BlackJack (A Standish Bay Romance Book 1) (17 page)

“I’m coming
in.”

Cheryl opened
the door slowly. At least she respected him and didn’t turn on the light,
taking away the darkness. He needed the darkness. He belonged in the dark for
what he’d done to his son.

“I brought you
something to eat.” She placed the tray on the night table then sat down on Cameron’s
bed and peered intently at him through the dark.

John sat on the
floor, his back up against the wall, his legs out straight, and he held a
picture of his son in his quivering hands. His eyes burned dry as he’d already
shed all the tears humanly possible for one day. His heart hurt and seemed to hardly
beat as he felt scarcely alive. Nothing anyone had ever told him could have
prepared him for the emotions churning inside him. Since Cameron ran away, a
dark abyss swirled all around him, engulfing him within its obscurity. The
bottomless pit built on guilt, anguish and pure, stark terror.

Cameron was a
smart, streetwise kid, but let’s face it, there were always decisions to be
made, and it would only take him making one wrong one to cost him his life.

He’d sat for
two days in the dark gloom, torturing himself with:

What if I’d
done this?

What if I’d
said that?

It was not
helping the situation, but shit, he just couldn’t move. He kept remembering
Shannon’s face when he told her and her collapsing and sobbing in his arms. And
for the first time ever, she hit him and lashed out at him. Oh, he knew it was
because of the anguish and heartbreak she felt, but she’d frightened him with
the wild and totally unfocussed look in her eyes.

She had said
things to him he would likely never forget, wanted to forget, but probably
wouldn’t nonetheless, because it all rang true. He was a control freak and a
self-centered bastard at times. And he didn’t understand Cameron’s need for
music.

It was the same
with her writing. Shannon always told him it wasn’t
what
she did. It was
who
she was. It wasn’t as if she’d chosen to be a writer, it had
chosen her with the endless stories running rampart in her brain and needing to
be told. It had gotten to the point where she couldn’t ignore them anymore. He
came to understand her need for writing, so why couldn’t he understand Cameron’s
need for music and song writing?

Probably
because he was terrified he would end up like—all right—like Cole Jackson. Someone
so smart and talented that they threw it all away for the lure of drugs,
alcohol, fame and sex. How many great ones had self-destructed to the point of
death? Great ones like Jim Morrison, Jimmy Hendrix, Janice Joplin and Kurt
Cobain. He realized it was a totally different time and era, but that didn’t
matter. It was what he remembered. Now if he took in the whole picture, there were
a tremendous amount of highly talented musicians who led fairly normal lives. So
why did he always remember the tragedies instead of the success stories?

Always a
pessimist, never an optimist, that was him. Yeah, he was one those people who
saw the half empty glass. Shannon, and Cheryl for the matter, saw the glass
half full. So why couldn’t he learn from them?

Glancing at his
beautiful, pregnant wife, he actually felt his heart pick up a beat.
So he
wasn’t dead after all
? A damn good thing considering he had four children
and another on the way. If only he didn’t feel eighty-years-old instead of
thirty-four.

He finally
resigned to getting up and out of the room, but as he stood he grabbed for the
wall to steady himself. Having no food for almost twenty-four hours was not
necessarily a wise decision. His body ached as he walked toward Cheryl with a
numb butt and legs. Sitting down he held out his arms to her and thank God, she
melted into them, laid her head on his chest, and as always, had the patience
to stay and give to him her understanding, her love and the comfort of her
body.

Burying his
face in her hair he breathed in the scent of her shampoo, freesia, her favorite.
And since John didn’t care what he smelled like, he used her shampoo as well. Maybe
he did it on purpose so when they were apart, his own scented hair reminded him
of her.

John would
never forget the first time he set eyes on her. He’d been on routine patrol and
had come across a beat-up old Mustang with a flat tire and a young blonde
cursing up a blue streak and kicking the tire out of frustration. It was
obvious immediately to John that she was having some trouble changing the tire
herself.

Now, it
happened to be one of those ninety degree, hot and humid summer days when the
last thing he wanted to do was get out of his air-conditioned cruiser. One step
out of the car and he knew what waited for him, new instant suffocation would
come. The weather reports had said the air quality was poor and would make even
the healthiest of people gasp for a decent breath of cool, dry air. And the
weather reports were indeed right. The air sucked.

But of course,
he climbed out of his cruiser and went to do his civic duty. He fully intended
to ask if he could call a service truck for assistance. But one look at her
pretty face, red from the heat, her tank top clinging to her small firm
breasts, her barely there jean shorts, frayed at the bottom, showing off
incredible legs and pink flip flops bringing out the pink polish of her
toenails, and he’d lost all capability to breathe or speak.

He’d grabbed
the tire iron, changed her flat and replaced it with her spare without so much
as saying a word. Cheryl had gone on and on, but John had no idea what she
said, all he could think about was sex and what a great time to be thinking
about sex. What was he, some kind of pervert? He’d come to the aid of a
stranger and could think of nothing but doing it with her.

After
completing the tire change, they went their separate ways. However, two days
later, while sitting at his desk, working on his never-ending paper work pile,
he glanced up to the sound of a woman’s voice, a voice that sounded vaguely
familiar, and he found himself staring into the prettiest amber eyes he’d ever
seen. The voice and the amber eyes belonged to the pretty blonde whose flat
tire he had changed.

Today she wore
a sleeveless, short sundress and instantly his stomach tightened and his blood
began to pump in a southerly direction. Damn, she made him think of sex.
Christ
John, think of something else and quick before you have to stand up and shake
her hand,
her small hands full of something wrapped in tin foil.

“May I help you?”
he managed to say in his calm, patrolman’s voice, though he felt anything but
calm.

“Yes, I...my
name is Cheryl Bradford, and I wanted to stop by and thank you for changing my
tire the other day.” She paused, held out her hands and blushed. “I brought you
something I baked.”

John took the
foil-wrapped package from her, his fingers lightly brushing her soft delicate
ones. “Thank you. What is it?”

She smiled,
bringing John’s attention to her full, pink and kissable lips, and he again
thought of sex.
Oh Boy! He was in trouble
.

“It’s blueberry
bread. I made it for you and picked the berries myself.” She paused and
suddenly looked uncertain. “I hope you’re not allergic to berries?”

John barely
comprehended what she said as his focus centered solely on her mouth and what pleasure
it could bring him.

“Are you
allergic?”

John coughed
and averted his eyes from her lips to the bread he carried. “Um, no and thank
you. I love blueberry bread.”

She shifted on
her feet, suddenly seeming at a loss for words. “Well, I better be going. I
don’t want to keep you from your work.”

Think John? And
think fast. Don’t let this incredible woman slip away because if you do, you
may never see her again.

“As a matter of
fact, I was just leaving. I’ll escort you to your car,” he lied. He wasn’t going
anywhere until his paperwork pile disappeared.

There was a
moment or two of awkward silence when they reached her Mustang. And to John’s
surprise, she reached inside her car and handed him a business card. “Bradford’s
Bakery.” He stared at the card, completely bewildered. Was there a business
purpose to this? Or could he hope it was of a personal nature and he hadn’t
misinterpreted the silent interested looks she’d thrown his way—still throwing
his way now.

“You’re a baker?”
How stupid of him, of course she was, the card said so.

Her laughter
was light and nervous. “Yes, but it’s not why I gave it to you.”

John raised his
brows in silent hope. “It’s not?”

She blushed and
it made her look about sixteen, not that she was probably much older than
twenty anyway. Hell, he’d only just turned twenty-five himself.

“No,” she
replied and then she was gone, and he continued standing there staring at her
car like an idiot as she exited the parking lot. Why hadn’t he asked her out? She
all but told him she was interested. He knew why though? He was out of practice.
Way out of practice.

John spent the
rest of the day struggling with his feelings. He had been divorced from Shannon
now for two years. There should be no guilt in wanting to date another woman. Just
because he hadn’t yet, didn’t mean he couldn’t? Wouldn’t?

However, up
until this point, he’d yet to meet a woman who interested him. Someone who
intrigued him to the point he wanted to pursue her. A woman who attracted him
in a physical way that sent his libido into overdrive and made him realize how
long it had been. Made him yearn for the intimacy two people shared. Shit! Cheryl
did it all. Made him want all and believe he could have all.

He had tried
his hardest with Shannon. He had loved her beyond reason at seventeen. Had done
right by her and married her when she became pregnant. He loved his son, but
unfortunately, their marriage never progressed forward. They’d been too young,
but nothing and he meant nothing, would ever make him regret what happened. He
had a beautiful seven-year-old son and an ex-wife he still loved as a friend. Yet,
there was something missing, the emotional and physical attachment with another
human being.

His fingers
absentmindedly toyed with the card. Maybe it was time to move forward in his
life. That evening he called her because if he didn’t do it then, he would lose
his nerve, never call and always wonder what if? And what ifs were never good.

They met the
following night for dinner and eight months later—they married. That happened
nine years ago and she still made him ache for her constantly. His body, heart
and soul needed her, loved her.

“I’m sorry I
shut you out.”

“John...”

“No, let me
finish.” He looked at her, and she was still as pretty as ever. The years had
been kind to her. She still looked twenty-three, the age she had been when they
met.

“I don’t know
what I would do without you in my life. You are everything to me.” His
trembling hand slid gently over her belly. “Our children are my life. And I
know you love Cameron, even though he’s not biologically your son, and you’re
hurting and frightened for him as well.” John paused to sniff and wipe the
moisture from his eyes.

“I shouldn’t
have shut you out, but I had to be alone. To think...hell,” he snorted, “I
wanted to sink into the dark underground of blame and shame knowing he ran away
because of me.”

“Oh honey,” Cheryl
said as she placed her soft, warm hand on his cheek.

“I’m okay now. I’m
ready to go downstairs, join the world and fight for Cameron.” He squeezed
Cheryl as tight as her expanding belly allowed. “Fight for all our children. I’ll
never let you down again. Or shut you out. I promise.”

After John
spent the day with his wife and three small children, he drove to Shannon’s
house, ready to face the consequences for everything that happened. He was ready
to face Shannon and apologize for his behavior of late. But before he left, his
son, Matt needed to go number two, and for some reason he always wanted his dad
to wipe him. Matt said Mom was a girl and boys went to the bathroom with boys.

As John stood
outside the bathroom waiting for the words, “I’m done,” from his son, he leaned
against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment. Damn he was asleep on his
feet. The first stop, once he left his house, would be Dunkin Donuts for a
large black hazelnut coffee.

John stood, and
stood, and stood, waiting for Matt who could take ten minutes or longer at
times to go. Today, however, John had neither the patience nor the time and he
barged through the door. His feet froze in place as he looked at his son. John
didn’t know whether to laugh or whether to yell at him.

There was his
son sitting on the toilet seat, his pants down around his ankles, totally
oblivious to John’s presence as he plunged his face with the red rubber toilet
plunger.

“Matt,” John
yelled, struggling to stay in control.

Matt dropped
the plunger and John swallowed a laugh. A bright red circle outlined his son’s
face from where the plunger had obviously sucked on it for quite some time.

John fought
disgust and laughter at the same time. It had to be the most disgusting thing
John could think of to put on your face. Christ, didn’t Matt know what they
used it for? After John scrubbed his face three times with anti-bacterial soap,
he left his noisy house and was now alone in his car driving down Route 139
toward Brant Rock, laughing his ass off so hard his eyes watered. Matt was a
nut. What the hell would possess someone to plunge his face?

God, it was
disgusting when you thought about where the plunger had been. But putting all
grown up thoughts aside, to an almost three-year-old, it probably looked like a
fun way to kill time while he waited for his shit to come out. Well, no more
toilet plungers inside the bathroom. Matt needed toys to play with to occupy
his toilet time, or a book. Yeah, a book would be good. Anything would be better
than a plunger. What a story to tell Matt when he grew older, and they both
could have a good laugh. John could also bribe him, but good, with threats of
divulging the details to his friends, or worse, a girlfriend. John laughed
again, wondering if Matt would ever remember doing it.