Page 4 of Love Everlasting

“That’s right, Dr. Love,” she said, employing Jack’s nickname while she turned the key in his door, “which means the party’s over and you’re done for the night.”

“Wait …!” He spun around, heart in his throat. “Where’s my car?”

“Jack will deliver it in the morning, Doc, so move it inside, please.” She nudged him into his spacious marble foyer that never failed to elicit a feeling of pride, always reminding Sam that he’d finally arrived. A far cry from a flea-bitten room over a bar on the wrong side of the tracks, Sam’s villa—along with his “preowned” pearl white Corvette—were his pride and joy. Absolute proof he was worth something, despite desertion by a two-bit mother and the rantings of a foster father who claimed he’d only amount to a pile of dung.

He fumbled to turn on the light, then reveled in the gasp that popped from Shannon’s lips, her voice tinged with an awe he never tired of hearing. “Wow, this is some place, Doc,” she whispered, peering up at the vaulted foyer with its sleek chrome and teak stairway that zigzagged against a wall of glass. Cream walls resplendent with equally pale modern works of art were beautifully complemented by a central circular mirror and white calla lilies in a tall pottery vase. Sam would have preened with pride if he wasn’t covered in puke, because each and every piece was deliberately designed to evoke the clean and simple beauty he so craved in his own life.

“It’s breathtaking,” she whispered, leaving his side to wander the entryway with a look of awe as if she were Alice perusing Wonderland for the very first time. “Utterly clean and pure. Not at all what I expected of a notorious bachelor.” She turned, the look of astonishment on her face making him grin and wince at the same time. “You didn’t do this yourself, did you? I mean a designer put it together for you, right?”

“Nope, all mine,” he said, chest swelling with pride even as his stomach rebelled with a twinge of nausea. He fought it off, suddenly aware he smelled like a pub on payday.

Her jaw actually dropped. “I don’t believe it.”

He forced a flirtatious smile, barely minding the throb in his head. “Every shade of paint, every stick of furniture, every piece of art,” he said with a wobbly hand to his heart, “straight out of my depraved brain, I promise.” He suddenly steadied himself with a hand to the wall, a flashback from his childhood making him dizzier than the booze in his body.

“I’ll come back soon, I promise,” his mother always said, night after night, the stench of alcohol on her breath making him nauseous. Only she never did, leaving a skin-and-bones five-year-old to fend for himself in a rat-infested room over a dive of a bar. And when her lush of a boyfriend gave her a choice between Sam and him? Sam’s teeth ground hard as he swayed on his feet. No contest. Because his so-called mother was weak—seeking her self-worth in a loser who had absolutely no worth at all—while giving her son promises that were worth even less.

“No,” Sam stressed with a hint of a slur, focusing glassy eyes on a woman who for some strange reason, he wanted to know the truth. “I give you my word,” he emphasized with surprising clarity, “because you see, Miss O’Bryen, promises are nothing more than a puff of air. But my word is my unbreakable bond, as honest and pure as I can ever hope to be.” The dizziness passed, and he stood up straight and tall, both his smile and the “player” in play once again. “Because despite my notoriously black reputation, I am inexplicably drawn to things that are simple and pure, honest and clean, and completely unblemished by my own sordid life.”

Her gaze met his and held. “It’s beautiful,” she said softly, head tipped as if she couldn’t quite figure him out.

“Thank you.” He leaned on the knob of the open door, making every effort not to waver on his feet. “Unlike its owner at the moment, I’m afraid. It seems I’m in dire need of a shower.”

She simply stared, her calm look of compassion so disarming that the smile slowly dissolved on his face. All at once, he felt his shoulders relax, the need to impress suddenly as absent as his sobriety. “Thank you, Shannon,” he said quietly, somewhat baffled by the calming effect that she had, “for putting up with me tonight and getting me home.” He took a stab at a smile that came out more as a flinch. “I’ll have the inside of your car fumigated and detailed, so just send me the bill.”

For some reason the kindness in her eyes put a hitch in his throat he could only blame on the booze. She slipped her purse off her shoulder, dangling it from one hand while she reverently glided the other across his polished teak half-moon table. “That won’t be necessary,” she said with a smile, “but I suspect a pot of coffee will be. Direct me to the kitchen?”

He studied her through blurry eyes, wondering if the aura of innocence he detected was real or just the effect of the alcohol on his brain. “You don’t have to do that, Shannon. The vomit was already above and beyond the call of duty, so I’ll give Jack a good report.”

She huffed out a sigh bigger than her. “Sorry, Doc. Jack asked me to make sure you go to bed and don’t go out again. Blame it on the curse of being the sensible and sober twin who follows orders, but if it’s all the same to you, I’d like to follow through with coffee and even lend an ear if you like.”

He stared for several dizzy seconds, then shut the door, figuring a cup of coffee was preferable to a vertigo spin in bed. “Sure. Kitchen’s down the hall, and it won’t take me three minutes to shower.” He eyed the lofty staircase with a dull gaze. “Now the stairs? Might be more like twenty.”

She paused halfway to the kitchen. “Need help?”

“Nope.” He made his way to the staircase, trying hard not to weave. “The hangover will be wicked enough without Jack’s fist if I get one of his sisters into my bedroom.”

“O-Okay.” She spun on her heel and all but sprinted down the hall.

But not before he saw the delicate rise of color in her face that lured a smile to his lips. He shook his head as he methodically scaled one step at a time, fisting the steel banister to hold himself up. He sure didn’t blame Jack for banning him from his sisters, especially Shannon. There was something so sweet and wholesome about her that it almost made him want to protect her himself.

He paused at the top of the stairs to catch his breath, the thought of Jack’s sister in his “lair” quirking his lips. Obviously Jack was concerned about Sam’s welfare enough to put his sister in harm’s way, which only deepened Sam’s gratitude to the man who was quickly becoming a close friend. His mouth crooked. Even if he was annoyingly bent on saving Sam’s soul.

Plodding into his massive bedroom, he peeled off his clothes, leaving a trail on his way to the master bath before turning the shower all the way to scalding. Feeling woozy, he braced his hands on the vanity, mind as foggy as the steam billowing behind him like thunderclouds portending a doozy of a storm. He peered into the mirror, muscled arms taut with his weight while red eyes and a sagging face shadowed with scruff confirmed the storm was already here.

And it was a stinkin’ category five.

He dropped his head, the pain in his chest suddenly making the throb in his brain look like lollipops on immunization day.

Because he’d lost Jazz again. A second time.

And losing always left a bitter taste in his mouth.

You’re nothing but a loser, kid, just like your old lady.

Kind of like spewing in a parking lot, only this time the nausea was in his heart. Peering up, he saw a ripped body honed at the gym and chiseled features Jazz once likened to a Greek god. Determination steeled his bones. Because inside he knew his feelings for Jasmine and hers for him went far deeper than a pretty face. “You’ll be back, Jazz,” he whispered, “because I’m the one you come to when you’re hurting, and the one who makes you laugh when others make you cry.”

Like Jack when he dumped you for Lacey.