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Six months later….
Sylvester White—“Sly” to those he considered friends, which were actually few in number—sighed down at the text message. The third one in the last hour. And, God, he wished he could just delete the whole text chain and never think about it again.
But that was impossible. And he only had himself to blame for that. He couldn’t do that to Loni. She deserved better than his nasty attitude, especially after being married to his ass for five years.
Despite being months past the expiration date of his marriage, his ex-wife was still there, still present, still a reminder of what an asshole he was. And there was nothing he could do about it because he was an asshole—he waved that banner like a fucking flag.
He was a goddamn wretched man. And he could never make right what he’d done to Loni—though he had fucking tried! Hence the fact he was returning the text.
Pinching the bridge of his nose, he focused on the text message even though what he wanted to do was toss his phone into the nearest body of water.
Loni: Your mom wants us at the party. I really don’t want to disappoint Janice.
Yolanda—Loni to her friends, which were about as numerous and empty as a cardboard box factory. His ex-wife. The woman with whom he’d shared five years of his life. The woman who’d demanded more than he could give, over and over, until she finally decided that what he could give her would never be enough.
Sly: I’ll call her. Thanks.
Short. To the point and polite as he could make it without offering false interest. As much as he cared about her as a person, he really didn’t give a shit about what she was doing or wanted to do—especially when it came to him. Truthfully, he wanted to ignore her, to tune her out and only hear from her during the holidays when cordial exes were expected to check in on their former spouses. However, ignoring Loni was about as dangerous as pulling the pin on a grenade—it would only make Loni ramp up the desperation, like a firebomb in a parched forest. He’d seen it before. Experienced it. Lived with it for the last five years of his life. But there wasn’t anything he could do about it. She was his ex-wife. His burden to bear. And…the woman who’d been there for him when he’d needed someone—anyone—to be there. And he’d been there for her when life crumbled around them, throwing them both over the cliff. In the beginning, things had been…comfortable. They’d sought comfort and pleasure in one another, and that had been good enough. It had been what they’d both needed. But, as the years wore on, he’d begun to realize that their marriage, born of convenience and expectation, had been a mistake. But the guilt, the raw, malicious, hideous guilt that had settled in to gnaw at him, wouldn’t let him walk away. It was guilt stoked and fueled by the woman he’d married, her nostalgic moments of reminiscence, the sorrow in her dark brown eyes—sorrow so like his. Her blatant attempts to make him bleed when he was most vulnerable. But he’d deserved every lash, every tear, every scream of grief fueled rage. And so he’d stayed, unhappy, unfulfilled, but faithful to a woman who’d done everything she could to keep the guilt alive. And he let her. Because he couldn’t love her like she wanted him to.
So, they suffered a loveless, guilt-riddled marriage until, in a moment of mercy, she had decided to let him go, asking him for a divorce. In the beginning, he’d felt like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders; the strain of being married to the embodiment of his worst decisions was sliding off his back.
But once the papers had been signed….
Texting with her. Answering her calls. Listening to her as she cried. Holding her when she needed his strength. It was the least he could do for her after all he’d done to her and her family. No, they were no longer husband and wife, but before all that mess, they’d been friends. And…he hated to admit that there were a few times during the divorce proceedings when he’d been tempted to climb into her bed and numb the pain, quiet the cacophony, deaden the memories…. Thankfully, though, he’d just barely kept himself from giving in. He couldn’t imagine the kind of damage sex between almost exes would have caused. A clean break was what they needed.
So why was he answering her texts, her calls, and treating her as though she was still the premiere person in his life?
Sparkling green eyes, lush curves, and a tight, hot pussy and the pleasure it wrought that had easily erased Loni and every single sexual experience with her—and every woman he’d ever been with, honestly—from his mind. Too bad he’d fucked that up like a champ, sneaking from her bed and then her apartment like a thief in the night.
Rolling his eyes at his own shitty, piteous humor, he tried and failed to remove the images of caramel skin, fragrant flesh, and brain-scrambling pleasure from his mind. Whoever she was…she was only a memory now. The chances of running into her again were a million to one, especially since he had no idea who she was.
The bleating of his cell notifications ripped him from his thoughts, making him grunt at the abruptness.
Loni: I’m at the beach house if you want to come by. Got that single malt you like.
And there it was, the invitation he’d been dreading. Their divorce was final, and they were both free to do whatever and whoever they wanted, and Loni had been shockingly adamant about them going their separate ways, living apart, and finally living the lives they really wanted. At least that’s how she’d acted the first month after the ink was dry.
But now, suddenly, she was…clinging. Texting. Calling. Dropping in to visit him in his office in Miami—when he was in town. And now she was extending “friendly” invitations to come spend time with her. He wasn’t an idiot. He knew that she’d probably answer the door with nothing but a smile and velvet Agent Provocateur. Her mouth said she was happy about the divorce, but her actions…. They told him she was still tightly clinging to what they had been and still holding out hope that they could be what she really wanted. A happy couple. Perfectly in love.
What the hell was he supposed to do with that?
Sly: Sorry, Lon. In Jackson Key. Next time.
Loni: Was your party tonight? I had hoped to join you. I want to support you, Sly. That’s my duty and joy, even if we aren’t still together.
Sly: I appreciate that, Loni. Thanks.
Why was she asking that, though? As deeply involved in her social calendar as she still was—since he hadn’t bothered to revoke access to the White Estate Corporation internal servers, she didn’t need to ask about what he was doing. Hell, the woman still had access to every personal document uploaded and downloaded to his online and offline accounts. He trusted no one in his life more than Loni, and she knew that. Also, she fucking knew his party was tonight. It was why she was texting every ten minutes. He was actually shocked she hadn’t invited herself under the pretense of being there to support him as the good wife she’d tried to be over the last five years. He couldn’t blame her that she’d failed at that. He hadn’t been the best husband, either. Loni, the media darling, was as sweet and supportive as a wife could be…until she wasn’t. Until she didn’t get her way, and the pouting and crying and self-deprecation started. If there was one thing he’d learned from being married to her, it was that she didn’t like not being the center of attention—good or bad. And while she was no longer his wedded wife, she was still his only best friend, which meant she was more to him than any other human being on the planet.
Except for her….
Loni: You can still pop over this weekend, right? I miss you, Sly, and our movie nights. Want to catch up soon and watch Yellowstone? I hate that I don’t remember what it feels like to have your arms around me while we snuggle on the couch.
And that’s why he stayed away, declining the invitations to “chat” or “catch up.” There was nothing to talk about. There wasn’t anything happening in her life that he wanted to “catch.” Their marriage was over—it never should have begun in the first place.
But that was on him. He’d chosen to take that step.
And he’d regretted it so fucking much. Five years of marriage had taken so much from him, and he was desperate to get some of that back—and to rid himself of the tension and funk that came with nearly a year of self-imposed celibacy. Unlike other red-blooded males who prided themselves on quantity over quality, the cunt over the connection, if he couldn’t be emotionally open with the woman he fucked, he didn’t want to fuck her. He learned one crucial life lesson during his marriage mistake—hence the celibacy.
