Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (5 page)

I’m sitting here, sipping on some ridiculously expensive scotch—which isn’t much better than my beloved Lagavulin, despite costing triple. Waiting. She always makes you wait…because she can.

I hear her heels on the flagstones behind me. I stand up, preparing to greet her. I endure her stupid faux-European air cheek kisses—
muah—muah
. Like it means something. Who
does
that? Everyone in this goddamn city, that’s who.
 

“Hello, darling. So good to see you.”
Muah…muah.

“Hey, Mom.” I endure the kisses, don’t return them, instead opting to give her a too-rough man hug, just to piss her off.

“Not good to see me too, Lachlan?”
 

“You know I hate it in Beverly Hills, Mom. Always have, always will. I’m only here because I promised you I’d come back for my thirty-first.”
 

“Your thirty-first…you know, I have quite a to-do planned. It’s going to be marvelous. I’ve invited pretty much everyone I know, which means it will be rather something.”
 

I slam the scotch down and attempt, badly, to tamp down my irritation. “Mom. I told you. No fucking parties.”
 

“I’m your mother. It’s your thirty-first birthday. It’s important.”

“Only to me. I never expected to make it this far.”

“But you did, despite your best efforts.”
 

“Yes, I did, despite my best efforts.” I pour more scotch, because I made Javier leave the bottle. “Thirty-one isn’t an important milestone to anyone but me, so the idea of a big party is just…stupid. And please note the fact that I did say
no fucking parties
.”
 

“If it’s important to you, Lachlan, it’s important to me.”
 

“Oh, come on. You just want an excuse to have one of your fancy soirees. All your friends, dripping diamonds and stiff with plastic surgery and Botox. No one is even capable of smiling!” I take a deep breath, because it wouldn’t do to get so worked up I have to take a pill, certainly not because of the froufrou bullshit denizens of Beverly Hills, California.
 

I’m a simple man. Give me a boat, some whisky, and some women. That’s all I need. It’s all I’ve ever needed.

“Lachlan, dear. Let’s get back to the basics, shall we? The reason your thirty-first birthday is so important.”

“I wasn’t supposed to live this long. I never expected to, and no else did either. Not even you.”

“And I’m happy you have! Thus…a party.”

I sigh. “Which I understand. I really do. But your idea of a party and mine…are rather different.”
 

Mom makes a sour face. “Yes. Indeed. Your idea of a party is booze and strippers. Mine is slightly more sophisticated.”

“I’m insulted, Mom.” I sip some scotch; god, the burn is so beautiful. “I’d never pay a woman to get naked. When you’re this good looking, you don’t have to.” I grin, a broad, cheesy grin.

It’s supposed to be a joke.
 

Sort of.

I mean, it’s true. But it was a joke.

Mom doesn’t get it. “Do you hear yourself, Lachlan Montgomery? You’re a pig.”
 

“It was a joke, Mom.”
 

“No, it wasn’t.”

I tip my head side to side. “It is true that I’ve never had to pay a woman to take her clothes off—or do anything else, for that matter. But nonetheless, it was a joke.”
 

“Not a funny one.”
 

“That’s just because you don’t have a goddamned sense of humor. You’re just as cold and stuffy and stuck-up as all your friends.” I stand up. “I’ve got to go. I’ve got things to do.”

“You’ve never worked a day in your life, Lachlan. What could you possibly have to do?”
 

“Didn’t I mention? I’m picking up some hookers. I’m having a kegger up at the Trinidad property.”

“Lachlan.”
 

I shake my head. “Mom. Seriously. Learn to take a joke.”
 

“You have to at least make an appearance at your party, Lachlan. Please. It’s important to me.”
 

I finish the glass of scotch; crunch an ice cube—just to piss Mom off, again. “Fine. I’ll make an appearance. But that’s it. Don’t expect much from me past showing up for a drink or two.” I set the glass down, hesitate, and then take the bottle. “And then I’m gone. I’ve got a berth on an ice-breaker headed up past the Arctic Circle.”
 

“You’re kidding.”
 

“I never kid about travel, Mother. It’s the one thing I take seriously.” I lift the bottle in salute. “That, and women.”
 

“You could have done something worthwhile with your life, Lachlan.” Trust Mom to get the last word in, and to make it a scathing parting shot.

“Probably,” I say. “But I didn’t. I wasted it enjoying the limited time available to me.”
 

*
 
*
 
*

Two months later

The party is everything I imagined it would be, and worse: Massive. Elaborate. Sophisticated. Expensive. There are fireworks, and some famous pop band with fancy hair and great teeth and shitty singing voices. Swans. Fragile globes of light on delicate strands of silver wire strung across wrought iron pergolas. Cloth-covered tables. Open bar, top-shelf liquor and wine. Men in tuxedos and women in evening gowns. Lots of fake tits and expensive noses.
 

I show up in ripped jeans and a Bullet For My Valentine T-shirt. Mom loves it, of course, and praises my exquisite fashion taste.
 

Hah. Right.

She scolds me for dressing like a degenerate, and then tries to take the bottle of whiskey from me; it’s a limited edition Michter’s Celebration Sour Mash, worth over four grand, with a label made from 18k gold. And I’m drinking it straight out of the bottle. I thought about taking the Dalmore 64 from Dad’s collection, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it; that’s a whisky that deserves fucking respect and proper treatment, thus I leave it where it is.

When I make it clear I’m not giving up my prize, which is my birthday present to myself, she tries to introduce me to the well-heeled, well-groomed socialite daughters of her friends.
 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not above a tumble with a rich bitch or four, but they’re annoying when they’re not naked and their mouths otherwise occupied. The trick with chicks like them is to keep them busy so they can’t talk. Know what I mean?
 

Flirting is fun, though. They’re all pretty, of course, and they all like me.
 

I’m dangerous. I’m a bad boy, a real rebel. I mean, I sold off my 50% share of Dad’s company to the highest bidder the day I turned eighteen. And, believe me, I got the
highest
bidder because I’m no idiot. I could have been a hell of a businessman had I chosen to do so. I used the proceeds to build the
Vagabond,
and had enough left over to fund my adventures for the past twelve years.
 

Yeah, Dad’s company was worth a mint. And I sold it off to sail the world and live in idle luxury. Real Prodigal Son, I am.

I get bored, though. I cap the bottle and carry it with me to the helipad on the far end of the east wing, a ditzy heiress named Lana under one arm, and a rowdy communications major named Morgan under the other. I have the family pilot, Robby, take us to a deserted beach I know about, a good forty minutes by air north of LA. Robby brings us down right on the beach, and I help the girls get out, and then I signal to Robby to be back in two hours.

We waste no time in getting naked and, for once, I let myself be pleasured without giving back.
 

Usually, I’m adamant about making sure whoever I’m with gets theirs first, usually more than once, before I get mine.

But tonight it’s all about me, and only me.

I’m thirty-one, motherfuckers. I made it to thirty-one.
 

I let them touch and kiss and go wild, let them show me that, yes, if I gave them enough high-end whiskey, they’ll do things to each other, and to me, that…well…are best left to the imagination, and my memory.

Moonlight, whiskey, breasts, mouths all over me, the ocean crashing and the surf licking at my toes—and…what’s her name? Oh yeah, Morgan. She’s licking me elsewhere…it’s a good way to turn thirty-one.

Until shit conspires against me.
 

Too much whiskey, and too much vigorous sex doesn’t mix well with a congenital heart defect. Who knew?

Combine that with being in the middle of nowhere without any meds, and spotty cell coverage?
 

It started with finishing my third climax in—well, mostly in, partly on—Lana’s mouth. Your heart hammers pretty hard after a wicked awesome orgasm, but it’s supposed to calm down after a minute, unless you’re in terrible shape, and I’m not. I’m in fucking fantastic shape, heart condition be damned.
 

I’m naked and drunk with a pair of clueless heiress socialite blondes climbing all over me. Not that there aren’t smart blondes out there—hey, Astrid!—but there are reasons stereotypes exist.

This is like Chile all over again.
 

But this time, my heart doesn’t slow down. It hammers even harder.
 

I do square breathing; focus on the beats, counting them, slowing them.

Eventually I have to move away from the girls and sit in the sand, head in my hands, and breathe. Hope. Beg to make it just another day.

One more day.

I mean, to die on my thirty-first birthday?

Jesus, what a laugh.

But it’s real.

Not on the mountain in Chile, no.

At home, in Cali.
 

On a beach, naked, with a couple of pretty girls.
 

Again, there are worse ways to go.
 

But deep down, the truth is I don’t want to go at all.

I’ve resigned myself to it. I’ve kept everyone at bay my whole life because I knew it was coming, sooner rather than later.

I just…I’ve always hoped that maybe I could cheat it, day by day, and somehow it wouldn’t catch up.

But it caught up all right.

“Hey, Lock? You okay?” Morgan, this is.
 

I think it’s her, anyway. It’s hard to tell, because I can’t hear, and it’s hard to make things out. I’m seeing double, and it’s not from the whiskey. I’ve got the tunnel vision again. Chest aching. That fucking elephant is sitting on my chest again.
 

Here we go again.
 

I get reflective, because this kind of dying takes time. It feels like it to me, at least. I have time to stare at the waves and wish I were out there on the sea, riding the waves, hauling at the
Vagabond
’s lines, trimming the sails, reefing the jib.
 

“Lock?” This is Lana. I can tell because she’s in front of me, and she’s got a cool birthmark on her left tit. Looks like Italy, right on the slope, sort of near the outside. “Lachlan?”

I wave. “I…it’ll pass.”

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

I shake my head. “No.”
 

But this time the feeling is not passing.

I’m on my back, and I don’t remember lying down. I hear rustling, and thudding. The helicopter, Robby is landing. Sand stings my eyes. I see skirts around me, which is what the rustling noise was—the girls putting on their dresses. Someone laboriously and with great difficulty gets my pants on me.
 

I feel Robby throw me over his burly shoulder, and set me in the back of the chopper.
 

“Yo, Lock, you good, man?”

I squeak out a breath. My heart…I’m not sure if it’s beating too hard or not hard enough. I stare up at Robby. “Hosp…” I can’t get it out. “Hosp—hospital.”
 

“You got your meds?” With effort, I shake my head no. “Shit, man. We’re a good thirty minutes from a hospital, and that’s by air. You gotta hold on. Girls, sit down and buckle up. We’re gonna haul ass and it ain’t gonna be pretty.” Robby is an ex-military pilot, and I got him to show me some tricks once. Dude can fucking fly.

Which is good, because it’s hard to think. Hard to see. Hard to breathe. Hard to do anything except stare at the ceiling and hope.

I hear sniffling.
 

Lana is crying.
 

“Quit…that…shit,” I snarl. Okay, not a snarl, more of a gasp and a whimper. “Had it…coming. Whole…life.”
 

Robby was right. It’s not pretty. He keeps low and hauls ass, breaking a lot of laws, probably.

I realize my head is on Morgan’s lap.
 

There’s a theme, here: not a bad way to go, head on the lap of a pretty girl.

Blackness is winning.

I’m holding on, but there’s not much to hold on to at this point.

Everything is faint.

I feel…thin.

Darkness.

I succumb.

Head looking down

Los Roboles Hospital and Medical Center
 

Los Angeles, California

Six years earlier

“Twelve year-old male, multiple gunshot wounds.” This is from Delaney, the ER resident on duty this morning, shouting as she runs beside a stretcher. “Pulse is thready and fading. Blood type O-neg.”

I’m running beside the stretcher, visually assessing the victim. Young, black, adorable. Innocent. Terrified. His eyes roam and flick and flit everywhere, seeking something to fix on. He’s in agony. Knows he’s dying.
 

“Hi, sweetie,” I say, getting his attention. “What’s your name?”
 

“Mal—Malcolm.” He’s gasping; there’s a whistle to it. Shitshitshit. “Am I—am I going to die?” His voice is barely audible.

Probably. I just smile down at him, calm and sweet. “No, honey. Of course not. We’re gonna take super great care of you. Okay? You’re going to be fine.”

“Promise? Mama…Mama needs me.”
 

“Is your mama here?” I ask.

“No.” He groans, arching off the stretcher as pain ravages him.