Black Swan Affair (2 page)

I
can’t breathe
.

Literally.

There is no air.

I suck gulps.

It’s pointless. All I hear is pathetic wheezing and my future breaking into pieces.

Black edges my vision, the inky rings drawing me under.

My head falls between my splayed legs in an attempt to get closer to the floor, where I pray the blessed darkness takes me at long last. I want her to. If he dies, I don’t want to live.

Oh, God.

This can’t be happening.
Why
is this happening? Why aren’t the doctors coming out? It’s been six hours.

That can’t be good, can it?

Distant buzzing fills my head, getting louder by the second.

You deserve this, Mavs
, she whispers sweetly in my ear.

Karma, that ruthless bitch. Her saccharine tenor cuts through the incessant ringing with clarity.

You caused this. You deserve this.

Do I?

I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe this is the only way to atone for past indiscretions and sins. Losing the one person in this world I hold most dear. I start sobbing uncontrollably, my cries muffled by my position.

“Maverick, calm down,” he says sternly beside me. He reaches for my hand, but his touch burns. I jerk away, hissing like an infected animal ready to attack.

“Hey,” he says softer this time. The gentle, calming tone I’ve heard my entire life echoes loudly off these four bland white walls that hold chaos, suffering, and shattered lives. It sounds like nails being driven into my ears. “It’s going to be okay.
He’s
going to be okay.”

Okay?

O-fucking-kay?

He was shot! Gunned down by a fucking lunatic at work, and he’s telling me everything is going to be okay in that eerily calm voice like I’m ten years old and my gerbil just died.

I hate him. I hate that
he’s
here, talking, breathing,
living
, and the man I want more than anything is fighting to come back to me.

“Just breathe. Nice and slow. You’re going to pass out.”

His hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes lovingly, reassuringly.

I snap.

I jump up and lose it. “I don’t want you here.” My voice is strangely even but poisonous. “This is your fault.”

My behavior is irrational, but how does one react when the love of her life is fighting for his? I need to transfer the bone-crushing agony and debilitating fear that’s threatening to overtake me. I’m suffocating. Drowning slowly in heart-wrenching torment and a lifetime of regrets and wrong decisions.

We haven’t had enough time. Not nearly enough.

His mouth drops open then closes. Without a word he stands, grabs my shoulders, and forces me back down into the hard plastic chair I’ve been occupying for hours and hours. I don’t even feel it anymore. My body is as numb as my soul. Kneeling in front of me, he takes my hands, grips tight, and just breathes with me.

My shoulders shake with silent terror and morbid thoughts. Tiny stings of misery run in droves down my face. They hurt.
I
hurt. Every part of me hurts. I take it back. I’m not numb. I’m nothing but a distorted ball of pain.

The past pelts me as I struggle to remember every touch, every word, every memory. There are so many. So many.

Our lives are eternally interwoven. Our futures together already penned. They have been since the day of my birth.

He can’t die.

We were just starting our lives together. The way it was meant to be.

I can’t go on without my soul mate.

I bore my watery gaze into the man in front of me, the one who loves me so much, and spit venomous, hateful words. Words I don’t mean but can’t call back now that they’re out. “I wish it was you,” I say heartlessly, callously.

I ignore the hurt in his eyes. Hurt my words inflicted. He’s already devastated enough after how things ended between us weeks ago, and here I am…adding to it with my heartless tantrum.

I wish I could make myself care.

I am destroyed. I will never survive this if he’s taken from me.

“If it would save you even a moment of pain, Maverick, then so do I,” is his quiet, sincere reply.

He doesn’t move. He doesn’t release his grasp, even the tiniest bit. He’s holding me here, tethering me to a place I’m not sure I want to be a part of anymore.

He doesn’t move, so neither do I.

We both sit just like this, leaning on each other, praying like we’ve never prayed before.

I
park
my car in the desolate, dim parking lot, turn the key to the off position, and sit there for a few moments, gathering my wits for the day ahead. The glint of my wedding set catches in the streetlight, drawing my eye. I hold my hand out and study it, ignoring the French manicure that’s now grown out.

It’s stunning. A near flawless three-carat cushion cut surrounded by a carat of pavé diamonds, all set in platinum. The wedding band boasts another two carats of round diamonds that span the entire length of the circle.

It was bought with love. It was given with trust. Neither of which I deserve.

I stare at the expensive piece still in disbelief that I did this.

I’m married.

Married.

To Kael Shepard.

My best friend since I could walk.

Brother to the man I really want.

I am now Mrs. Shepard. Ironic. It’s the name I’ve always wanted. This just isn’t exactly how I pictured getting it.

I can’t recall a single second of my wedding day after I walked out on Killian. I don’t remember Daddy giving me away. I don’t remember the vows I recited or the cheer of the crowd as Kael and I walked out man and wife. The taste of our wedding cake eludes me, even two weeks later. The chords of our first song are just white noise. The feel of him moving inside me on our wedding night was as if it was happening to someone else while I watched, detached, from above.

This situation is so messed up, I struggle to get my head around it most days. I’m self-destructing. And I don’t know how to fucking stop it.

I haven’t stopped riding an emotional rollercoaster for over two years. Since the day Killian Shepard married my older sister. One second, I’m still in shock and the next, I want to die. Outwardly, I’m portraying the perfect, happy newlywed, but inside all I feel is desperate, lonely isolation. I think that’s probably called despair.

And I’m angry. So fucking angry.

All the time.

With Killian. With Jilly.

With Kael for marrying me, refusing to see what was right in front of his fucking face.

With this godforsaken town and life to which I feel chained.

But mostly I’m angry with me. Why can’t I cut a man loose who spouted his love through cryptic words but showed his true colors through real actions? Why can’t I return the love of a man who treasures me more than air or life or his precious restored 1969 Camaro? If I could, I’d go back in time and change so many things. The first being: I would never let myself fall hopelessly in love with Killian Shepard. Liar. Betrayer. Saboteur.

And guilt? God…the
guilt
. That emotion has this entire despicable scenario wrapped up in a nice, neat little bastardized package, tied up tight with a bright shiny bow of infamy.

Pining after someone’s husband is one thing. Pining after someone’s husband when you’re now married—to his
brother
—is taking immorality to an entirely new level. But that’s me. I always manage to find fresh and juicy ways to skirt around the edges of acceptable social behavior.

Sadness and regret envelop me. Completely. Thoroughly.

This ring represents my own betrayal. My own duplicity. My self-destruction. It should belong to someone else. Anyone else but me.

I love Kael. I
do
. I can’t imagine a day in my life without him. The last thing I want to do is hurt him, but I don’t know if I can ever love another person the way I do Killian. I have made a grave, life-altering mistake that will do nothing but bring pain to people I love. This time, I’ve gone too far, and I don’t know how to fix it.

I breathe out a long sigh, knowing there aren’t any answers to be found. None that I want to face anyway.

I glance at the clock. It’s just past 4:30 a.m. Shit, I need to get inside. Putting on my game face is tough sometimes, and after the last two weeks, today will be a true test of how well I’ve perfected my acting skills, because I’m back in bumfuck, Iowa.

Dusty Falls.

Population 5,339 according to the last census. We’re not quite like
Cheers
but pretty damn close. Everyone knows your name. It’s especially true for me, given who my father is.

Looking in my rearview mirror, I paste on a fake smile and test it out.

“Did you have a good time?” I mock play, watching my own reaction.

“So good!” I reply.

Ouch. That was terrible. I sound flat, like an out-of-tune piano.

One more time.

“Did you have a good time?” I try again.

“Oh my God, it was so fantastic!” I say to my reflection, injecting myself with faux enthusiasm.

Eh. Tone down the Valley Girl accent and I’ll give myself a pass. Barely.

Exiting my car, I head down the sidewalk toward the bay with a single light glowing from inside. The one that’s mine. I let myself dawdle in the quiet for just a moment. Taking a giant whiff of the sugary confections, I already smell baking. Pride swells for at least one thing in my life I’ve done right. I gaze up at the neon sign I designed, not yet lit for the day, and smile.

Cygne Noir Patisserie
.

Black Swan Bakery. My brainchild. My baby. The one piece of solace I can completely immerse myself in. “I’ve missed you,” I whisper, holding the key to my business tightly in my fist.

Opening a business, a French bakery at that, in a small town that caters to modest people, was a huge gamble, but it’s doing well. Much better than anyone expected. Well, except Kael, that is. He always thought it was exactly what this stuffy town needed.

He was right.

I see movement inside and shake my head. MaryLou’s screeching voice grates—I mean
greets
—me the second I walk through the glass door. “How was it?”

I would say the turn of the lock or the sound of chimes bouncing against the steel frame gave me away, but that would be a lie. I bet MaryLou’s been here since before 4:00 a.m.—a panther waiting in the bushes for her chance to pounce.

I’ve been dreading this interaction the most. The twenty questions, the scrutiny, the knowing, hawk-like stare. She’ll watch every twist of my fingers, listen to every inflection in my tone, or track my hand as I tuck a piece of unruly hair behind my ear. She’ll read something into everything I do.

She’s too damn perceptive, but of course…she knows the truth. She’s always known the truth. She’s been my best friend since the first grade when I saved her life.

Well…that’s the way she looks at it. All I did was save her waist-length hair from being chopped off when Petie Marshall stuck not one, not two, but
three
giant wads of bubblegum in it, right in the roots. She was in the bathroom trying to rip it out, along with fistfuls of her strawberry-blond hair when I led her to the lunchroom instead, asking the lunch lady for some peanut butter. Half an hour and a few hundred strands lighter, she was gum free. She stunk of peanuts for days, no matter how much washing she did, but at least she held on to her beautiful locks. Ones she still has to this day.
Exactly
the way it was in first grade. Girl needs a makeover.

“Wow, a girl can’t even get a cup of coffee before the interrogation starts?” I say, throwing my keys onto the counter with a flourish. I guess I’m not quite ready to paste on my fake smile yet.

“Here.” She offers me a steaming black cup of life and manners.

“Kissing the boss’s ass?” I watch her over the rim of my mug as I take a nice long swallow of the hot, sweet brew. It tastes like a cup of sugar with a little coffee thrown in. Just the way I like it. Wow, I’ve missed this place.

She huffs. “I don’t like the taste of ass.”

I laugh. I’ve missed bantering with MaryLou James for the past fourteen days. “That’s why we’re friends.”

“So…how was it?”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘it’?” I ask, stalling for time. Kael and I returned two days ago from our two-week honeymoon on the exclusive Calivigny Island, just off the coast of Grenada. It was paradise. I should have enjoyed our private, luxurious, fully staffed home, fine sandy beach, and unmatched sunsets more than I did.

My chest clenches hard.
It’s the exact honeymoon I imagined taking with Killian.

“Well, I’m not talking about the view from your private balcony.”

“Why not? It was spectacular.” I take another sip and wait for her to take the bait.

“Was your husband’s tight naked ass framed in it?” she asks, her arched brows wagging.

“Maybe,” I tease.

“Do you have a picture?” Her voice pitches an octave higher. I laugh harder.

“Possibly.” I do.

“Oh fuck.” MaryLou fans herself with both hands and my entire body shakes. She’s had some unholy fascination with Kael’s behind since the ninth grade when she swears we were mooned by three seniors driving the loop on a Friday night. I keep telling her it wasn’t Kael. It was David Brandt. Kael was the one driving, but no matter what I say, she won’t listen.

“I think I just had a mini orgasm. For real.”

“Oh. My. God,” I squeal. I wad up a paper napkin and throw it at her. “That’s my
husband
you’re ogling over.”

“Hey, I can’t help that you married a ridiculously good-looking man. And that’s the most protective I’ve ever heard you get about Kael. Guess the sex was more than good, huh?”

“Hasius Crepes, bitch.” I may use fuck like punctuation, but if I so much as utter JC’s name in vain, I kid you not, the taste of Lava soap magically appears in my mouth. A bad side effect from my childhood.

“I hate it when you say that. You’re a grown-ass woman now.”

“Well…I hate your face.”

She grins widely, showing off her slightly crooked two front teeth. “That’s lame, Mavs. You can do better than that.”

I flop onto the wooden stool behind the counter. “I know. I’m tired. I haven’t been up this early in two weeks.”

“Yeah, you’ve been in a sex coma for a straight fourteen days.”

That’s not
exactly
true, but I don’t correct her. I feel guilty enough as it is. Believe it or not, while Kael and I had done plenty of fooling around, we hadn’t slept together before we were married. It’s not that I’m old-fashioned or was saving myself because I certainly wasn’t a virgin. It’s just that a large part of me wasn’t willing to cross that line with him, hurt him even more if I didn’t walk down that aisle. And it was just so…
weird
to have sex with my very best friend, a boy who used to sneak toads through my open bedroom window at night to scare the shit out of me. But thankfully, Kael was understanding, the way he always is. He assured me that we’d have a lifetime to get to know each other “that way.”

Besides, we threw the wedding together on a wing and a prayer, married only six weeks after we got engaged. I didn’t want anything fancy and I certainly didn’t want a long, drawn-out engagement. Although if I had, maybe I’d have come to my senses before it was too late.

“Is that all you think about? Sex?” I ask.

“Says the woman who’s probably been banged day and night since she left. I know if it were me I wouldn’t let that hot piece of ass out of bed even to eat. Well…except if he wanted to eat—”

“Okie dokie, then.” I stop her before she digs herself any further into a hole. Then I shift subjects, not wanting to dive into my lame honeymoon, sexwise anyway. “What happened to Fifty Shades night?” I ask, genuinely wondering if she actually went through with letting her husband, Larry the plumber, flog her with the cat-o’-nines she bought from an online sex toy store.

And by the blush I see, even in the dim lighting, I’d say she not only went through with it, she
enjoyed
it. “You slut.”

“Hey, don’t knock it ’til you try it.” She laughs, throwing the napkin back at me, which I successfully dodge.

“What else did you do?”

MaryLou’s shoulders rise and fall quickly. Too quickly.

“Come on,” I whine. “Don’t leave me to my imagination.” When she bites her lip and looks away, I can’t resist. “Nipple clamps? Some anal beads, maybe?” Her eyes snap back when I mention the anal beads. “Anal beads?” I practically scream in disbelief.

MaryLou James is about as tight-laced as they come, and up until I plied her with enough alcohol so she’d watch
Fifty Shades of Grey
with me last month, she’d never been exposed to anything other than vanilla.

“You go from missionary sex and sweet nothings to floggers and anal beads in the span of two weeks? What the fuck, MaryLou? Next, you’re going to tell me you ordered a sex swing.” Her eyes shift. It was slight, but I saw it. “Oh, hell. Just stop. I don’t want to know any more.”

I may have forgotten to mention that Larry the plumber is also my cousin and is like a brother to me. In retrospect, I should have never gone down this line of questioning.

I push myself up and head through the swinging doors into the kitchen. In short order, I have all the supplies I need to start the chocolate croissants, one of our best sellers. MaryLou has already made two batches of brioches and I smell the baguettes baking that we’ll use for lunchtime paninis.

“Napoleons and apple tarts are done. The apricots didn’t come in, so I tried that organic farm in Greenwood and they sold me twelve flats of gooseberries at a steal.”