Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) (51 page)

“Are you going to let me love you?” he asked when he ended the kiss.

Her face drew serious. He could tell she was mulling his question, trying to make sense of it, decipher the hidden meaning.

“How can I let you love me when you already do, whether I want it or not?”

“Don’t answer my question with a question.” He grinned. “You know what I mean.” He pulled her close to him, let her find rest against his body while he slid his hand up and down her back. “I don’t need you to fix anything for me.”

“I know… and that’s why, in my mind, I nicknamed you my vacation.” She slowly lifted her head from his chest and looked him earnestly in the eye.

They were quiet for some time before he took her by the hand and led her down the hall to her bedroom. As he opened the door, he looked over his shoulder.

“Well, as of right now, consider yourself on holiday…”

A Blast From the Past

O
nce upon a
time, there was a handsome, smart man and a glamorous, silly woman who fell in love…

The newness of it all was at times too much to bear. Katie placed her bright red Fendi bag onto the gray granite kitchen counter, grabbed a glass, and made haste to fill it to the brim with Didier Dagueneau Silex white wine. Her ex-husband’s alimony had aided her in starting her own exclusive scarf and gloves fashion line, which was finally taking off, and her daughter, Michelle, had been instrumental with advice along the way. Sitting on the white leather barstool, she spun slowly to and fro, studying her reflection in the stainless steel of the double ovens she seldom used. She’d become lonely living in the vast Manhattan penthouse, so much that she relished when Joel and Michelle took time out of their busy schedules to visit.

They split stopovers between her and their father, who’d moved to a jump off town on the outskirts of New York. She’d never been to Maxim, but occasionally heard stories about the place. Initially, she was overjoyed that Sloan had taken his hateful ass elsewhere. The children couldn’t have possibly known how much of an asshole he’d been towards the end of their marriage; he’d hid it so well. The man had been incorrigible. All he focused on was that her material needs were met, but what about love? Sloan was at times romantic, but everything seemed forced. The love had died long before she’d begun having affairs, many of which—she’d refused to admit to him—had happened long before she’d asked for a divorce.

Her nerves shot, she took a sip of her wine, begging herself to slow down with the drinking. Michelle had let her know of the glorious weekend she’d had with dear ol’ Dad, and how her visit had included her meeting a woman he was seeing. Katie had heard no alarms ring, no bells or whistles, until her daughter mentioned an engagement ring and an answer of ‘yes’ to an important question.

Katie would have never believed in a million years that Sloan would remarry. She figured Hell had a better chance of freezing over first. Indeed, he’d professed such sentiments at their final court appearance. “You know what? After dealing with you all of these years, I hope to
never
care about anyone else again!” he’d told her.

It didn’t help that he’d called her everything under the sun during a couple of drunken calls he’d made to her right before he moved away. Sloan had never crossed that line, but the liquor had him talking, and his true feelings rolled out… things she’d never heard him express before. Passionate emotions, hatred, love…

If you’d loved me as much I’d loved you, you would have seen what you wanted from me and got what you needed, all the time…

I fucking hate your face, Katie…

It sickens me that when I kissed you goodnight, you’d just finished sucking that little backstabber’s dick! I hope you choke and die!

He’d found out about her and Travis, had even followed them one evening. He confessed he’d waited outside the hotel, contemplating on driving away and returning with his gun. Those words had sent chills up and down her spine. Sloan was many things, but to threaten her with violence and physical harm wasn’t something she’d come to expect from him. He’d been highly intoxicated when he’d told her this, though, so she’d never found out if he’d really meant any of it. Something deep inside, though, told her that he in fact had…

The man was brutally sarcastic, crude, and could be downright cruel. And he did it all so smoothly, it would make your head spin. The look in his eyes was the clincher though; how cold he could become. Yet, she couldn’t blame only Sloan for the demise of their marriage. She’d never spoken up and expected him to read her mind, to figure out what was wrong.

So what had gone wrong?

How could she know the answer with precision? All she knew was, one fine day, things went awry, and she did little to save her marriage. Perhaps Sloan was right; maybe she hadn’t loved him as much as he’d loved her. In fact, in recent days, she’d come to realize the truth of this. She blamed her upbringing, to some extent, for mistaking kindness for weakness. Her mother had done it, and her sisters, too.

Sloan was a giant teddy bear, but under that exterior lay a man who was tough, harsh and calculating. She’d signed up for something she hadn’t agreed upon; hence, the arguments began. It seemed at times he’d tried to please her, but he’d become disenchanted.

She took another sip of her wine, falling deeper into deliberation.

I played too many games with that man…

She hated admitting it, but the truth was the truth. Her actions had been a cure for boredom, a way to spice up their marriage, throw fire on a burning predicament. At times she’d wished to see how angry she could make him; other times, she wanted him to prove his love—see if he’d come running. She knew he’d loved her, despite the way he’d withdraw and grow cold when they’d fall into spells of disagreement. Sloan was hard to hate, and even harder to forgive and forget.

Nevertheless, during their marriage her anger towards him would be often short-lived, and it didn’t help that he knew how to make her body sigh, time and time again. He was the best lover she’d ever had, bar none—and it wasn’t just because he was a beast in bed. But when Sloan loved someone, he loved them
completely
. She took pride in knowing she’d brought the callous giant down to his knees, begging to salvage their marriage. It was a power trip she relished, one she couldn’t shake and turn loose after all the neglect she’d endured.

After a while, he grew tired of the manipulation and stated so. Sloan began to pull away altogether, leaving her with nothing. He stopped making love to her, stopped talking to her. She’d been written off, so what motivation did she have to stay? Sloan seemed to think it was all about the money, that she never believed in him and was hell-bent on shooting down his dreams. No matter what she said, she could never seem to convince him otherwise. It wasn’t true, however; at least in part. Sure, she desired security, but what she’d wanted from Sloan was something he could no longer give her: respect and admiration. At that turning point, he’d only been playing the role of husband; none of it was authentic anymore. None of it was real. She’d seen his potential, a gift no longer wasted on her. But, it was too late to fix things, and she never even bothered. That hurt her to her core.

If I had the maturity that I have now, he and I would still be together…

She regretted not going marital counseling when he’d asked for it. By the time she’d brought it up, he was already mentally detached from her. It was a wrap.

She regretted not holding onto a love like no other.

She regretted not seeing the role she’d played in pushing him away, making him hate her to the point of no return. Sloan had a way of seeing her as a project, someone he could fix… someone he could make love him the way he loved her. He’d even admitted this during one of his drunken calls—these being the only times he laid his soul bare with her. That particular call had also been the only time she’d heard him cry—deep, choppy, loud sobbing from the pit of his gut. That sound made her squirm in her bed while she slept alongside Travis, wrapped in white silk sheets and cold death from a love long gone.

Sloan’s ghost would not leave her be, and she’d hated him for months after their divorce because of it. Daily, she’d be reminded of him in so many little ways. She’d catch a whiff of someone’s cigarette, and recognize it as his brand. She’d smell hot leather in a car that had been sitting in the sun too long, and recall how much he smelled that way when wearing his favorite jacket. She’d see a tall, broad shouldered man with a dark beard, and from a distance in a sea of people during rush hour, she’d secretly hope it was him. But it never was… She’d remember their many trips to various vineyards, the way he’d held his grandson for the first time, their wedding anniversaries—always such a big deal to him—and the care he’d shown Joel when he lost his job due to the company closing down…

Those were the good times, the beautiful sides of the man that she couldn’t shake loose.

So yes, Sloan haunted her, even when it came to physical gratification. Occasionally, when she’d slide her vibrator within her zone, she’d attempt to move it just the way his thick, long cock would dance inside of her…and she’d pretend his hot breath caressed the skin right by her ear, just as she remembered… and she’d imagine him saying the nasty, sweet things he’d utter right before cumming deep inside of her…

Katie finished her drink and set the empty glass down. She held onto the stem, accepting that it was gone. There would be no refills, no ghostly visits, no reunions. Even in her sorrow, she was happy for Sloan; and contrary to his beliefs, she did love him. He was the father of her children, the first man who’d taken her under his wing and made her believe in ‘happy ever afters.’ He was a good father, a well of wonderful, sage advice and endless wisdom. The darkness inside of him was not rampant, but it was there; and yet, that didn’t deter her. She’d probably added to that darkness, adding fuel to the fire of his own inability to come to terms with his past.

Neither of us was perfect, Sloan, but… you were better than most.

She smiled sadly down at her empty glass, then rose from her seat and headed off to her bedroom.

Yeah… you were better than most, babe… and I wish you the happiness you deserve…

It looked much
larger in print.

Something about the stack of freshly printed off-white pages got his blood flowing, titillated him in just the right way. This was the bittersweet proof of a manuscript worked to the bone, read a thousand times and toiled over until the wee hours of the morning. The final leg of the race, after having spent months neck deep in concentration, so much so, his social life suffered miserably. Though he was grateful Emerald kept busy, too, with her own responsibilities. This helped him not feel so guilty for neglecting her.

After he’d printed off the final page and sent an email to his agent, an all too familiar coolness drifted about the office.

The aroma of cigars he didn’t smoke filled the room, then disappeared as quickly as he’d picked up the scent. He hoped Peter was pleased; in time, he was certain he would be. Regardless, this was his duty, an attempt to right a wrong. The book was exactly 358 sheets long, double-spaced in Times New Roman size 12 font and the paper was still warm to the touch.

He stood from his seat after sitting for so long, and his bones cracked as he stretched. His eyes strained and his brain begged for coffee. As he rounded the desk, he took a glance at his computer, taking note of the unopened email he’d received from his ex-wife. He’d been having a good morning and didn’t want one of her notoriously snarky impositions or terse words to jolt him out of it. They’d not spoken in forever, so he couldn’t fathom what she possibly desired to discuss, and mostly didn’t care.

Shuffling off to the percolating coffee pot in the kitchen, he grabbed his favorite bright yellow coffee mug—a silly little thing which read ‘
URINE SAMPLES
’ in italicized white font across it—and filled the thing to the rim. Leaning against his counter, he imagined fixing a couple of slices of toast slathered with strawberry jam and butter, then taking a leisurely walk around town. Meanwhile, he’d work on his goal of hiring a personal assistant per his agent’s urgings, and summon the strength for his late afternoon radio interview with some big shot radio personality from Miami he was too prideful to admit he’d never heard of.