Losing You (Stars On Fire Book 4) (27 page)

“You okay with this?”

Sighing, he nodded. “Yeah, I am. I mean . . . not ideal in the least. It’s a month. When I put it in perspective with how long I hadn’t seen you before you moved back, this will be a piece of cake.”

Yeah . . . a piece of cake wasn’t how she was picturing it. More like being force-fed bottle upon bottle of habanero sauce.

Fucking torture.

Lizzie

Tom sure knew how to throw a party
, an exhausted Lizzie thought as Tom said goodbye to the final guest. After he shut the door, he turned to her and smiled.

She hadn’t spent as much time with him as she would’ve liked tonight, with both being pulled in separate directions. Normally that wouldn’t have bothered her except she would be leaving tomorrow morning and as the time approached, the sadder she got.

Lizzie didn’t want to be apart from him.

“Come here,” he said, holding out his hand. She rose from the couch to take his hand and he pulled her closer.

“Have a good time?” he asked. She nodded her answer because she did. The night was full of laughter, drinking, and more laughter, plus a Cubs win.

“Good.” Tom led her up the stairs and when they reached his dark bedroom, he turned his head to look at her. “I bought you a little something.”

That thought made her feel like a kid at Christmas with a huge present under the tree. He’d never just bought her a present out of the blue before.

“Why’d you do that?” she asked as he pushed the door further open. But instead of entering or answering, he caught her lips in a fierce kiss that had her clutching his waist to keep herself standing. He was in no hurry to end it and drank from her mouth until he was done. And by that time, Lizzie was quite turned on.

“I wanted you to have something to remember me while you are out in California,” he said right before turning on the light. He gestured towards the bed and her eyes followed. In the center of the pillows lay a stuffed Winnie the Pooh bear. In its lap rested a long, thin box. Her mouth twitched as she fought the sudden rush of tears.

“Winnie the Pooh?” Her Pooh bear.

“Thought you’d like it,” he answered, punctuated with a peck to the tip of her nose. “Go and open the rest.”

She sat on the bed carefully, taking the box from Winnie and then hugged the stuffed bear to her chest. A few moments later, Lizzie flipped the lid of the box and sharply inhaled. “Oh, my God, Tom. This is breathtaking,” she said, gazing at the dainty bracelet with stones the exact color of his sky blue eyes. “It’s . . .”

“It’s like my eyes . . .” he said, sitting next to her and putting the bracelet on her wrist. Once fastened, she drew his face to hers, claiming his mouth with a slow, intense kiss.

“Thank you,” she said softly against his lips.

“That kiss was worth it.”

“That’s just the beginning . . .” she replied, one hand reaching for his belt, the other rubbing the growing bulge through the jeans. They would remember this night.

“I need to buy you presents more often if this is how you intend to thank me,” he said, groaning against her face.

Pushing him back to the bed, she released his cock from its confines. “Yes, you really do.”

Marc

Seattle, July 2009

Staring at the steady rain, Marc sipped on his coffee, lost in his mind. The thoughtful immersions seemed to be constant the past couple weeks. He felt aimless, unsure of what to do with himself. No job, friends, or family around didn’t help with that.

It had been okay when he’d been working on this book. He had started it while he was in rehab, growing from prescribed journal writing his therapist had pushed as a way to get out his feelings. He had something to prove. He could be the son of Beckett Kerr, tortured writer of American literature,
and
be his own person. He didn’t have to be the young boy who watched his father put a gun to his head and end his life. Marc would be the man that overcame that horrific event and lived—his life on his terms.

It may have taken him a bit to define them but that was all right. He’d done it. He was moving forward. Doing what he wanted to do with his life. No longer letting the fact that his father was a writer stop him from fulfilling his dream. Marc wasn’t going to
not
do it because of his dad.

So Marc had set out to prove that. The past year he’d been ferociously writing. He needed to get the words out. He’d become a driven man as the words poured out of him, his laptop his constant companion. Hell, his only companion.

When he set out to do this, he figured it wouldn’t take long to get those thoughts out of his brain, but he’d been so wrong. Over a year later, the book was finally complete and in the hands of his agent.

A little over a month ago, Clark had asked him again about coming back to Chicago. Marc still hadn’t been ready.

Not yet.

But now that the book was finished, maybe it was time.

Gathering his bag, Marc left the coffee shop and strolled down Pike Street to his apartment. His trust fund had finally become useful.

When he entered the sparse space, he tossed his bag on the sofa and himself on the seat next to it. Pulling out his phone from his front pocket, Marc spun it in his hands as he thought about the call he was about to make.

Was he really ready to go home?

Tapping the call button, he waited for an answer.

“What up, bro?” came his younger brother’s voice and Marc knew in that instant what to do.

“I’m coming home, Clark.”

“Fuck,” he said, the word drawn out. “Really? For good?”

“Yeah . . . I’m ready.”

“I’m so damn glad to hear that.”

“So, uh, you won’t mind if I crash with you until I find a place?”

Clark laughed. “Of course you can stay with me. When are you planning on returning?”

“Tomorrow?” Marc replied.

“What? Seriously?” Clark shouted in excitement.

Marc regarded the place he’d called home for the past year. “It’s not hard to leave nothing, Clark.”

Walking up the steps to his brother’s renovated Victorian, Marc smiled at all that had been done to it. Clark had turned this neglected early 20th century mansion into a charming beauty. He’d sent him updates on his progress while Marc had been away, his words full of pride for his home. Clark should be proud—of that home and of his success. His little brother had done good.

Just as his fist went to knock on the door, it swung open and Marc was staring at his brother’s face—in person for the first time in over a year.

Clark pulled him in and held him in a fierce hug Marc wouldn’t soon forget. He wrapped his arms around his brother and hugged him right back. Saying he missed him was an understatement.

With a clearing of his throat, Clark stepped away. “Welcome to my abode.”

“Thanks for letting me crash.”

“Come on, let me show you your room,” Clark said, heading up the stairs. With his lone suitcase and his backpack, Marc followed his brother to a room that had more furniture in the space than he lived with for over a year.

Marc put his suitcase by the bed and placed his backpack on the desk.

“Nice room,” Marc said, a little overwhelmed. So many windows letting in all the sunlight made the space feel so bright . . . cheerful. He stepped to the windows overlooking the colorful backyard. Everything in stark contrast to his situation in Seattle.

“You hungry?” Clark asked, breaking Marc out of his brooding.

He turned from the window and nodded.

“Pizza?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, stepping away from the view. “Sounds good.”

They backtracked to the first floor and went to the kitchen where Clark placed the order. His brother grabbed a couple bottles of Mountain Dew, handing one to him and went to the family room and parked himself on the sectional. Marc copied Clark then took a long drink of his pop. He knew his brother wanted to talk.

“You done with your book?”

“Yeah . . . a couple weeks ago,” Marc answered.

“I never knew you wanted to be a writer. To be honest, I always thought you’d do something with film with the way that camera was always attached to your hand.”

“I would like that actually . . . this book though, I needed to get it out. I may have been a reporter but it never was the kind of writing I wanted to do, but I did it because my dad hadn’t done it.” Then Marc explained how the book came up from his therapy. “I had to purge the words from my head . . . my heart. I’d always known my father’s death affected me, but I’d never realized to what extent.”

“I missed you but I’m glad you went to rehab and therapy. And right now, I’m so stoked that you’re back home where you belong.”

“Me too. Been gone too long. Missed too much. So . . . a fourth album?”

“Ha! Yeah. Mia’s a workhorse. Just got back from her Malibu pad last week. Album is now complete. If I didn’t love Chicago as much as I do, I’d be her neighbor there—fucking gorgeous place.”

After her overdose, Mia had given Clark Marc’s information and he’d become his contact. She’d said that she wasn’t a person he should be around and he hadn’t talked to her since. He missed his baby girl.

“How is Mia?”

“Better, but not the same . . . she still seems sad . . . lost from time to time, but yeah, better. She’s arriving tomorrow. You should definitely call her. It’ll do you both good to see each other.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” he said then finished off his beer and set it on the coffee table.

“I’ll have to do that.”

“Good.”

After a minute of silence, Clark spoke again. “You gonna call Tom?”

“I don’t know.”

“Lizzie?”

“I don’t know,” he answered truthfully. He tried not to think of Lizzie . . . or Tom. Marc knew how much what he had done had hurt them, especially Lizzie. Marc had promised Tom that he wouldn’t hurt her and he’d totally let him down. He was still ashamed of that. “I lost my two best friends when I left Chicago.”

“No, you haven’t,” Clark countered.

“Yes, I have. Those relationships I had with both are forever changed because of the stupid ass decisions I made, the drugs I took instead of dealing with my father’s suicide.”

“But you have. That’s what this past year has been. You’ve done it. You’re here and you haven’t lost your best friends. They are very much alive. Your relationships may be different but it doesn’t mean that you should abandon them. You can still be their friend. And it starts with you making the call to your best friend, telling him you’re back. He needs to hear it from you sooner than later.”

When did the young one become so smart?