Songbird (9 page)

I
t’s suddenly so clear.

The sleepless nights. The zero interest in the opposite sex. The agitation and restlessness. All the frustration that’s consumed me for weeks suddenly makes perfect sense.

I’ve been missing her.

I make this startling discovery as I head back to our table. When I sit down, the whole family’s saying
what a lovely girl Callie is
, while my brother grins like an idiot. Lorie glares at me over her champagne glass like she’s going to kick my ass.

What’s her problem?

I can’t worry about her right now. The only thing keeping me in this seat is the fact that tonight’s important to our family. My mind needs to be on the benefit and not on the beautiful girl I just let walk out the door.

I’ve never missed a woman. Ever.

“How did you meet Callie?” Mom asks.

I recognize the sparkle in her eye, and I hate like hell to disappoint her. She’s always on my ass about meeting a nice girl and settling down, but nice girls are few and far between. Besides, who wants a nice girl? Certainly not me. Nice girls want the picket fence. Nice girls want a commitment.

The last thing I need is anything that remotely resembles a commitment.

“I met Callie at Simon’s wedding. She was the maid of honor.”

My voice is nonchalant, as if I don’t know every curve of the woman’s body or the sound of her quiet sighs as she sleeps.

“It’s too bad she couldn’t have joined us for dinner,” Dad says.

I agree, because these benefits are full of gold-digging tramps. That’s why I always try to bring a date—to at least give the impression I’m involved with someone. News that I’m here alone is sure to spread like wildfire.

I spend the next two hours listening to speeches and watching my brother and his girlfriend whisper into each other’s ears. After a few raffles and one last video presentation that brings tears to everyone’s eyes, the benefit finally starts to wind down. I begin to write my customary check when my phone vibrates in my pocket.

I’m home. 453 Tangerine Lane. #3A.

“Look at that smile,” Mom says.

Owen smirks knowingly. “Must’ve been some text.”

I grin and slip my phone back into my jacket. After writing my check, I pass it to Dad. Mom eyes me curiously when I stand up and kiss her on the cheek.

“Headed home already?”

“Early meeting tomorrow.”

I promise to call her later in the week and tell everyone goodnight. I’ve almost made it to the exit when someone grabs my arm.

“Dev, wait.”

I turn and find myself face-to-face with my brother and his girlfriend. Owen looks serious. He’s rarely serious.

“We need to talk.”

“Can’t, little brother. I’ll call you tomorrow.” I then smile at his girlfriend. “It was nice seeing you again, Lorie.”

She grabs my arm. “Listen to me, Devin McAllister. I know where you’re going, and I know what you think’s gonna happen when you get there. If you hurt my friend, or make her cry, or do anything to upset her, I swear they’ll never find your body.”

“And I’ll help her dig,” Owen says firmly.

I narrow my eyes. “What are you guys talking about?”

“You’re going to see Callie, aren’t you?”

“It’s none of your business, but yes.”

Lorie’s eyes flash with anger. “Oh, it’s my business now. Maybe it wasn’t my business when you put that disgusting hickey on her neck. And it probably wasn’t my business when you left a card on her pillow to serve as some bullshit goodbye. But make no mistake,
this
is my business now, and if you do anything to hurt—”

“Why are you assuming I’m going to hurt her?”

My brother shakes his head. “Dude, just . . . don’t be an asshole tonight, okay? And call me in the morning, because I’m pretty sure you’re going to need to.”

What the hell?

“I don’t have time for this,” I mutter. “I promise I won’t upset her, and I’ll call you in the morning. Is everyone satisfied?”

“For now,” Lorie says.

“Awesome. Goodnight.”

Traffic’s insane, but I finally make it to Callie’s apartment just after two. I anxiously knock on the door, ridiculously eager to get my hands on her. Maybe she’ll be wearing some flimsy lingerie. Maybe she’ll be naked. My mind’s busy conjuring all the possibilities when she opens the door . . . wearing a sweatshirt and jeans.

“Hey,” she says softly, stepping aside to let me in.

“Hey. You okay?”

She looks pale as a ghost. Is she sick? She looks sick. Maybe I should call an ambulance. Or my dad.

“I’m okay.” Callie leads me over to the sofa. “Look, Devin, I know you probably have some plans for us for tonight, but
that
won’t be happening.”

“Oh.” Disappointment floods me, but if the nauseated look on her face is any indication, it’s probably best. Besides, there’s the next night. And the next.

“But we need to talk, so I’m glad you’re here. I have something I need to tell you.” She abruptly jumps to her feet and walks toward her kitchen. “Would you like something to drink?”

I can’t tell if she’s being a good hostess or simply stalling, but I ask for a beer. It looks like I’m gonna need it. I hadn’t pegged her for the kind of woman who needs to
talk about her feelings
.

When she returns to the living room, Callie hands me a bottle and sits down next to me. I notice she only brought one.

“You’re not drinking?”

She curls her feet beneath her. “Unfortunately, no. I won’t be drinking for a long time.”

I’ve had it with the riddles.

“All right, what’s going on? My brother and his girlfriend threatened to murder me if I make you cry. Something’s obviously up with you because you just want to talk.”

Her forehead creases. “Don’t you ever just
talk
to a woman?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Why not? The girls you usually date don’t have enough sense to carry on an intelligent conversation?”

“I don’t date, Callie.”

“I see. You just sleep with them.”

“Sometimes. Is there something wrong with that?”

“And are you careful?”

“Careful?”

“Safe,” she says softly. “We didn’t use protection. I just wondered if that’s typical for you.”

Oh.
It’d be easy to blame the alcohol, but honestly, using protection was the very last thing on my mind that night.

“No, that’s not typical. I’m sorry about that.”

“So am I.”

Callie seems far more relaxed after my apology.
Maybe this night won’t be an epic failure after all.
I slide closer to her, but she raises her hand in warning.

“We’re not finished.”

I groan and lean back against the couch.

“Devin, I need you to listen. Something happened that weekend. I’m almost positive you won’t want to sleep with me after you hear what I’m about to say.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“I don’t.” Callie sits up a little straighter and squares her shoulders. “I want you to know I expect nothing from you. Our weekend together was a mistake, and I’ll deal with the consequences of it. I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do at this point, but I thought you should at least know what’s going on.”

“What’s going on?”

Her eyes flood with tears.

“Devin, I’m pregnant.”

Pregnant.

Pregnant?

I stare at her. She stares at me. I watch her closely, hoping that at any moment she’s going to burst out laughing.

But she’s not laughing. She’s crying.

I hear Lorie’s voice in my suddenly throbbing head.

Don’t make her cry.

“Why . . . why are you telling me?”

She wipes her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You’re assuming it’s mine?”

“Of course it’s yours!”

I snort. “Really? How can you be so sure? Maybe it was that bartender in the hotel’s piano bar. Or maybe it was the guy who sat with you at the reception. Or maybe—just maybe—it was the photographer you were with tonight. You two seem pretty close.”

Even as the bitter words drip off my tongue, I know better. Her face is just too furious . . . her eyes too heartbroken.

Suddenly, Callie stops crying. Her eyes flash with fury just seconds before she slaps me across the face.

Despite the ringing in my ears, I can hear my brother’s warning.

Don’t be an asshole tonight.

Too late.

I groan as bright sunlight floods the room. Muttering a curse, I cover my face with one arm and tighten my grip on the bottle of whiskey in my hand.

“Oh, good. You’re already dead. Saves me the trouble.”

I feel like death.
How much did I drink?

“What time is it?”

I struggle to sit up. When I open my eyes against the harshness of the sun’s rays, the room immediately begins to spin. Groaning, I lay back down.

“Don’t you mean what
day
is it?” Owen snaps. “Your secretary called. She was concerned. Why are you on the floor?”

I’m on the floor?

“Hell if I know.”

“Get your sorry ass up. You’ve had two days to wallow in your self-inflicted misery. Now stand up, take a shower, and be a man for once in your life.”

“What is your problem? And why are you screaming?”

“Because you lied.”

“I did?”

I groan as he helps me to my feet. When I’m halfway steady, I glance down to find myself wearing a tux—a very wrinkled and whiskey-stained tux.

The room starts spinning again, so I stagger to the couch.

Owen sighs loudly and sits down next to me. “Yes, you did. You promised me you wouldn’t be an asshole. You lied.”

I squint against the blinding sunshine and try to focus on his face. It’s too much effort, and my head starts to pound as memories flash through my mind. Some moments are a little fuzzy—and some don’t make sense at all—but there’s one memory that’s clear as crystal.