CHAPTER 1
My mother’s wedding and the reception following it had gone well. Mom looked happier than I’d ever seen her. It was a bittersweet day for me, since I’d witnessed all those years of her and Daddy in, what now was so apparently, a loveless marriage. I chalked it up to my own naivety and inexperience with relationships.
Eric Slater was in love with my mother; my mother was in love with Eric Slater. It was as simple as that. Though anyone knowing how it was these two found each other would hardly have considered it simple. It had actually been quite complicated.
My mother and father’s seemingly perfect marriage and life in suburbia had been a sham. I’d worried about them when I started my freshman year away at college.
I knew that Mom devoted her time and efforts to Daddy and me. I knew she needed something of her own. I’d nagged her before I left to develop some interests, find something to call her own. Much to my surprise, she did just that.
Over the course of my first year at Cornell, my visits home had been few and far between. I didn’t see Mom again until I was home for Christmas that year.
Boy, had she changed! Not only in looks, but her demeanor had changed as well. I’d seen something in her that had not been present before: independence and self-assurance. They both looked great on her.
I knew that Daddy had been spending even more time away from home trying to oversee the East coast region of the Banion Pharmaceuticals expansion.
Banion Pharmaceuticals had been founded by my great-grandfather more than a half-century before.
My mother was the only child and sole heir to that legacy. My father had been graced with a high-level position as a vice-president, courtesy of my granddaddy, who had retired several years prior.
That was a tough year for all of us as I finally began to see the tears in their relationship. Their marriage that was both fragile and fake. I’d suspected over the years that their marriage was different from those of my friends’ parents. It was lacking in so many ways.
Still, I knew my mother had been raised by her mother to be somewhat subservient to the ‘man of the house.’ As much as I loved my father, I knew when and if the time came, I’d do things differently than my mother and my grandmother.
That’s where it became so complicated.
I loved my father so much that I’d turned a blind eye from things I should’ve seen. I knew that he loved me. I suspected he loved me more than he loved my mother, if in fact, he loved her at all.
I’d become skeptical of his love the summer after my freshman year when I was interning at the Banion corporate office and manufacturing facility in our hometown of Indianapolis.
I returned from Cornell at the end of May that year for summer break. My mother hit me with the news that I had a brother or sister on the way. I was thrilled about it, hoping maybe their lackluster marriage had finally taken a turn for the best. Shortly after, I observed they had separate bedrooms. Mom tried to pass it off as being because of a ‘problematic’ pregnancy, but I had my doubts, and I kept quiet. I figured whatever was going on was their business.
I started my internship at Banion and immediately made a friend. He was a hottie working there for the summer during his hiatus from Purdue; a guy by the name of Eric Slater. That’s right, my step-father to be.
There were more surprises to come.
My father had a not-so-discreet relationship going with his executive assistant, Susan. When I’d brought this to my mother’s attention a short time later, she seemed totally undisturbed by it. I finally got the truth from her. It seems my mother and father didn’t love each other, and they probably never had. My mother was carrying another man’s child, who she admittedly loved. However, she wasn’t certain that he loved her.
Things only got worse from that point on.
As it turned out, my father was involved in some sort of criminal network involving drug trafficking, racketeering, and money laundering, to name just a few of his crimes.
My colleague, Eric Slater, turned out to be an undercover Fed, as well as the love of my mother’s life and father of her unborn child. My mother had met him while living her secret life as a pole dancer at a Gentleman’s Club in Indianapolis. That’s right, a pole-dancer.
By the end of the summer, I wished I hadn’t left Ithaca to come home at all. Home wasn’t home anymore. It seemed as if I’d been living in a house of secrets and lies.
When I returned to Cornell that fall to start my sophomore year, I returned as a totally different person. My father had split to avoid prosecution, taking his paramour, Susan, with him.
My mother had been held hostage briefly by a biker that threatened to slit her throat if she didn’t help him find the stash of drugs that the club had paid for, but had not been delivered by my father’s assistant.
I spent most of the time before going back to Cornell with my grandparents. That’s when I met Adam. He lived in the same condo complex as my grandparents. He’d helped me cope during that period.
The relationship with Adam had given me hope. It was one I thought would grow and flourish. He’d become my best friend. I’d always heard that starting as friends is a great way to build a solid foundation for love. Unfortunately, that was not in the cards, once again, for me.
I downed the rest of my champagne as the crowd from the reception started to dwindle down.
My grandparents had left, kissing me good-bye so that they could get my baby brother, Bryce, back to the house and in bed for the night. They were staying at Mom and Eric’s while they took a two-week cruise. I’d told Grandma I would catch a ride home with someone, but it was early, and I wasn’t ready to leave just yet.
I wouldn’t mind catching a good buzz. I deserved to feel a little high and giddy after the fucked-up year and a half I’d gone through. I grabbed another flute of champagne as the waiter went by on his way to the kitchen.
We had just sent Slate (as I preferred to call him) and Mom away with the full barrage of rice and cheering. I was going to spend the night at their house and then head back to Charlottesville tomorrow afternoon. I was a junior at University of Virginia, studying Economics.
Whoopee.
I giggled to myself as the bubbly tickled my tongue going down.
Cool and smooth.
“Can I join this party?”
I looked up into the amused green eyes of Taz.
Taz Matthews was an agent for the FBI, same as Slate. They were also best friends. He was totally hot with his sandy brown hair and assortment of tats.
Speaking of cool and smooth.
“Sure! Cop a squat,” I replied, giggling, waving my hand to the empty chair beside mine.
He gave a slight chuckle, set a glass containing ice and an auburn-colored liquid on the table, and slid into the seat.
I had to admit, Taz looked totally hot in the black tuxedo he was wearing. Actually, to be honest, Taz looked “hawt” in about anything.
“You know,” he said, “that champagne is going to give you a kick-ass headache; it’s the sugar content. The best way to avoid a hangover is to drink straight alcohol with water or over ice, no sugary mixers with it.”
“Well, thank you for the advice, although it comes a bit late,” I replied with a smile, downing the rest of the bubbly.
Several seconds later, an unexpected belch surfaced, which I found thoroughly amusing.
“So,” he said, laughing at my uncouthness, “no date?”
“Nope,” I said, beckoning to the waiter who promptly returned with a full flute.
“What about you?”
“Same here,” he replied, taking a swig of his drink. “I thought you had some college guy in your knickers last year.”
Hardly in my knickers.
“Oh. You must be referring to Adam. Ancient history.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, not sounding the least bit sincere.
“We’re still friends,” I replied, sipping my fresh flute of champagne.
“That’s always nice when it ends on a friendly note, I guess. Though I really wouldn’t know,” he said with a shrug. “Most of the chicks in my past gave me a parting request consisting of two words.”
“Which are?”
“Don’t call.”
For some reason, I found this hilariously funny. I slapped my hand against the table, laughing loudly.
“Hey,” he said, looking around, “how are you getting home? You aren’t thinking about driving are you?”
“No,” I said, as if that should have been obvious to Mr. G-man Taz. “I’ll find a ride.”
“How about if I get you home now? I think you’ve probably had enough to drink. Are you even legal yet?”
“Oh, God, please don’t go all Slate on me now, okay? I’m not a baby, Taz. I’m nearly twenty-one, so what the hell?”
“I can see that, baby, but as the Best Man, I do have certain responsibilities and obligations toward the Maid of Honor.”
Oh really?
“Hmm,” I said using a throaty, flirtatious voice. “Do tell?”
“I need to make sure that I get my best buddy’s step-daughter home safe and sound, that’s what I’m telling you.”
“You’re a real buzz-kill, Taz. I’ve had a screwed-up couple of years, and by God, I’d like to party for once. If you’re not going to party with me, then just split, okay?”
I downed the rest of my champagne and stood up, fully intending to find another full glass. I staggered toward the back bar, stopping to take my heels off. There. Much better. I was nearly to the bar when I felt a strong hand grip my arm, turning me around.
“Come on,” Taz said, an authoritative edge now present in his voice. “You’ve had enough and I’m taking you home.”
I tried to pull away from him without making a scene in front of the scattering of guests that still remained. He was too strong. His grip remained firmly planted on me until he helped me locate my coat in the vestibule. As I started to walk towards the exit door, once again I was pulled back.
“How about we put your shoes on, huh?”
“Oh, yeah,” I laughed, feeling buzzed and sheepish. “I guess that would help.”
I was having difficulty maintaining my balance while standing next to him and trying to slip my shoes on my feet.
“Here,” he directed, “hold onto my shoulders.”
I did as instructed, lifting one foot and then the other while he slipped my heels on each foot.
“Ready, Cinderella?”
I nodded.
Damn, he had a very disarming smile: charming and disarming. Hey, I made a rhyme!
Charming and disarming; charming and disarming—God I’m fucked up!
Taz practically carried me upright to his truck.
What was with all of these G-Men and their macho pick-up trucks? Slate had one, but it appeared that Taz had a bigger one. Somehow, that caught me as being funny. I decided I would share that bit of humor with Taz.
“Hey, Taz,” I said, trying my best not to slur, “I noticed yours is bigger than Slate’s.” I nodded towards his truck, giggling as he hoisted me up into the cab.
“Uh huh,” he replied, taking a moment to fasten my seat belt around me before shutting the passenger door. His truck was immaculate.
He circled around and slid into the driver’s seat within moments. Just as we pulled out onto the street, things were starting a slow spin.
Oh, shit.
There was no freaking way I was going to puke in front of this fine, fine man. I would simply think of something else, take my mind off of the roiling in my stomach and the sudden salivating I was experiencing. Less than a minute later, I realized I was going to heave.
“Can you roll the window down?” I asked, as I started to unceremoniously gag.
“Oh, Christ,” he said, hitting the button to power the passenger side window down.
It was too late. I projectile vomited champagne along with my food selection from the wedding buffet down the front of me and all over the dashboard of his sparkling clean truck. Several rounds later, I was empty. I continued to dry heave as Taz made haste to get me somewhere. I knew it wasn’t Mom and Slate’s house, because we hadn’t driven far enough.
He pulled the truck over to the curb and got out, circling around to open the passenger side door for me. I was covered in vomit. I’d never felt so humiliated in all of my life. I could never, ever show my face to him again. I knew that he was going to be royally pissed at me for dousing the interior of his pristine truck. It had smelled almost brand new before I heaved. Now it smelled pure funky.
To my surprise, he wasn’t furious; in fact, he wasn’t even pissed.
“Come on, sweetheart,” he said gently, reaching in and trying to find a place on me that wasn’t covered in vomit that he could grip. “Let’s get you inside and cleaned up, okay?”
“I’m really sorry!” I whined, sniffing the residual vomit back into my nose where it had evidently exited as well. “I’ll clean up your truck if you want.”
“No worries,” he said. “That can wait. We gotta get you cleaned up. I’m not taking you home like this.”
“Where are we?” It had finally dawned on me to ask.
“My place,” he said. “We’re going to get you out of these clothes and into the shower. I’ll find something for you to wear.”
Oh my.
Taz lived in a duplex. His apartment was on the whole bottom floor, which was good because I doubted very much if I could’ve managed to climb any steps.
He helped me up onto the porch and held me up with one arm, while he unlocked his front door. There was already a light on in his living room, which was surprisingly clean and decorated in masculine good taste.
“Wow,” I said. “This is really nice, Taz.”
“Glad you like it, sweetheart. Let’s head down this hallway to the bathroom, okay?”
“Okay, whatever you say,” I said with a giggle.
True to his word, his bathroom was on the right at the end of the wide hallway. It was huge.
He left me standing against the wall while he rolled the sleeves up on the jacket of his tuxedo. He reached into the shower and started the water to get the temperature warm. I felt myself slide down the wall, my legs now propped out in front of me. I was certain I looked like a limp, very puked-on rag doll. I could only imagine.
I felt Taz lift me and start unsnapping and unzipping my bridesmaid gown. I didn’t feel embarrassed about him seeing me. It was probably because I was still loaded. He told me when to raise my arms, when to lower them, and when to turn around.
In a matter of moments, I was stripped naked and underneath the warm, pulsating water of his shower.
Taz had removed his jacket and was lathering up a bath sponge, washing me from top to bottom. God—this felt really, really good. He poured shampoo onto my scalp and instructed me to massage it in. I did the best that I could under the circumstances.
Once I was thoroughly rinsed, he shut the water off and helped me out, wrapping a big, fluffy towel around me.
“Can you stand here for just a minute while I get some clean clothes for you?”
“Uh huh,” I nodded, clutching the towel around me for warmth.
When he returned, he handed me a pair of sweats with a hoodie shirt. The shirt was grey and had black lettering. It read, ‘F B I.’ How totally cool was that? He helped me dress.
Once dressed, I ran my fingers through my damp hair, trying to untangle it.
“Here,” he said, handing me a comb. I took it from him and started running it through my hair.
“Here’s a new toothbrush. Please use it.”
He picked up the heap of puked-on clothes piled on the floor and exited the bathroom with them.
I brushed and gargled. I combed my hair out and finally managed to take a peek at myself in the mirror. Some semblance of soberness was starting to return. Not enough to make me want to be anywhere but here though.
I gargled one more time for good measure.
I opened the large medicine chest over the sink to see if I could locate a bottle of ibuprofen or any other type of pain-killer. I was fairly certain a headache was to follow.
I couldn’t locate any type of pain-killer, but there was a wide assortment of Magnum® condoms. There were heavy-duty, neon glow-in-the dark, large ‘reservoir’ for heavy loads (Oh my!) ribbed-for-her-pleasure, sheepskin, flavored (Really?), lubricated, and non-lubricated. My head was starting to spin reading all of the various descriptions. I quickly slammed the door to the medicine cabinet shut.
Once I left the bathroom, I padded down the long, hardwood floor of the main hallway looking for Taz. He was in a bedroom off of the living room, making up the bed with clean sheets and pillowcases.
“Feeling a little better?” he asked.
“A teeny bit. I’m really sorry, Taz. I’m so embarrassed. I don’t know what got into me.”
“Way too much alcohol, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it. It happens to the best of us. Something about having a shitty couple of years, huh?”
“Oh, that,” I said with a shrug. “I guess I was hosting my own little pity party. Sorry, I dragged you down with me.”
“Hey,” he said, “I know what you’ve been through, Lindsey. It’s got to be tough on you. How about you climb into my spare bed here and get a good night’s rest, okay?”
“This isn’t your bed?”
“No,” he said with a grin. “My bed’s much bigger. And it’s in another room.”
“Thanks for cleaning me up,” I remarked, now feeling the blush that was absent while he bathed me.
“It was my pleasure, sweetheart.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yep.”
“What’s your real name?”
It had struck me after all of this time that I’d never heard anyone refer to him as anything other than ‘Taz’.”
“Hmm,” he said, giving me an ornery look, “I don’t share that information with a lot of people, you know? I guess I can make an exception for you. It’s Trace,” he said.
“Trace,” I repeated, liking the way it sounded on my tongue. “Thanks, Trace.”
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