Toxic (41 page)

She lifted her head to kiss me and then said, “I was thinking Truman.”

I looked at her. “Are you serious?”

She nodded and tears welled in her eyes.

The fun faded away as the moment turned intimate.

I captured her mouth with mine.

God, I loved her.

Names had played a strange role in our relationship.

Saint.

St. Claire.

McQueen.

Truman.

And up until that moment, I hadn’t given them much thought. But it struck me then, was a name who you were?

I had grown up Jeremy McQueen.

Would my life have been different if I had grown up Jeremy Truman?

I’d never know.

But as I looked at my wife, the mother of my child, I knew it was time to let that hostility go.

Whether the baby was a he or she, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the love that surrounded him or her.

My mother had raised me in the environment she thought was best. My father had respected her wishes. And when I’d gone to see him, he helped me with a vigor that made me feel like he cared about me. I owed it to my child to allow as much love into his or her life as humanly possible.

I sat beside Phoebe, not certain how she’d react to what I was about to say. “I think we should invite my parents to visit.”

My father had been released on early parole and was staying with my mother. I wasn’t sure what their relationship entailed, and up until that point, I hadn’t cared. Our families were tangled, messy, and complicated, but Phoebe and I were grown-ups and what had happened when we were young wasn’t our burden to bear.

She took my hand and rubbed it over her belly. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”

I looked at her with adoring eyes.

I always had.

And I always would.

I shifted my body so that I was hovering over her as I pulled her clothes off. When she was naked, I stared at her. “Beautiful,” I said.

She liked when I called her that. She said it made her feel sexy.

She was sexy.

My hand went behind her head to cradle it, and I pulled her toward me. Her fingers sifted through my hair. Then I finally let my mouth cover hers, nibbling at her lip before I plunged my tongue inside.

Her moan vibrated against my lips as she kissed me back.

I knew the weight of her body as it crushed over mine.

The feel of her skin.

The way she tasted.

How much she liked me to lick her orgasm.

What she sounded like when she came.

I knew what she feared.

What she loved.

I knew what her favorite color was.

I knew what she liked and what she didn’t.

And she knew all the same things about me.

Phoebe once referred to our relationship as toxic, and at one point I did the same. But without the feeling that the toxicity of our relationship was draining the life and energy from it, we never would have been compelled to expel the poison that was driving us apart.

Jealousy.

Mistrust.

Fear.

Uncertainty.

They live in everyone.

But Phoebe and I worked together and drove those toxic elements from our relationship.

Love and lust, in equal, healthy doses—now that’s all that remains.

My infinite thanks go to:

Amy Tannenbaum of the Jane Rotrosen Agency, who pushes me with each book and always has my best interests at heart. Thank you for being more than willing to talk to me anytime, about anything. Amy, you are such an amazing person and I couldn’t be more grateful to have you as my literary agent.

Kerry Donovan of Penguin for always finding ways to make what I write so much better. I couldn’t respect your outlook on romance any more than I do.

Penguin and the team at New American Library, for so eagerly and enthusiastically taking on each book as if it is my first and for your willingness to work with me on even the smallest of details. I really appreciate all of you.

Katy Evans, Mary Tatar, Kim Anderson Bias, and Jody O Fraleigh. Thank you for all your help, input, and for your friendships—all of which I truly value.

Hang Le, your ability to help me bring my words to life through teaser images astonishes me every time.

In addition, I would also like to thank everyone who read this book and provided me with their feedback.

All of the bloggers who have become my friends—you’re all so amazing and I cannot possibly put into words the amount of gratitude I have for each and every one of you!

And finally, my love and gratitude to my family—to my husband of twenty years who became Mr. Mom while continuing to go to work every day; to my children who not only took on roles that I for many years had always done—laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning—but always asked how the book was coming and actually beamed to their friends when telling them their mom wrote a book.

And finally—a giant thank-you to all of you.

And don’t miss
The 27 Club
, an unforgettable new stand-alone romance from Kim Karr! Available now. Continue reading for a preview.

The 27 Club

Janis Joplin. Kurt Cobain. Amy Winehouse. Zachary Flowers. I always knew my brilliant brother would one day be listed among the great artistic minds of our time. I just didn’t know he would join the list of exceptional talents who left us too young, too soon.

I was always the calm one, the perfect foil to his freewheeling wild spirit. But since his death shortly after his twenty-seventh birthday, I’d found myself adrift and directionless.

I knew it was time to face my destiny, and I was ready to yield. But then I met Nate, Zachary’s best friend. Only he could help me put the pieces together, fill in the blanks that Zachary left behind. I needed him to answer my questions—and I wanted him for more. He awakened in me a sensuality that had never been explored, never satisfied. Nate’s presence controlled me, his touch seared me, and it was up to me to convince him that he was brought into my life for a reason. . . .

Out of My Head

October 2006

In the darkness, it looks more like Pandora’s Box than a place where an artist once lived. Nestled between two houses, each the size of an arena and both lit up like football fields, this much smaller home sits dark and alone—no movement from within, no cars in the driveway, no one living inside.

The picture that appears through the rain doesn’t seem to reflect any part of him. But something of my brother has to be here. Even just a small piece left behind for me to catch a glimpse of.

A rush of melancholy hits fast.

My throat tightens.

I can’t breathe.

Sweat forms on my brow, even though the car is cool.

This isn’t one of my asthma attacks—this is grief rearing its ugly head. The grief I tried to deal with at home in all those therapy sessions. The grief I know I have to accept. But just like accepting my destiny—I’m having a hard time doing this.

Destiny—that hidden power that controls fate. Even though it’s a path I don’t want to be on, I’m not certain I can stray from it.

It owns me—I don’t own it.

My fate might very well be inevitable, just as my brother’s was.

I’ve almost come to accept that.

Almost.

Taking a deep, calming breath, I close my eyes, demanding my fear stay at bay.

I’m stronger than this.

Yet in the darkness, I don’t feel stronger.

My mind swirls with sadness and I quickly snap my eyes open, hoping to eradicate this feeling of dread. My eyes flutter for a moment before I’m finally able to lean forward and take a closer look.

With the illumination of the car’s headlights, I stare through the windshield at the house I’ve stayed away from for far too long.

And in this moment, everything about the property comes to life. It’s a work of art—as if my brother painted the picture for me to help ease my fears, like he did when we were kids.

It’s there, the small part of him left behind for me to see. Not his body turned to ash, not the marker at the cemetery bearing his name, but a piece of who he was during the life he led here.

The green bricks of the driveway show his funky edge; the triangle-shaped sailcloth carport demonstrates his love for the abstract; and the house’s tropical-modern design with its Spanish-style roof is in itself a work of art worthy of being hung on a gallery wall.

Yes, I can see it now.

I can see him living here.

Happy with the life he led before he died.

Just what I was hoping for.

As I sink back down, the worn leather seat seems to swallow me whole as sorrow mixes with relief and rivets through every vein in my body.

Not what I imagined, but the longer I look, the more I can see him living here.

It’s perfect.

It’s him.

Suddenly, I’m stuck between the dreamlike state I’ve been in, refusing to accept the truth, and the reality of my situation. The finality renders me immobile—I’m here but he’s not, and all I can do is sit motionless.

“You did say 302 South Coconut Lane?” the driver asks over his shoulder.

My eyes meet his in the mirror. “Yes, this is the right place. Just give me a moment, please.”

With trembling fingers, I reach for the handle and attempt to gather the courage to at least open the door. I just don’t know if I can do this. I’d have thought the passing of time would have made it easier, but maybe it hasn’t been long enough.

The driver clears his throat, sensing my apprehension. “Do you want me to take you somewhere else?”

I hand him my credit card. “No, this is what I came to Miami for.”

With a signature on the driver’s iPhone, I’m ready. I pull the strap of my overnight bag onto my shoulder and step out. Water sloshes everywhere, but I stop for a minute and look up to the heavens.

Moments pass.

Seconds.

Minutes.

I have no idea.

Once I’ve gathered my courage and strength, I shift my gaze back down and notice the balcony. It’s too dark for me to tell, but I can’t imagine it wasn’t built for framing some kind of beautiful picture, something worth looking at.

Water fills my eyes and my tears mix with the rain, as the idea of Zach sketching from there comes to mind.

The driver hands me my suitcase and shuts my door before hopping back in the car.

At that moment, the sky seems to open up, and before I can button my coat, I’m soaked.

Hurrying forward, I stop at the white metal gate. With a slight push, I’m walking into a tropical paradise. Trees line the walkway and a natural stone wall protects the area. The pathway leads to a few stairs with a glass door at the top of them.

Walking slowly, very slowly now that I’ve shielded myself from the rain, I’m at the bottom of the stairs way too soon.

I’m not ready for this.

Feeling like a lost girl, one who is waiting for her brother to take her hand and guide her to the playground to swing, I can’t help but wish that he were here beside me.

With a breath in and out, the smell of salt in the air assaults my senses. The ocean must be very close. I wonder if the sand that surrounds it is anything like the sand at the beach Mimi took Zach and me to every summer.

God, how we loved going there.

We’d walk on the pier, swim in the lake, ride the carousel, and eat Abbott’s famous custard. There was a beach closer to where we lived in Canandaigua, New York, but it didn’t have an Abbott’s. Zach loved the black raspberry ice cream so much that he’d get two.

“I need to stock up until next year,” he’d say.

It was so rare that anything made him happy, and I bet Mimi would have bought him a hundred ice-cream cones if only his happiness would have lasted.

Tires squealing onto the main road jar me from my memories.

On shaky legs, I take the stairs slowly. I reach for the keys Zach accidentally left at home when he visited at Christmas. He left his whole keychain. I would have mailed it, but I didn’t find it for months and by then he had had new keys made.

I remember the day Zach told me he had bought a house. I was so glad he was doing well, that he was happy.

Finally,
I had thought.

It takes me a few more seconds to gather the courage to unlock the door. The first key I insert doesn’t work; neither does the second, nor the third.

A gust of warm wind whips around my black raincoat and blows up the nylon like a tent—a sign of the impending tropical storm that the driver mentioned before I tuned everything else out.

Nervousness and impatience blend as I wonder who I’ll call if I can’t get in. Zach’s friend Nate would be a good start. Over the years, we’ve talked on the phone if he was around when I’d call my brother. He also called me right after Zach’s death. He told me he would take care of everything until I could make it down here. And we’ve e-mailed quite a few times over the past seven weeks. In fact, I e-mailed him just before I boarded the plane this afternoon, telling him I was coming. But last I checked he hadn’t responded yet.

I’m surprised.

He’s always responded immediately to my previous messages. It may seem odd, but I feel like I know him well, even though we’ve never met.

The rain comes down harder and I look around for where my brother might have hidden a spare.

The terra cotta planter off to the right seems like the perfect location, but when I try to lift it, I can’t. The palm tree inside is much heavier than I thought.

With nowhere else popping out as a place to hide an extra, I wonder if I should call and ask the driver to return. But before I do, I try the keys again—this time turning a few of them the other way.

To my shock and surprise one finally works. My stomach flips as the door easily swings open and I’m launched into darkness and the loud sound of beeping.

Shit, the alarm.
I hadn’t thought of that.

Should I try the same code Zach used on all his accounts?

That should work.

With the flip of a switch, a long narrow hallway presents itself. I find the alarm pad behind the door and press 0515, my birthday.

It doesn’t work.

I press 0815, his birthday.

It doesn’t work either.

What else?

The name of the gallery he worked for maybe? Nate’s father’s gallery.

What was it? Yes, Wanderlust.

I type the numbers corresponding to the letters and holy shit, the beeping ceases. I can’t believe it. After all this drama, my nerves are finally starting to settle.

Once my bags are tucked inside the door, I glance down the hall.

Hardwood floors seem to run for miles until they end at the underside of an open-air staircase. With small steps I walk until I’ve reached the end and I’m standing at the perimeter of a large living room. My attention goes immediately to the windows and doors—they are everywhere. The entire back of the house is sliding doors with windows above them.

The night and the rain don’t allow me to see anything beyond five feet, but I can make out palm trees, lots and lots of them. They sway back and forth through all the glass.

A beautiful picture.

Looking up, the high ceilings and large glass windows make the palms feel like they are part of the room. The two sparkling crystal chandeliers catch my eye—they are beautiful, but so unlike my brother. He always went for the shabby chic look. Modernism was never his thing.

Another hallway across the way mimics the one I’m standing in, and a fireplace sits in the corner. A large black leather couch, glass coffee table, and giant TV complete the room. I’m actually surprised by the sparse décor. It doesn’t seem to be Zach’s style at all, but maybe it came furnished.

I circle around the stairs to the landing and come face-to-face with a black plaster, life-size statue of a woman. It’s definitely something Zach would have been drawn to—mysterious, sad.

It seems out of place in this space.

Surveying the rest of the room, I see a square kitchen in the center of the living area that separates the two hallways. The high-gloss black countertops match the stairs. Walking around them, I notice the kitchen looks perfect—like it’s never been used. I quickly walk in and open the refrigerator—water, beer, wine, and nothing else. I guess Nate cleaned it out.

Following the hallway of windows that ends with a closed door, I turn the knob and squeeze my eyes shut, not opening them for what seems like hours. When I do, I’m standing in the entrance of what must have been his office. Computers, printers, and papers cover a large desk. Odd—I would have expected an easel and art supplies. And the walls should be covered with his sketches, not watercolors in ornate frames.

His studio must be elsewhere in the house.

I shut the door knowing I’ll be spending time in there later going through all his papers.

Another door opens into the garage. I glance around—a few fishing poles, a basketball, football, and Frisbee, nothing else. The thought of Zach fishing or playing ball makes me smile, because aside from our yearly beach trip, he very rarely spent time outdoors—it just wasn’t his thing.

Across from the garage is another door. When I open it, the switch on the wall does nothing. The brightness of the hall casts a sliver of light, and all I can see is an empty room with a bed in the middle of it.

With a turn of my flip-flops, I head back to the living area and the stairs. The entire space lacks anything personal, except the statue. Something about the statue speaks to me, but why I have no idea. It doesn’t feel like it belongs, but it does—like the way Zach always felt.

With each step, I increasingly start to wonder if I should have just hired someone to do this and had the boxes shipped home.

This is so much harder than I imagined.

The stairs are sleek, so I take them slowly. When I reach the top, I pause and look around. It’s an empty loft with two doors; one must go to the balcony, the other is open and leads to a huge bedroom. It too is white, no color at all.

So strange.

In the middle of the room is a large mattress with a wooden bedframe and metal bars inset in the headboard. The sheets are rumpled—the only evidence in the entire house that someone lives here—no,
lived
here.

With my hands clenched to my heart, I draw in a breath and attempt to push away my tears. I’ve cried for far too many weeks already. I’m trying to be strong. That is what he would have wanted.

I find myself once more searching for a piece of my brother, but again there’s nothing. But then a small crystal dish on the dresser draws my attention.

Once I see what it holds, I can’t stop the flow of tears from my eyes as I approach it. With wavy vision I pinch the small diamond that Zach wore so proudly in his ear.

Memories flood me once again.

“Please, Mimi, please. I really want one,” Zach begged over and over.

“No, Zachary. There’s nothing but trouble that can come out of that,” Mimi would say.

It felt like the conversation took place every day for almost a year. But Zach didn’t let up. He begged our grandmother to let him get an earring. She always refused. Over and over and over he asked and she said no. Then on his fifteenth birthday he came home from being out with Mimi sporting this very diamond. My grandmother finally gave in, probably feeling it was better than the fights, the drugs, and his all-encompassing need to rebel against everything.

The other metal in the bowl belonged to him as well—all his forms of self-expression. His lip ring, ear gauges, the circles with a ball hanging from them, most of which he acquired after he turned eighteen and no longer needed Mimi’s permission.

These things in my hand were all a part of my brother.

He was a rebel.

Funny thing is that I always thought he was a rebel without a cause. I used to laugh about that, but today it makes me sad.

I remove my wet coat and shoes, circling around the rest of the room looking for pieces of him.

Nothing.