Spitfire Suckerpunch (House of Pain Book 2) (42 page)

Epilogue

One Year Later

T
he music was booming. Shay could hear it echoing in the cold night air as she and Tate hurried up the street to Maria and Big Jimmy's brownstone.  She hadn't been in the mood for a loud New Year's Eve party, but Tate had practically forced her out of the apartment. She'd been moody and depressed as the one year anniversary of her father's death had come and gone with little fanfare. She didn't know how much fun she was going to be around, but Tate had been an angel, as always, so she'd felt the need to say yes when he asked her to go to his parent's party with him. He'd guilted her it into it, really. She was so weak when it came to him. So weak, it was almost pathetic. It was just so damn hard to resist him.

Especially if he said please.

Tate held her hand as they pushed through the front door and they were suddenly right in the middle of his huge family. Earth Wind & Fire was blasting on the stereo and all the furniture had been pushed against the walls to make room for dancing. Gennifer, her big belly stretching out the front of her tight red dress, was the first one Shay saw as they walked in, and she threw her arms out with a big smile on her face.

“You came!” she exclaimed, pulling Shay into a hug. Gennifer had gotten a lot more affectionate as she had grown more and more pregnant. She always claimed it was hormones, but it was still a little unnerving for Gennifer to be so nice all the time. Not that Shay minded all that much. The more she'd gotten to know Gennifer, the more she liked her. That went for all of Tate's family, actually. Even Brandon. “I have gossip,” Gennifer whispered in Shay's ear.

“If it's about Tiny and Austin, I probably already know,” Shay replied back. “And if it's about Hector and Erica, I don't want to know.” Gennifer rolled her eyes and smiled wide.

“You're no fun,” she said with a laugh.

Tate took their coats and got them drinks and the night passed surprisingly fast. Shay was having more fun than she cared to admit as it neared midnight. She danced with Tate, who was less awkward on the dance floor than he had any right to be, as well as Big Jimmy who demanded a dance. Tate's father was a big guy, but he was a surprisingly limber dancer. Shay was almost sad when the dance ended and Tate pulled her back toward him possessively.

Almost.

She noticed how Tiny stayed on the fringes of the crowd, interacting with the family only when necessary. Shay was tempted to pull Tiny and Gennifer into a room and force the girl to tell them the whole sordid story about what had happened with Austin. Shay only had part of the story, but it was obvious the poor girl was in distress. The problem was that Big Jimmy, Hector, and Tate didn't know that anything had happened between Austin and Tiny. And it had to stay that way for Austin's sake. Tiny didn't want to make it too obvious that something was wrong.

And then there was Hector, pretending to be happy as he smiled and danced with his new girlfriend. The woman seemed nice enough, but everyone in the family knew he was still in love with Erica. It was only a matter of time before he tried to crawl back to her for the umpteenth time. It was an annoying cycle, but Shay couldn't quite blame him. She knew what it felt like to not know how to love someone. She knew what it felt like to be lonely. Luckily for her, she'd learned how to stop getting in her own way. She'd learned it from Tate.  As the clock counted down the minutes until the new year, she leaned against her man and closed her eyes and thanked God for him for the millionth time.

At thirty minutes to midnight, Austin showed up, wearing a three piece suit like he'd just come from a fancier party. Tiny disappeared in the kitchen and Austin pretended like he didn't notice. Instead, he shared an odd look and a hushed conversation with Tate. Shay wondered what the quiet conversation was about but before she could find out, Gina and Thalia walked through the door.

“Auntie?” she asked, completely surprised and confused. “What are you doing here? I thought you were going downtown?” Gina opened and closed her mouth, like she didn't know what to say. Thalia bit down on her lip and giggled, like she was trying to keep from speaking as well. To see two of the most loudmouthed people she knew so quiet was disconcerting, to say the least. She turned back to Tate, a strange feeling taking over her. She had a feeling something was happening and she had no idea what. “Did you invite them?”

“It's a holiday,” he said with an unconvincing shrug.

“What's going on?” she asked, her eyes locking on his. He shook his head and she felt her stomach jump into her throat. She could feel everyone's eyes on her and suddenly the music wasn't playing any more.  She glanced around at all the familiar faces, knowing something was up. He was planning something, keeping something from her. And everybody else knew, too. “What is it?” she repeated, glancing at Gina. Gina just stared back at her, a goofy smile on her face, giving her no hints.

“I was going to wait until after midnight, but since no one in this damn family can act natural, I guess I'll just do it now,” Tate said, clicking his tongue and shaking his head.

“Do what?” she asked, even though she had a feeling she knew. He'd been acting strangely all afternoon, looking out at her out of the corner of his eye when he thought she wouldn't notice and being more quiet than usual. She'd thought it was because of the date, or maybe because she'd handcuffed him to the bed and then had her way with him all morning, but now she wasn't so sure. Now she was sure it was something else, something a lot more life-changing. He turned to Austin and held out his hand. Austin fished a little blue box out of his pocket and gave it to Tate, a smile teasing his lips. Shay's heart dropped all the way to the shag carpet beneath her feet. “What's that?” she said dumbly, although she knew.

“I had to hide it from you,” Tate said, rolling the small box around in his big palm. She let out a shaky breath as she held out her drink toward her aunt. Gina took it, thankfully, before she dropped it. She didn't know if any of her muscles were working properly at that moment. “Shaylene 'Sugar' Spears,” he began, his eyes on the box and not on her. She felt her mouth drop open as the reality of the situation fully dawned on her. He was definitely proposing, she knew it with certainty. She knew it before he dropped to his knees in front of her. She felt her whole body clench when he finally looked up at her, his green eyes catching the light in a beautiful way.

She loved him like this, on his knees and looking at her with so much awe that she thought she was going to burst if she didn't kiss him or touch him. She had so much love for him it was scary sometimes. Even though she was busy with school and the salon and he was busy with work, they'd fallen into a perfect daily routine. They ate together and they slept together and when they couldn't be together, they texted like teenagers. She couldn't imagine her life without him. He'd helped her so much after her father's death, his presence alone was a godsend. He was a good man—dependable, sexy, strong. And he'd even agreed to let her get a dog. Life wasn't perfect, it never would be. But it was as close as Shay could imagine it being.

And now he was making it even better.

“Shay,” he said again, his voice lower this time. “I want to make you happy.” She heard her aunt's voice to her right, but she couldn't focus on anything but Tate. She didn't want to hear anything but the words he was about to say. “I want you to let me make you happy,” he said, and she brought her hand up to caress his cheek.

“You do make me happy,” she said lightly. He wrapped his hand around hers and brought it in front of his face.

“You've been wearing this ring since the first day I met you,” he said, his eyes on her mother's engagement ring. Her mouth felt dry as he ran his thumb over the top of the cheap stone ring. She ran her tongue over her lips, not bothering to care that she was probably fucking up her lipstick. “I respect why you wear it, but I'm a selfish man. I want you to wear my ring.” He dropped his hand to the open the box he was holding, revealing a princess cut diamond on a plain platinum band. “Shay, will you marry me?” he said.

She heard a low whine escape from her throat as the reality finally hit her. This shit was real. Tate Grayson was proposing to her in front of both of their families. He was asking her to marry him. She didn't know if it was the heat of so many bodies crowded into the small house, but she suddenly felt woozy. Then he looked up at her through his eyelashes, a dark look under the love in his eyes. “Please?” he added, his tone sending a shiver up her spine. It was a tone she was well used to, and a tone that wasn't exactly appropriate for anyone around them to hear. It was only for her and him, when they were alone and he was begging. But at that moment, she didn't care. She just wanted to fling herself on top of him and kiss him into the ground.

“Yes,” she said before she'd even really thought about it. She didn't really need to think about it, actually. There was nothing to think about when it came to Tate. There was no one better for her than him in the whole wide world, of that she was certain. Besides, she didn't want anyone else. He blinked up at her like he couldn't quite believe it was as easy as that. To convince him that she was indeed serious, she started sliding her mother's ring off her finger. She was surprised at how easily it came off. After so many years of wearing it, she had an undeniable attachment to it. But she wanted Tate's ring more. He deserved to see his ring on her finger. He deserved to know that she was his girl and no one else's. After all they'd been through, Shay didn't mind a little tradition. He pulled his ring free of the box and slid it on her newly bare finger and then everything got noisy. Everybody started whooping and hollering and clapping, but Shay didn't care. She only had eyes for Tate.

She flung her arms around his neck and peppered kisses all over his face. He struggled to stand and then lifted her off her feet, wrapping his arms around her waist and holding her to his chest. She wanted to stand there in his arms for a lifetime, but she knew they were being watched. “They're so loud,” she whispered in his ear. “Why'd you do it in front of them?”

“So that you'd have to say yes,” he answered, his breath tickling her cheek. She laughed, pressing her face to his neck and breathing deep.

“Even if it was just the cat watching us, I would've said yes,” she said, not caring if he heard her or not. She knew she was going to have to let him go and let the family swarm them with congratulations, but for that one second, she wanted him all to herself. For  all the years she'd spent lonely and angry and afraid, she deserved that one second. For all the years he'd spent alone, he deserved it, too. They were never going to be lonely again, though, of that Shay was certain. Because of Tate, she had more family now than she'd ever had. There was more than enough love to go around. But for that one second, she was selfish; she wanted him all to herself.

Then the clock struck midnight and the new year officially began.

In the best possible way.

The End

***

COMING EARLY 2016

BEAUTIFUL BEATDOWN

(HOUSE OF PAIN #3)

Fatima 'Tiny' Dejardins may be shy and she may be too skinny and she may be deaf, but she's never backed down from a challenge. She pulled herself up from a childhood of poverty and heartbreak in Haiti to be a successful college student in one of New York City's most prestigious universities. She has a loving family and a full school schedule. If she was as smart as everybody says she is, she wouldn't have looked twice at Austin Stratford. Rich, cocky, and devastatingly handsome, he's not the kind of man Tiny would've ever met outside of the walls of House of Pain.

The problem? She did meet him. She witnessed his knowing smile and his dimples and his skill in the ring firsthand. Now she can't get him out of her mind. When he comes to her with an innocent proposal, she can't turn him down. She can't let the opportunity to get closer to him pass her by. Austin has no idea what she feels for him. No one does. But that doesn't mean she's going to back down. By the time she's done with him, he's not going to know what hit him...

Enjoy this preview from Lavender Parker's THE BURNING ONE, available now!

Chapter One

February

New York, New York

C
hadwick Benedict entered the art gallery on the far side of Chelsea with much fanfare. It seemed he couldn't do much these days without garnering attention. Paparazzi bulbs flashed and people in the small crowd gathered outside screamed his name, but he couldn't make out any particular faces. He didn't take the time. He moved quickly from the big black SUV he arrived in to the cool white loft. Finally the door was closed firmly behind him, and things quieted down. Rolando and Freddy, his two bodyguards, positioned themselves in front of the door and Chadwick was free to roam the art-filled space. It was blissfully, if deceptively, empty of human activity. He knew her people were buzzing around in the back, prepping for tonight. Tonight was the opening, but he'd thrown his weight around and gotten in early to see her work. A perk of being famous. When he heard she was finally back in the states and out of her self-imposed exile in South America, he knew there was no way in hell he would miss seeing her work. And buying whatever pieces he liked the best, no matter the cost.

The last three years had been a whirlwind of mind-blowing success and excess, but even before he was rich, he had been no stranger to the art world. He'd grown up around artists, successful and starving. His mother Colletta had been of the starving variety for most of her career. It was only after her death that her name grew famous and her pieces grew expensive. Indira was his mother's superstar student, taught during Colletta's stint at Columbia University. Although he had never met the reclusive woman, he knew her story well.

Born in India in the late '70s, but raised all over the world, Indira Zacharia Frederickson was the daughter of a British aristocrat and an Indian woman. She'd grown up rich and sheltered, and was considered by many to be charmingly eccentric. She found her first success in her early twenties, when Archie Travers, the famous art critic, discovered her toiling away in her Brooklyn studio on her most well-known piece,
Ophelia On The Bank
. As a teenager, he had seen the massive
Ophelia
when he visited the Tate Modern in London, where it hung. Since then, he'd been somewhat obsessed with the mysterious woman. He was drawn to her style. Her work was primitive. Unhinged. Now somewhere in her thirties, she was bordering on irrelevant. But this show would be her comeback. He knew it the second he saw her new work.

He was no art critic―in fact, he disliked the elitist, racist assholes―but he could sense that her work was powerful. He was immediately drawn to a large, textural canvas, hanging from the ceiling. The slick black oil paint bulged and dripped, the imperfections catching the light, and it made him think of sex, somehow. Unforgettable sex, rough and hard and messy. He raised his hand to the gold chains on his chest, flipping one of big diamond pendants between his fingers.

“Hey, Georgie,” he called out. His personal assistant, his baby cousin Georgie, sashayed over, her eyes not leaving her iPhone. She was nowhere near as impressed with him as everybody else.

“What up, Cee?”

“What do you think of that one?” He pointed above. She glanced up and cocked her head. His father's side of the family, to which Georgie was a part, had very little understanding or appreciation of the arts. Georgie shrugged, her big gold earrings brushing her shoulders.

“I don't know. It looks dirty. And... wet.”

“I know, right?” Cee nodded, slowly. “I want it.” Georgie slid her phone into the back pocket of her neon green skinny jeans and nodded.

“I'll find someone.” She headed off toward the back of the gallery, in search of the artist's agent. He normally didn't take care of these things himself. He would look at the pieces online, then Georgie or his buyer would purchase it for him. But he couldn't stay away this time. He wanted to experience Indira's work up close and personal. And more than anything, he wanted to meet her. He had hoped she would be here today. But apparently, that wasn't the case.

He continued working his way around the space, his phone vibrating every few seconds. He should turn the damn thing off. He didn't want to be interrupted. But he didn't. He just ignored it, moving on to a smaller pink and red canvas. The paint was caked on and thick, peaked and ridged. Jesus. Maybe he was seeing sex in everything, but damn if he wasn't getting turned on. Turned on by being so close to something Indira's hands and mind had touched.

“Mr. Benedict.” A tall redhead was striding toward him, her simple tailored black suit contrasting with the rough and sexual pieces around her. “I'm Erica Stephens.” She held out her hand for him to shake and he took it, his eyes traveling down the deep V of her blazer, her shadowy cleavage naked to his eyes. She smiled, her eyes lingering on him. He was dressed like the star he was―blue velvet blazer, oxblood-red leather pants, white T-shirt, chains, and loosely-laced Tims―and he knew he looked fly. But he wondered if she was judging him. His dreadlocks, tied back and long, didn't help, he was sure. But his money was just as green as any other rich man's, and he had it to burn. Her eyes moved on to the painting, and she smiled slightly.

“I love this piece.” She raised her hand to point, the gold watch on her wrist glinting in the light. “The way the line draws your eye in.”

“Is the artist here?” Cee asked, unable to resist.

“Oh. I'm sorry.” She shook her head and he felt disappointment flood through him. “She won't be here until the opening tonight.”

“She'll be here tonight?” he said, a little too sharply. She furrowed her brow for a brief second.

“Do you know Indira Z.?” she asked.

“No.” Cee turned back to the painting. “I'll take this one. And that one.” He motioned over his shoulder at the black canvas. The redhead's eyes widened.

“I'm sure we can arrange that, Mr. Benedict.” She slipped away as quietly as she'd come, disappearing behind the white wall in the back. Wetting his lip with his tongue, Cee's eyes caught on a moving image, projected high on the wall. Indira's dark eyes stared down at him, blinking every few seconds, her oval-shaped face placid. But there were shadows under her eyes and her cheekbones jutted out. Her long dark hair blew around her as if by some unseen force. Then she began to speak, but there was no audio. She looked to the side, turning her face away. Then the video replayed itself, on a loop.

He couldn't tear his gaze away. She was as beautiful and as haunting as any picture he had ever seen of her. She was older now, but more radiant, if it was possible. She had an odd intensity behind her eyes, like a fire, burning brightly, threatening to consume her. He knew that intensity. He saw it in himself sometimes, when he finished a good show and was back in his dressing room, sweat-drenched and out of breath.

“Mr. Benedict.” The redhead was back, her brow furrowed again. “I apologize, but that piece is not for sale.” She motioned to the black canvas, frowning.

“What?” Cee wasn't used to being told no. “Why?”

“The artist has not listed it.”

“Talk to whoever you have to. I want it.” Cee shrugged, no doubt in his mind that the painting would be hanging in his bedroom before the week was out.

***

Indira sat in her car across the street from the Chelsea studio. The paps were waiting around on the sidewalk for the rock star who had entered to look at her work before everyone else. She'd caught a quick glimpse of the tall black man as he fought his way in. She rolled her top lip between her teeth. She hoped he bought something. She needed the money. One piece alone would give her breathing room for the next few months.

She ran her hand through her thick black hair, now enhanced or marred by a swath of blue in the front, depending on the perception of who was looking at her. Maybe she was too old for it. At 35-years-old, she didn't feel young or hip anymore, that was for sure. And she was well aware that this show was probably her last hope. If it went well, she could disappear again and toil away at her own pace. If it went badly, she supposed she would have to pursue a career in academia. The thought was not a happy one. But she'd never been good with money, and she was running perilously low.

Her phone vibrated on the leather seat next to her and she glanced down at the caller ID. Erica, her seller's agent. Her heart gave an excited jump. A good sign. She answered it, holding it away from her ear like it was contaminated. She didn't want bad news.

“Indira?” Erica was saying.

“Which pieces?” Indira answered, her heart in her throat.

“
Revanche
and
Pearl
,” the agent replied, referring to a smaller work and a Museum Call, a term she used to refer to the bigger pieces that she wanted to see in famous museums, not in private collections. She felt her lips pull into a pout. Of course. Of course he wanted that one.

“
Pearl
is not for sale,” she heard herself saying, although it pained her to do so. She could easily net a million for the single piece. But some pieces deserved―cried out for!―placement in public spaces. And she knew in her heart
Pearl
was her best piece in years.

“I'll let Mr. Benedict know,” Erica said then hung up. Indira started her late-model BMW and drove up the cobblestone street to 11
th
avenue. She made a screeching left at the light and made another left onto the street behind the gallery. Jerking to a  stop at the back door, she double-parked and put on her hazards. Climbing out of the low slung car, she hurried to the door, painted to blend in with the back of the building, and knocked. The street was deserted, as streets in far west Chelsea tended to be, and no one paid her any mind. Not that they would anyway. Unlike the rock star, no one was interested in taking pictures of a fading artist trying to make a comeback.

The February day was unseasonably sunny and warm, and Indira tilted her face up to the sky, enjoying the feel of the sunshine on her face. For a few brief moments, she let herself feel good. Let herself feel like everything wasn't on the brink of collapse. Then the door swung open, interrupting her reverie.

“Ms. Indira?” the security guard said, his face surprised. They weren't expecting her back until later in the day. She adjusted her enormous sunglasses and gave him a small smile. He stepped aside and let her pass. She had wanted to take off before the rock star stopped by, but her nervousness hadn't allowed her to do so. Now that he wanted one of her favorite pieces, she was intrigued. Dropping her car keys in her big black leather bag, she rounded the corner into the main gallery, her paint-splotched ballet slippers soundless on the cement floor.

“Talk to whoever you have to. I want it,” she heard the deep male voice saying.

“Mr. Benedict―” Erica began, then glanced back at her, surprised. Time seemed to slow as the tall rock star turned to face her. She knew immediately who he was. She should have known from the name, but it for whatever reason, it hadn't registered. Colletta Chadwick. Chadwick Benedict. She kneaded her top lip between her teeth. He was handsome. He looked like his mother in the face, but with a strong masculine jaw. His eyes were big and brown, his lashes long behind a pair of thick black frames. And his hair, pulled back in dreadlocks, suited him. He looked damn good. Young, but damn good.

“Talk away, but you're not going to change my mind,” Indira said, her voice stronger than she felt. His eyes swept her, from her feet to her hair. Then his lips spread into a wide, charming smile. It was probably the smile he used when he was in the business of getting panties to drop. But she wasn't wearing any panties underneath her long, shapeless black dress, so she didn't have to worry about that.

“Indira, this is Chadwick Benedict,” Erica said, making the perfunctory introductions.

“I know who he is,” she said, but she held out a hand anyway. “I used to pick you up from school. Do you remember that?” He blinked, and then enveloped her small plain hand in his big warm one. Dark ink covered the back of his hands and forearms, she noticed. His mother would have hated that. She didn't believe in tattoos. Colletta believed the body held all the beauty it needed simply in being. Body modification was a disruption of the natural body, therefore ruinous to the creative spirit. Indira could practically hear the dead woman's voice in her ear.

“No.” He shook his head, glancing down at her hand. He towered over her, at least six foot to her five foot five.

“As a favor to your mother.” Indira let herself look him in the eye, because she was protected by the big sunglasses. “You were about ten or so then. Little know-it-all. Bratty as hell.”

“Sounds like me. But I don't remember that at all.” He was shaking his head, still holding her hand.

“I was going by a different name then. Maybe that's why you don't remember me.” Softly, she withdrew her hand and swept around him toward
Pearl
, which was suspended from the ceiling by a rope and pulley system. “You're interested in this one?” She waved Erica off and Chad followed her, his heavy boots clomping behind her.

“I am,” he said, stopping close behind her. She could smell his expensive aftershave, light and spicy. She couldn't believe the bratty little Chad she had once known was now a big star. She wondered what had happened to him after Colletta died. What had his life been like? He obviously still held onto his mother's love for the arts.