Sinful Ever After (Sinful Serenade Book 5) (21 page)

Tom pouts. "No, just... he was the boring one with the girlfriend."

"I doubt he was ever the boring one," I say.

"Yeah." Tom taps his fingers against the table. "We're gonna have to get some more sex toys. Show him up."

Ophelia chuckles. It's funny. She has the same deep chuckle Pete does.

The brothers are such opposites in most ways, but both of them take after their adopted mother.

"I'm not complaining," I say. "But I don't think you'll ever come out as more depraved than Pete."

"Yeah, I guess." Tom shakes his head. "You think he's ever going to marry her?"

"They've only been engaged a month," I say.

"And?" Tom raises a brow.

"Pretty sure she's the one making him wait," I say.

Tom cocks a brow. "You're holding onto gossip?"

"A few things," I admit.

Tom looks to Ophelia. "Can you believe my wife? She's supposed to tell me everything."

"This is why I never got married." Ophelia pats Tom on the shoulder. "Women need to be mysterious. Let her have a few secrets."

Tom raises a brow. He pushes himself up. "I'm going to use the restroom. Try not to gossip too much while I'm gone." He leans down and plants a kiss on my lips.

It's only a peck, but that's enough to overwhelm my body. There's only one way to describe the feeling. I'm loved.

Can I risk a single ounce of Tom's affection? Even to heal a wound that still cuts him?

Ophelia waits until he's out of earshot then turns to me. "Sweetheart, I don't know how you keep up with him."

I smile. "Sometimes, he runs circles around me, but Tom is... Tom is Tom."

"That he is."

The waiter arrives to drop off our coffees and assure us that breakfast will be here shortly.

"He takes great care of me," I say. "Every place we go, he makes sure there are vegetarian options. He gets me a coffee every morning. And sometimes, he wakes up with... well, never mind about that part."

Ophelia chuckles. "I'm glad the two of you are happy together."

We are. Really happy.

But still, I feel like I have to make this connection happen.

I check to make sure the coast is clear, and I lean a little closer. "What made you decide to adopt?"

She frowns. "My parents kicked me out after they caught me screwing one of my friends from church. It was a different time then, though that still happens."

"I'm sorry." I can't believe I've never heard this. "That must have hurt."

"At first. But you can't live your life waiting for people to accept you. You know that, after everything with your mother."

I nod. She's right. Some people are never going to change their minds. It's possible Tom will never change his mind about his mother, that he'll always see her as a druggie who abandoned him.

"Once I was mature enough, and financially stable enough, I knew I wanted to help kids who were in dire straits. I had a few other foster kids before Tom. They eventually reunited with their parents. It was great for them, but it broke my heart. I adopted Tom the second I could."

"Did he really call you ugly when you met?"

She laughs. "Yes, he did."

"What a little shit."

"That's Tom."

I play with the fabric of my jeans. "His mom, she was a drug addict?"

Ophelia nods.

"Why didn't she try to get custody back after she cleaned up?"

"It was part of a plea agreement. She had to choose between jail and giving up custody. She had little chance of getting custody behind bars. It made more sense to give it up. I think she knew that it was best for Tom that she not be his caretaker." Ophelia's expression gets quizzical. "Is there something you need to know about her?"

"Maybe."

"Sweetheart, I love you as much as I love my sons. You
are
my daughter now. But whatever it is, you should talk to your husband about this."

"I know."

"What do you want with his birth mother?"

"Maybe nothing. Maybe... maybe it would be good for him to meet her."

She presses her lips together. "And where do you fit into this?"

"He'll never do it on his own."

She nods. Her eyes fix on me, an expression that demands I explain. "What happened, sweetheart?"

"Liberty contacted me."

Ophelia's brows turn down. Her forehead screws with frustration. "And Tom doesn't know about this?"

"It was from my photography website. She didn't know he was my husband. She only hoped to pass along her contact information to a model, so he could contact her if that was what he wanted to do."

Ophelia leans back into her chair. "Quite the awkward way to find your son."

I nod.

Her voice is low, like she's sharing a secret. "Willow, she didn't give him up because she was seventeen and she knew he'd be better off. He was eleven when the state took him, and he was beaten within an inch of his life. It wasn't her. It was her boyfriend who did it, but I don't think that matters much to Tom. All he knows is that his mother didn't protect him."

"I know."

"He's not curious about what happened. He knows that his birth mother didn't think enough of him to get clean or to leave her abusive boyfriend."

"It's not that easy to leave someone abusive."

"She had a son."

"It fucks with your head. You think he loves you, that he doesn't mean it. You think that there's no one else who can help you, who even cares. Or you don't realize how bad it's gotten." My palms slap the table. I'm nearly shouting, but I have to get this out. "Sometimes, you've already lost all your friends and your family and he's the only person you have."

Ophelia frowns. "Sweetheart, I'm sorry. I didn't—"

"It's okay. I know you didn't mean offense. Nobody ever does." Nobody ever thinks about what it's like when you're in the middle of it. They act like it's easy to leave, like women stay with abusive men because they're stupid or weak.

I take a deep breath. I don't like reliving that part of my life, but running from it doesn't do me any good.

I blink back a tear. Stupid fucking memories.

"Think about what you do. Tom might not forgive you for this. And I'd hate to see anything come between the two of you."

Right on cue, Tom steps into the restaurant. He zeroes in on me like I'm the bat signal and he's Batman.

He practically runs over. "What's wrong, Willow?"

Shit, it must look bad. He only drops the nickname when things are really dire.

"Something insensitive I said. I'm sorry, Willow. I wasn't thinking, but there's no excuse." Ophelia pushes herself up. "I'll take my turn in the restroom."

Tom slides next to me on the bench seat. "What did she say?"

I shake my head. "Something about abusive relationships."

He frowns. "Why the fuck were you talking about that?"

I don't have an explanation that won't give this away. I don't want to lie. "It just came up."

He pulls me into a tight hug. "It's okay. No one is ever going to hurt you again."

With Tom's arms around me, I give myself a few moments to cry. Those memories don't sting as badly as I used to, but they still fucking hurt.

"Never," he whispers.

He's helped me overcome my past. I want to do the same, but not if it means losing him.

I tug at his t-shirt, pulling him closer.

Whatever happens, I can't lose Tom.

Ever.

––––––––

T
om

Willow only eats half her omelet and one slice of toast. She drinks her coffee with timid sips. My wife is nearly as addicted to caffeine as I am.

That shit isn't like her.

There's no sense in prying with Mom. She's never spilled a secret in her life. But there's something real strange about the apologetic look on her face.

Ophelia isn't the kind of woman who apologizes for shit.

What did she say that upset Willow?

Neither of them shows any signs of confessing. Better to wait until Willow and I are alone. If it's serious—and it's fucking serious if she's crying at breakfast—she won't want to talk about it with an audience.

Our conversation is all small talk. Mostly Willow asking Ophelia about the woman she's dating. Ophelia plays nice about it, but it's pretty obvious she's describing a Vegas fling.

After we finish eating, we head to one of the indoor shopping areas. It's meant to look like some other place. There's a fake sky painted on the ceiling, bright blue with puffy white clouds. The shops are designed to look like a little town in Europe. Venice, I guess. The fake canal that intersects the shops gives that away.

Vegas is a weird fucking city. I enjoyed the hell out of it back when I spent my nights drinking, dancing, and taking a stranger or two home. But now it seems as hollow as the fake plastic trees lining the streets.

At least Willow is taken with the faux Venice shops. She looks up at the painted-on sky, her lips curling into a smile.

"It's like living in Los Angeles. The sky is blue every day." She slides her hand around my waist and looks up at me. "You don't like it?"

"It's fine." I shrug. Don't think I can like any place where she's hiding something from me.

Mom stays quiet, and she stays a few steps in front of us. She's up to something, but then it's not like she's gonna tell me. Better to accept that I'm in the dark.

She nods to one of the shops. It's a chain I've seen at other malls. The place sells upscale casual and business casual women's clothing. Mom used to drag us to the mall and make us wait during her shopping expeditions.

Pete and I were such miserable little fucks. I don't know why she took us anywhere.

He was quiet, but I complained every other step. She never bent to it. Not once.

She's not gonna tell me shit, no matter how much I beg.

I pull Willow closer. "You want to go in?"

"Not really my style." She moves closer, looking up at me, those hazel eyes of her filled with uncertainty. "Unless you think I need a shift dress."

"I think you need no dress." I slide my hands to her ass. "No panties. No bra. Could keep going."

"To what?"

"No coat. No socks. No tights."

"Just shoes?"

I smile. "Yeah. Just shoes."

"You want me naked except for my Keds?"

I nod.

"Not heels or something?"

"You wear your Keds. I'll wear my Converse. It will be kinky canvas shoe shit."

"That's a thing?"

"We'll make it a thing."

She smiles back, but it can't hide the frustration in her eyes.

"Fuck. Whatever Mom said, I'm sorry." I run my fingers through her hair until a sigh escapes her lips. Damn, I love the way she sighs with pleasure. I need more of it. Need it louder. Need to feel how much she's mine.

Her voice is low, a whisper. "I'm not thinking about that anymore."

"What are you thinking about?"

She looks down, pressing her lips together.

There's a hand on my shoulder. It's not hers—those are around my waist—so what the fuck is it doing there?

I turn to face whoever it is that's touching me. It's an occupational hazard. Didn't always mind so much, but who the fuck is dense enough to touch a guy when he's embracing his wife?

It's a teenage girl. She's young, but she's old enough to know better.

"I... I... I'm sorry." She steps closer. "I just wanted to say I'm a big fan of Sinful Serenade, and I..." She looks back to her friends—another half-dozen teenage girls—standing in the corner. "Could you take a picture with us?"

Willow steps backward. She motions,
go for it
. She never gets jealous. She growls when fans, female fans at least, touch me without asking, but she doesn't get jealous.

I look at the girl. "Yeah, sure. If you do me a favor."

Her eyes light up. It's not that kind of favor, honey. This girl must be fifteen or sixteen. She knows what a wedding band is.

She knows what a couple looks like.

If she's a fan, she knows I'm married.

I turn back to Willow. She's wearing that same frustrated expression. Her eyes are on her cellphone. Again. A lot of people pull their cell out every time they get a spare second—I certainly look at mine more than I should—but not Willow.

It was the same thing last night.

And this morning.

She's not texting anybody. She's not doing anything but staring at the screen, frustration filling her eyes.

Someone tugs at my hoodie. Sure enough, it's the girl. Usually, I like talking to fans. I wouldn't have any of the stuff I have if it weren't for people who like our music. Or people who like Tom Steele, famous drummer.

I exploit my celebrity. So fucking what? You gotta do something if you want to stay in people's minds. And I'm happy to be the fun, hot bad boy who's good for a night but certainly not good for bringing home to Mom.

Everyone has an image, whether they're aware of it or not. Everybody projects something to the world. At least I'm in charge of mine.

But why the fuck does everybody think they can touch me without asking?

Don't have the patience for this shit right now. Don't have the patience to ask her for a favor—to stop touching people without asking first.

But I know my role. I gotta do this shit if I want the band to keep going, and we can't afford to drop anything else with Miles and Drew wanting us to slow down our tour schedule.

My shoulders relax. Slowing down sounds nice. I won't admit that to them, but it sounds like fucking heaven. More time with Willow, just the two of us—what the fuck else could I want?

I grit my teeth and oblige. After I'm done posing with the teenagers, I nod goodbye and send them on their way.

Willow is leaning against the railing, her hands folded over her chest, her eyes on the fake sky.

She brings her gaze to meet mine. Her lips curl into a half-smile. "You look pissed."

I shrug.

"Usually you hide it better." She slides her hands under my hoodie and presses her palm flat against my stomach, over my t-shirt. "I hate it too."

"What?"

"When girls touch you." She pushes off the railing and rests her head against my chest. "Why don't you ever ask them to stop?"