Chapter Thirty-seven – Worst Way #2
Maisey hugged my father, tucked her arm in his, and dragged him into the hotel as I followed. She murmured something to him, quiet words to calm him down, as we made our way to the tiny speakeasy in the attic of the hotel.
To get there, you had to enter what had once been an old walk-in safe, through a half-open shelf that concealed the tunnels that crisscrossed behind the walls of the castle, and up a dozen stairs to the room tucked up in one of the spiked towers.
The jazz music filling the room was a perfect complement to the speakeasy. Just as the bar’s dark and moody lighting and the handful of booths made of blue velvet tossed you back in time to the 1930s.
Normally, you had to reserve a spot here weeks in advance, but Andie or Fallon could usually swing something for us when we needed it.
And both those ladies would do anything for my dad, so after he’d chosen the location for the meet with Liza, because she loved Gatsby and gangster movies, they’d made sure we had a booth.
We’d barely ordered drinks when my dad let out a breath and said, “I don’t know what I was thinking.
Why did I invite her here? It’s been almost fifteen years.
If she wanted to forgive me, she would have reached out by now, don’t you think?
I don’t blame her. I said unforgivable things.
I’m not sure why she even accepted my offer to come. Maybe she just needed a vacation—”
“Dad,” I said, reaching across to grab his hands and cutting him off mid-ramble. “All you have to do is tell her what you told me this summer.”
His brows furrowed together, thinking back.
“Tell her the truth. That you made a mistake. That you’ve regretted your words to her ever since.
That all you really wanted was for her to come back.
Tell her she was part of our unit and that when you felt the knots fraying, you didn’t do what needed to be done to tighten them, and you let her slip away because you hadn’t done the job you needed to do to heal yourself. ”
Dad scoffed. “Even if I could say all that, why would she believe me?”
Maisey squeezed my thigh under the table and held my gaze. Behind my dad stood a woman, younger than him but not by all that much. Her dark hair had broad stripes of gray that matched her eyes. Nervous eyes above a kind smile.
My heart thudded. Dad hadn’t seen her. And I knew once he did, his tongue would be stuck to the roof of his mouth. So instead of warning him, I prodded him.
“Have you ever once stopped thinking about her since she left?
“Not once.”
“You told me I deserved a love so consuming that all I could think about each day was getting back to that person. Is that how you felt—feel—about Liza.”
He nodded.
“Do you believe passion and love are gifts and not burdens?”
“Beck, what’s your point?”
“Just answer me.”
“I do. Love is a beautiful, precious gift. But I wasted it with Liza. I pushed her away because of what happened before she entered my life. If I could change any one thing in my past, it wouldn’t be meeting your mother, because she gave me you, but I would change what I said to Liza that day.
Instead of pushing her away, I’d tell her she would always have a home here, no matter how long she was gone or how far she needed to travel.
When her feet were tired and her back weary, when she’d done all the things she needed to accomplish, she could come home, and we’d be waiting with open arms.”
The woman behind him brushed at her eyes and then straightened her back. “Well, I’ve got some pretty tired feet and could sure use a pair of open arms.”
Dad jumped out of the booth as if a rattlesnake had bitten him.
His expression was stunned as he took in Liza’s smile that had softened around the edges with age but hadn’t really changed at all.
“Liza…” his voice died.
“Well, Cowboy, you going to open those arms or not?”
He didn’t hesitate. He just opened wide, and she stepped right into them.
My throat nearly closed up at the beauty of it. When I looked down at Maisey, she was brushing at tears. I leaned in and kissed her cheek, whispering, “You know how I feel about your crying, my Maisey-girl. You’re gutting me.”
“I’ll make it up to you.”
“You have a lot of making up to do.”
She huffed out a laugh.
Dad finally let go of Liza, and when he did, she turned and opened her arms to me.
I stood and hugged her. And damn if tears didn’t fill my eyes.
She squeezed me tight and let me go. Then she patted my face.
“You’ve grown up just as I thought you would, Beckett.
Strong and handsome, and right next to your Maisey-girl. ”
Maisey slid out of the booth. “Hey, Liza.”
The women hugged, and my dad and I exchanged a glance over their heads. It had taken us a long time to finally get to this point—to accepting and holding love in our lives. But we had it, and I knew neither of us was ever going to let it go.
We’d fight to keep it. Fight with every breath to stop those knots from ever unraveling again.
? ? ?
That night, after I’d gotten payback for the sinful sweater and the lace bra, for the taunts and teases and tears, by making my Maisey-girl beg multiple times, I lay with her sweet body on top of mine and thought what a lucky bastard I was.
Lucky she hadn’t found some other dickhead to marry before I’d pulled my head out.
Lucky she understood the wounds that had made me so she could call me out on my shit when the smoke occasionally tried to return and choke me.
Lucky to have had an angel reach out to grab my hand.
She moved, and I growled. “I’m not sure I’m done with you yet.”
She laughed. “Fine, you open the drawer.”
“What?” I frowned.
“Open the drawer, Beckett,” she said, nodding to the bedside table.
“Is that where you’re keeping the new book? I’m not sure anything in it will be better than what we just did.” But I still opened it because I would always do what she asked for the rest of our lives.
I pulled out a black bag. It was pretty hefty, holding something solid.
I raised a brow again. “You know how I feel about toys, darlin’. We don’t need them. We got each other, and we work just fine on our own.”
When she laughed this time, it was with something close to pure joy. “It’s not a sex toy. Well…not really. Open it.”
I shifted a little, trying to keep her right where she was on top of me, while I tugged at the drawstring. I was even more confused when I pulled out a trophy. Like the kind you get in middle school—a participation trophy.
It took me a minute to realize it was an R-rated trophy.
Well, maybe not R-rated, but definitely PG-13.
The figure at the top was two people twined in a very heated kiss.
They were clothed, but he had one hand on the back of her head and the other on her ass, holding her up against a wall.
She had one hand in his hair, and the other was hidden, tucked up between them, but was likely on his junk.
“Maise—” I was confused and slightly turned on by a damn bronze trophy.
“Read the plaque, Fireball.”
I squinted, and it took me a minute for it all to set in. And then a laugh rumbled out of me from deep within my core. The inscription said, To Chief Romero, for his exceptional expertise in the bedroom. He is hereby awarded this trophy as King of Inciting Orgasms.
“Took me longer than I thought it would to find the right reward. It’s not quite a medal, but…” Maisey shrugged. Her face was lit with a joyfulness that bordered on mischievous.
I tossed the trophy on the floor, and she made the same noise she did when Vader did something wrong, but I didn’t care. I put a hand to the back of her head and pushed her face to mine so I could nip at her lower lip. “’Bout time you recognized my expertise.”
She laughed again as I trailed kisses over her jaw, her neck, and down over the curve of a breast.
She sighed. “Keep earning it, Chief Romero, and maybe you’ll get another, better reward.”
The sweet tease hit home differently than she’d intended, igniting not my libido but my heart.
The fullness I felt in my heart, in the muscle that beat freely for her, had me leaning in to give her another tender kiss.
“I already have the best reward anyone could ever give me, my Maisey-girl. I have you.”
She flushed, pink coating her skin. I loved how I was able to trace my fingers over it, following the trail all the way down to the places that made her gasp.
“Tell me you love me,” she whispered.
“I love you. I loved you yesterday and today, and I’ll love you even more tomorrow.”
I rolled so she was below me, staring into eyes that had darkened like the forest out back. As I continued to stroke and caress and touch and taunt, I demanded, “Your turn, darlin’. Tell me you love me.”
Her breath turned thready again, but she gave me what I wanted, saying, “From the moment you tumbled into my backyard, I’ve been yours, Beckett. Saying I love you isn’t enough, but they’re the only words we humans have been able to invent to try to convey it. So why don’t I show you instead?”
And that was precisely what we did, showed each other, with not only our bodies but our hammering hearts and shimmering souls, we belonged to one another. That our knot would never fray. That we would be one of the lucky couples who beat the odds by finding our forever after right next door.