Page 81 of Love Everlasting

Which meant that no matter what happened in her life now or in the future, in her relationship with Sam or anyone else, the Lover of her Soul would not forsake her like man was so prone to do.

At the thought, peace flooded, and her limbs slowly sank into the rest she needed. Eyelids edging toward sleep, she prayed a final Scripture, the words soft and warm on her lips. “Let the morning bring me word of Your unfailing love, Oh Lord, for I put my trust in You. Show me the way I should go, for unto You I lift up my soul.”

Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr.

Shannon startled in the bed, her silenced cell phone vibrating her stomach as much as her nightstand. Her heart turned over when she saw it was Sam, and lunging for the phone, she answered, barely able to hear her own breathy voice for the pounding of her pulse in her brain. “Sam?”

“Ain-chell Eyes …”

Her stomach bottomed out as her heart stumbled in her chest, the slur in his words painful proof that he’d broken his promise to himself to never get drunk again. “Sam—what’s wrong?”

“Come on, Teash, does somethin’ hafta be wrong for me to see my bes’ girl?”

Alarm prickled her skin. The thought of Sam driving drunk catapulted her from the bed. “Where are you?” she whispered, the sound harsh in a house where everyone else was sleeping.

“Right outside, babe, so come on out. And, Shan …” The husky chuckle that usually fluttered her stomach now roiled it instead. “Don’t bother to put on a robe.”

Hands quivering, she ripped her pajama bottoms off and put on a fresh pair of shorts, barely able to latch the hook of her bra beneath the T-shirt she wore. Snatching her purse off the dresser, she slipped on her Sperrys and silently opened the door, holding her breath as she eased it closed before tiptoeing down the stairs. With the utmost stealth, she locked the front door behind her and hurried to where Sam’s Vette was parked in the street.

“Give me the keys,” she said in a terse tone she seldom used, Sam’s recklessness unhinging a deeply buried temper few knew she had.

“Hey, babe.” His eyes were mere slits as he stumbled out of the car, swaying conspicuously when she stepped back from his reach. The lazy smile on his face dissolved into hurt. “Come on, Shan, I need you …”

“You need me all right,” she said in a near hiss, “to drive your sorry butt home.” With pickpocket speed, she plucked the keyless entry remote from his trousers and slipped it into the pocket of her shorts.

His suggestive chuckle reeked of alcohol. “I knew you’d come around eventually, Ain-chell Eyes. Most women do.”

“Yeah?” She smacked his arm away, pushing and prodding him to the passenger side of the car none too gently. “Well, I’m not most women.”

He skidded to a halt like he wanted to respond, but she just yanked on his shirt that much harder, dragging him all the way.

“Hey, you’re gonna rip my favorite Armani,” he groused.

“Better than your jugular, Doc.” She jerked the passenger door open and shoved him in on top of his precious suit jacket that was folded neatly on the seat, not a bit sorry when he bumped his head on the roof.

Slamming the door, she almost smiled when she saw him grapple with pulling his jacket out from beneath his hard-muscled bulk. But, not quite. His mood was considerably testier when she got in on the driver’s side. “For crying out loud, Shan, have a li’l respec’ for my things, will ya?” he muttered, refolding the jacket just so before laying it over the console.

She fought the urge to roll her eyes as she started the car, figuring she’d have to give him one thing—he was the neatest drunk she ever saw. “I have respect for your things, Sam.” She turned the stereo down, not missing the irony of Keith Urban’s song, “Stupid Boy,” blaring through the car as she eased it down the street. “It’s their owner I’m not too sure about right now.” She slid him a peeved look, her tone a clear reprimand. “Especially somebody stupid enough to drink and drive, so you’ll excuse me if I’m not very happy with you right now.”

“Yeah?” His voice rose in volume, making the slur all the more noticeable. “Well, I got news for ya, babe, that goes both ways—” His words strangled into a groan as he began to fumble with the handle of his door. With split-second precision, Shannon squealed to a stop on the side of the road and flung her door open, rushing to the other side to yank him out of the car. The moment his feet hit the pavement, it was his dinner that went “both ways”—from his precious Armani shirt right on down to his beloved Cole Haan brogues, baptizing them with the foulest vomit she’d ever seen or smelled.

“I don’ feel so good,” he mumbled, looking for all his strapping six-foot-one height like a sick little boy battling the flu.

“I imagine not,” she said with quiet sigh, her heart softening despite herself. “Not with a bottle of poison in your gut.”

“Chivas,” he corrected. “Some of the fines’ scotch in the world—aged twelve years.”

“Yes, well your liver just aged twelve years, too, bucko, not to mention your shoes.”

Swaying on his feet, he looked down and emitted a rusty groan, giving her pause when she thought he was going to spew some more. “Noooooo … not my Cole Haans …”

“Yeah, never mind the liver,” she muttered, leaving him to bemoan the fate of his shoes while she rifled through both her purse and the glove compartment for tissues or towels. She came up empty, so she quickly scanned the yards on Bluff Drive, spotting a sprawling bed of giant hostas. Plucking several leaves off the bottom of a plant, she returned to where Sam sagged over the hood of his car, arms braced as if to hold himself up.

Without a word, she squatted to clean off first his shoes and then his slacks the best she could before rising to attend to his shirt.

“Thanks,” he whispered. His voice was hoarse as he took the hosta leaves from her hand to finish the job, his shame evident in how he avoided her gaze.

Against her better judgment, she gave his arm a tender squeeze, then left to hunt for a tissue in her purse again, finding only a sad, crumpled one smeared with lipstick. “Here,” she said in a gentle tone, carefully wiping any excess from his face and shirt before handing him a mint. “Hopefully the worst is over and we can get you home to bed.”