her gaze goes to my abs.

  Shit.

  This is my move except it’s no
t.

  It’s only sweat.

  When I don’t speak, she says, “I’m still available for drinks.”

  “I’m still—”

  “You said you were kind of seeing someone,” she interrupts. “It’s been a few weeks. Are you still only kind of?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  She lifts a painted and manicured finger to my chest. “I’m not complicated, Marshal. I know what I like, and I’m a no-strings-attached kind of gal. Tell me that doesn’t appeal to you.”

  It would have.

  A month ago, I would have jumped at the chance.

  Three weeks ago, I had.

  “You seem nice,” I say. “The thing is that I need to figure out where this relationship is going.”

  “I’m here if you make any decisions,” she says with a sexy smirk. “Besides, I have to grant you three wishes. It’s the life-saving rule.”

  I come up with a lame excuse and head into the locker room. The entire time I’m showering and getting ready for the office, I think about what she offered and why I’m not interested.

  The whole time I am thinking about Sami.

  She and I need to talk.

  I know we have been talking, as well as doing other things, but my little confrontation with Miss Tits and Ass makes me realize I’m not satisfied with Sami’s and my amended agreement. Sami has just recently earned her freedom, and I don’t want to take that away, but damn, I want more.

  I’ve played the field. I know what is waiting on each base.

  Well, really who’s on first, what’s on second, and I don’t know is on third—that’s from one of my dad’s favorite Abbot and Costello bits.

  In all seriousness, if I don’t tell Sami how I feel, I’ll never know if there’s a chance. If I do tell her, I may lose her as my friend. If I don’t, someone else may offer her forever and always.

  The back and forth continues.

  Once I’m settled behind my desk at my office, I pull out my phone and send a text.

  “Hey. We need to talk. Dinner? Pizza, my place or out?”