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  So the smokes had to go.

  He was bending to stub it out when he saw headlights in the parking lot. With mild curiosity, he looked that way and saw a car driving through the lot to get to the other side of his building where the tenants and their guests parked their cars.

  But he knew that silver Land Rover.

  She could not be serious.

  Christ, he thought this bullshit was over.

  “Fuck,” he hissed, scowling at the Rover while straightening.

  He walked inside, slid the door closed, and secured it. He then moved to the kitchen bar and tossed his phone on it, not wanting to do that but instead wanting to call Cher, talk out their shit, and not go to sleep on it the way things were. Or, at the very least, text her something to let her off the hook thinking he was still pissed at her.

  That wasn’t giving her time, so he didn’t do that.

  Instead, he did what he absolutely did not want to do.

  When the knock came at his door, he walked to it, looked out the peephole, and felt his jaw set.

  He slid off the chain, turned the bolt, and opened the door.

  He moved firmly into it and looked down at his ex-wife.

  She was shorter than Cher by several inches. She had lots of red, wavy hair whereas Cher’s blonde brushed just past her shoulders. She had green eyes that flashed with fire or humor, not Cher’s dark brown that, even when she didn’t know it and wouldn’t want it, shone with warmth.

  And right then, Mia Merrick was in the mood to play games.

  “Go home, Mia,” he ordered.

  She looked up at him, eyes hooded, but he could read them. He’d had years of that. The woman couldn’t hide anything from him.

  She was angry.

  And she was something else too.

  “Haven’t heard from you in a while, Merry,” she said softly.

  “Sorry. My bad,” he replied. “Congratulations, babe. Wish you all the best,” he told her with far less emotion than he’d spoken to Cher that morning, which meant his voice was a black void it was a wonder the bitch didn’t disappear into.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t.

  He watched a slow grin lift her lips.

  She thought she’d read him.

  She might have heard about him and Cher, it was doubtful she hadn’t, but even if she did, she didn’t know she’d lost the ability to read him six days ago.

  She thought his words hid jealousy.

  She leaned closer to him.

  He swung back but did it studying her.

  Pretty. So fucking pretty. A little minx. He’d thought she was his little minx. Got off on that. Bitch was wicked.

  And he’d been wrong.

  He couldn’t totally read her because he was the asshole who didn’t read for the five years they were apart that her wicked games were poisonous.

  “Mia, go home,” he repeated.

  “You want me to go?” she asked, leaning further into him, pressing her tits into his chest.

  He instantly pulled back.

  Her eyes narrowed and she shot out a hand to cup his crotch.

  She barely got her hand on him before he moved his between them. Wrapping his fingers around her wrist, he yanked it away, listening to her surprised cry when he used precisely the strength he intended, making the hold he had on her bite just enough to make a point.

  “What the fuck’s the matter with you?” he asked.

  “Merry,” she whispered, twisting her hand in his hold to try to get away, uncertainty in her features now.

  He jerked her forward and she gave another surprised cry as he bent to get in her face.

  “Listen to me,” he growled. “You do not ever come here again. You sell that house. You pack your bags. You get your ass to Bloomington. And you forget I exist.”

  She looked into his eyes, the uncertainty gone, the training he’d given her that she owned his dick and could lead him around by it shining from them now. “You don’t mean that.”

  “You have another man’s ring on your finger,” he reminded her.

  “Like that means anything to you,” she retorted.

  “Fuck,” he whispered, staring into her eyes. “Do you not know me at all?”

  Her gaze dropped to his mouth. “I know you better than you know you, baby.”

  He used her wrist to give her a slight shake, and her eyes shot back up to his. “No, bitch,” he bit out. “You don’t. You wanna come and play and you made no promises that a man’s countin’ on to live the future he’s got mapped out with you, that’s one thing. This shit…it’s another. You wanna be that cunt who fucks over her guy, have at it. But you’re not usin’ me to get you off playin’ your games.”

  “If it’s that big a deal to you, Merry, while you fuck me, I’ll take his ring off,” she offered.

  Fucking bitch.

  How the fuck had he not seen this before?

  She came to him. It wasn’t rare; it wasn’t frequent.

  But she came to him when she’d had a bad day…“and I just want to be with you, Merry.” Or when she’d had a go ’round with her mom…“and no one will get it like you, Merry.” Or when she felt…“we need to talk, Merry.”

  What she needed was to fuck, for someone to get her off like, apparently, no one else could, and it took her little time to talk him around to that mostly because she’d put her hands or mouth on him and they wouldn’t talk at all.

  He didn’t comfort her. He didn’t listen to her.

  And most of the time, she’d be gone before he woke, or he’d lie in bed, watching her dress and listening to her say, “Gotta go, baby. I’ll call you.”

  She wouldn’t call.

  But she also wouldn’t hesitate to come back when she needed another dose of his dick.

  He’d thought, one day, she wouldn’t get up early and sneak out. One of those times, she wouldn’t dress while he watched then leave, but instead come back to him and say shit like, “Dinner tonight. It’s clear neither of us can let this go. Let’s work it out.”

  He’d thought her coming at all said they weren’t done. The door was open. He just had to walk through.

  When that didn’t happen, he felt like the asshole because he didn’t ask for it, didn’t push it, didn’t point out that the finality of signing divorce papers was bullshit for the both of them.

  She hadn’t led him on. He’d fully participated and he was not a dumb fuck. He knew early what was going on.

  That didn’t mean he didn’t feel she was leaving that door open.

  Friday night, he thought she’d gotten fed up and closed the door.

  It pissed him off more than Cher’s rant that morning, not only that he’d been wrong but, with Mia’s most recent visit, how he had.

  The past few days, he’d been recognizing Mia’s games for what they were, and it sat like a weight in his gut that information was confirmed.

  He pushed her off, taking a step back and wrapping his fingers around the edge of the door. “Go home, Mia.”

  She shook her head like she was clearing it and her brows drew together. “Are you serious?”

  He stared down his nose at her. “You know, woman, I’m not a cheat, on either side of that deal. How the fuck you got it in your head you could come here tonight, I don’t know. But this is done. And just to make things clear to you, Mia, even if it doesn’t work out with that guy, when I say this is done, I mean that any way it can mean. This shit is done because we are done.”

  She stared up at him, stunned.

  “But…we’re never done,” she informed him.

  “Never just became a fuckuva lot shorter,” he informed her, stepped back and shut the door in her face.

  He locked it and turned away.

  She didn’t knock again, and it was good she didn’t bother because he hadn’t lied.

  They were done.

  Christ, it sucked in ways she’d never understand that Cher didn’t recognize the fucked-up mess they already had was a fuckuva lot
healthier than the fucked-up mess he and Mia had become.

  All of a sudden this thought made him smile, because if Cher was right there and he could’ve shared that with her, she’d bust out laughing.

  Garrett turned out the lights and headed to the bedroom thinking, yeah, his brown-eyed girl had a week. That was as long as he was prepared to sit on his ass and wait for her to come to him.

  If she didn’t, she was ready or not, he was going to her.

  Chapter Eight

  A Week

  Cher

  Thursday Afternoon

  My phone sounded with a text as I drove home from the grocery store, six bags of shit that had absolutely no nutritional value in the back of my car (plus four of those baby carrots snack packs).

  In other words, I was good to go to keep my “cool mom” crown because Ethan and Everest were going to hit the better-living-through-chemistry food mother lode at about five tomorrow night when Everest came for his sleepover.

  I’d also stopped by the bank and opened a new account with Trent and Peggy’s thirty-five hundred dollars. It and anything else they gave me was going to stay set aside.

  I didn’t know why I did this, I just felt it prudent.

  And if nothing came of whatever they planned to do but them giving me that money (as well as the hundred bucks every two weeks that they’d promised), then at least it was in a savings account earning interest until whenever I deemed it time to hand it over to Ethan.

  I parked in my driveway and grabbed my phone.

  The text was as I’d feared—not from Merry.

  It was from Trent.

  Call me. We need to talk.

  I threw my phone back in my purse, got out, grabbed the bags, and took them in the house.

  It was after I’d put everything away that I got my phone out again.

  Just got back from the grocery store. I’m worried that my nutritional selections for my kid are preserving his body for science. So I bought carrots.

  I stared at the text I typed in Merry’s text string, the bubble hovering over it still declaring DONE.

  Then I backspaced through the text, tossed my phone on my purse, and walked out of the kitchen.

  * * * * *

  Friday Evening

  I moved through the living room with my phone in one hand, the snack-size four-pack of baby carrots in the other.

  I saw my son and his buddy lounging on the couch, controllers in hands, twisting and turning as they hit buttons, eyes glued to the TV, the detritus of a feeding frenzy in front of them so extreme, it covered the top of the coffee table and leaked over all four sides.

  I kept moving as I tossed the packs of carrots in the middle of it, causing a bag of half-eaten microwave popcorn to shift, littering popped kernels all over my carpet. It also caused an opened bag of bite-size Snickers to fall off and spray baby candy bars everywhere.

  I didn’t pause to clean up (though I did pause to snatch up a couple of Snickers for myself).

  I spoke as I quickly negotiated the area in front of the TV so I didn’t obstruct their view.

  “Do me a favor and eat those, so when your parents sue me for putting you in a sugar coma, my attorneys can tell them I made a valiant attempt to cut through the crap with carrots.”

  Everest burst out laughing.

  “You’re crazy, Mom!” Ethan cried, doing it through a little man laugh that was part boy giggle, part man chuckle, eyes never leaving the TV, controller in hand shifting.

  I had a feeling their reactions meant the carrots were going to be ignored.

  I’d made that bed, so I also had a feeling I had no choice but to lie in it.

  I hit my bedroom, climbed on my actual bed, and sat leaning against my collection of pillows that did, actually, look like something Janis Joplin would recline on for a Rolling Stone photo shoot.

  I crossed my legs under me, made quick work of my Snickers, then lifted up my phone.

  I went where I needed to go.

  First attempt with the carrots was a fail, I texted Merry.

  I deleted it.

  Then I shared, Two more day shifts then I’m back on nights. In a perfect world, I could give Mom a break and ask you to come over and hang with my kid while I work.

  I deleted that too.

  Ethan would dig that. But I’d dig it more knowing that you were with my boy and he liked it.

  Obviously, I got rid of that too.

  Mostly, though, I’d like knowing you’d be there when I got home.

  Quickly, before my thumb could hit anything on the screen that would be catastrophic, I deleted that too.

  I jumped when my phone sounded in my hand, a text popping up.

  Not from Merry.

  From Trent.

  Did you get my text yesterday? We need to talk. Call me.

  Not a word from Merry, but my ex-loser texted me twice.

  That was my life.

  Of course, it was up to me to sort out the shit pile I’d created that stood between Merry and me.

  But that wouldn’t happen.

  Eventually, he’d come into J&J’s and give me indication he didn’t totally hate me, though he’d probably be distant.

  Over time, that would melt and he’d be cool with me again.

  Finally, we’d get to joking and laughing.

  Then, after a while, I’d watch him eye up some babe who did it for him. He wouldn’t make the approach in front of me, not at first. He’d wait to get back to that after he knew we were back where we needed to be.

  But he’d find his way to make an approach.

  And then it would be done.

  And we’d be where we were supposed to be.

  Meaning, I’d be right back where I belonged.

  Alone and skirting the edges, on the outside looking in to all the amazing that was Merry.

  * * * * *

  Garrett

  Saturday Night

  Garrett rode his bike under the covered parking spot he paid extra for every month so his Harley would be sheltered from the elements.

  It was late.

  He’d been riding all day partly because the weather would soon turn and he wouldn’t be able to take out his Fat Boy again until March or April.

  But mostly, he did it to find a way to clear his mind, keep focused, and not fuck things up by moving too fast with Cher.

  As he rode in, he saw that he may have managed to get through another day without fucking things up with Cher, but he had another problem he thought he’d sorted, which, apparently, he had not.

  He swung off the bike, but she was already out of her Rover and heading his way.

  He didn’t look at her when he started across the parking lot, but he felt her.

  “This isn’t happening,” he stated.

  “Merry, please,” she begged. “Give me a second.”

  He kept walking.

  “I screwed up,” she declared.

  She fucking did.

  He made no reply, he just kept walking.

  He felt her hurrying after him, her short legs no match for his long ones.

  “I thought it was you. The way you’d ended us, I thought it had to be you,” she told him.

  At the foot of the ugly concrete steps, with their unattractive iron railing that would lead him to the concrete landing that would take him to his shitty-ass condo, not a pot of flowers in sight, nothing to make that place look like anyone gave a shit, he stopped and turned to her.

  “Go home, Mia.”

  She stared up at him, her pretty face twisted and pleading.

  “I gave you opportunity after opportunity,” she whispered.

  Oh no.

  They weren’t doing this before.

  They sure as fuck weren’t going to do it now.

  “Go home,” he repeated.

  She reached out a hand, but when his eyes dropped to it, she halted its progress.

  He looked back to her.

  “I kept coming to you, but you never did anyt
hing,” she declared.

  So he’d been wrong the other night, right the rest of the time—that had been her game.

  Regardless, it was fucked up and damaging, wasting time and causing harm when the bitch should have just said something.

  At that point, however, it didn’t matter. They were over, so going through this wasn’t worth his time.

  “Say it one more time,” he warned. “Go home.”

  “I see now,” she said quietly, eyes glued to his, imploring. “I made the first move. Kept making the first move, over and over. But maybe I should have made the second one too. Maybe you needed that from me. Maybe with…” Her eyes started drifting, but she put visible effort into forcing them back. “With the way things were with your family…” She rubbed her lips together quickly before going on. “With your mom, I should have had a mind to what was going on in yours.”

  Cher’s words slammed into his head.

  You got good, you don’t let it go. It lets you go, you hold on. It slips through your fingers, you pull out all the stops to get it back. You got somethin’ worth fighting for, you fight for it.

  Mia was right.

  It was him who had fucked them up.

  But with his history, she gave that first shit about what they had, it was her who needed to make all the moves.

  Now it was too late.

  Before he could speak, she kept doing it.

  “I’m gonna talk to Gerard. We have to…I need to be free, because you and I need to sit down and talk things out.”

  Garrett felt his brows go up. “You’re gonna dump your fiancé to take a shot at me?”

  Her body moved in ways that shared she was gathering the courage to say her next.

  “I’m gonna do what I need to do to work with you to get us back to us.”

  “Thought I made it clear, Mia—there is no us.”

  Hurt moved through her features, right on its heels, chased by stubborn.

  There she was.

  He’d always thought that was cute.

  But Mia had a pain-in-the-ass mom who was a pain in Mia’s ass because she was just like her daughter. They both had a man in their life, Mia’s dad, who spoiled those bitches rotten. They’d been vying for his attention since Mia could cogitate.

  But Justin McClintock loved both the females in his life and he had a lot of love to give. Through that, he’d taught his daughter if she wanted something, it would be hers.