Call Me Sugar Read online

  Morgan Paredes was a close friend of my mother at one time and worked for the newspaper office fourteen years ago, so when I walk inside the Springhill News at straight-up 9 AM, my entire mood perks up when I see her familiar face.

  “Ms. Parades? Is that you?”

  With the air heavily perfumed by scents of lavender and mint, the aroma from the lit candle reminds me of visiting my grandparents as a child and the blooming flowers and herbs from her garden.

  Her eyes light up, and a smile flashes across her face. “Well, I’ll be. I heard you were moving back, but you never know if these things are truth or more silly small-town stories.” She hugs my neck then takes a step back. “You’re absolutely beautiful. You look so much like your mother.”

  Mom and I do look alike. It used to irritate me as a child when people mentioned our physical similarities and claimed that we looked like sisters. As an adult, I’ve learned to realize the huge compliment that is. Even after suffering through a stressful couple of years when Daddy became ill, she’s still stunningly beautiful and looks years younger than her age.

  “No small-town story,” I respond without mentioning my mother. “I guess, in hindsight, I just missed the place. I think I may be back for good. Not sure if you’ve heard, but I’m also living in the old house again, although you’d never know it was the same place if you could see the beautiful job Keith has done.” My heart softens just saying his name.

  “I’d love to see what’s he done. I’m also eager to see the museum. My goodness, there’s a lot of folks really looking forward to the grand opening. What brings you into the paper today, sweetheart?”

  After we spend a good forty-five minutes deciding on a design for some brochures, pens, and writing tablets, we place an order for two dozen women’s handbags, an assortment of Western boots, and a whole slew of jewelry. I thank Morgan for her time and ask her over for afternoon coffee then head out with a craving for Sonic.

  After I scarf down a junior breakfast burrito and run by the museum to sign off on the delivery, I stop by the hardware store for a quick look. Three baskets of begonias and two ferns later, I head home with the intention of a pleasant visit with Morgan while hoping she picks up some of Homer’s cookies, which she mentioned doing. Homer’s Foodway isn’t a large grocery store, but they offer prime beef, mostly locally raised by none other than Ryker Prime Meats, and have a wonderful in-house bakery. Butter cookies, thickly glazed donuts, and seven-grain bread have been their specialties and the best that money can buy for as long as I can remember. I foolishly walked right past them all when I stopped in before.

  Thoughts of freshly baked cookies suddenly have me and my insatiable sweet tooth salivating.

  Thirty or so minutes later, I’m opening up a box of Starbuck’s medium roast K-cups, having finished watering the ferns and begonias and placing them on the porch to hang later and running a brush through my hair. Once I toss the empty box into the garbage can, I bite the bullet and send Keith a quick message just to let him know the delivery was on time.

  I thought you were kidding about the two-headed calf. That thing is freaking awesome.

  With my phone still in my palm, I flinch at the sound of the doorbell, instantly put out with myself for being so jittery and emotional. I can’t force something that’s not there.

  I tried once—and failed.

  Morgan flashes a soft smile when I open the door.

  “Hey. Come on in, Morgan.”

  Morgan walks into the sunken den with her eyes widening. “Heavens to Betsy, girl. The house is stunning. Your daddy would be tickled pink. And those,” she adds while eyeing the Pottery Barn sofa and accessories, “I need to know more about. You sure didn’t get anything that chic around these parts.” New rectangular-shaped decorative pillows and a throw blanket in a rich midnight blue make the arctic-white sofa pop to life. I hadn’t really noticed just how much until now. And she’s right. It would thrill my daddy to know I lived in the house he bought to raise his family in.

  “The house is pretty, isn’t it?” I return her smile but also take note that she still hasn’t asked a single thing about my mother. Of course, I know the reason for that. It’s because it’s Springhill. And because small towns never forget. They never forgive. When my mother remarried so quickly after my dad’s passing, she lost every friend she had—Morgan included.

  Not at all surprised that she’s chosen Homer’s butter cookies, I take the box and inhale the sinful aroma of butter and vanilla and lead us into the kitchen. “Have a seat. Please.” I gesture her toward the dining room table, switch on the Keurig, and remove two coffee mugs and dessert plates from the top cabinet. “How do you take your coffee, Morgan?”

  Her expression lightens. “Oh, sweetheart. There’s only one way. Tall, dark, and rich. Just like my man.”

  Nearly two hours pass, and we’ve discussed her upcoming retirement, Pottery Barn furniture, and the grand opening of the museum that’s three days away. Right as I begin telling her about my paralegal job, my phone chimes.

  I told you, sugar. No boring old dusty crap in our museum.

  My throat tightens, and as hard as I fight them, tears well again as I stare down at his text. I almost wish he wouldn’t call me that. It reminds me of past times. It reminds me of intimate times. It makes me wonder if he’s used that pet name for other women and also stirs that weird feeling in my chest again about the strange behavior between him and Jason this morning.

  Hating the way I feel, I reach for another cookie that I absolutely do not want and shove it into my mouth anyway, once again hit with the idea that this move could absolutely be my biggest mistake ever. After a long swallow of coffee that tastes like mud, I feel a nearly overpowering need to tell Morgan about my feelings for Keith, but it seems selfish to blast her with my problems when I haven’t seen her in years. When a lone, hot tear slides down my face, I mentally kick myself for showing emotion.

  “Hey,” Morgan stares at me sympathetically. “Is everything okay, Jen?”

  My stomach tenses. “No. Not really.”

  Minutes later, I’ve opened up to an ex-friend of my mother’s that I haven’t seen in over fifteen years, one that I know may or may not keep my words to herself. My heart feels like it’s bleeding, my insides are tight, and I’m seconds from having an ugly cry where my eyes get puffy and blood-red and my nose runs off my face, all of which is the last thing I want, or need, to be doing.

  “Guess I’m just dump material.” I force a smile, trying to make light. Morgan knows that I dated Keith in high school but seemed sincerely shocked when I mentioned Jason.

  “Oh hogwash, sweetheart. What’s with this dump material nonsense? Your momma and daddy raised a beautiful, intelligent woman. Any man in their right mind would be lucky to have you on their arm. But first and foremost, I think you need to protect that big caring ticker of yours. If something doesn’t feel right, it probably isn’t. Sometimes,” she adds with a flash of warning in her gaze, “things aren’t always as they seem.”

  “I don’t follow you, Morgan. Are you trying to tell me something?” I’m suddenly thinking of the shock in Jason’s eyes this morning, the tenseness in Keith’s body, the vibes in the air that were thick enough to cut with a knife when he walked in on the two of us. I detest the way I’m feeling, what I’m thinking. Gossip ignites like kerosene in small towns like Springhill, and I hate to think there could be ugly rumors floating around about Keith or Jason. Use your head, Jen. The proof is right in front of you. It’s always been there.

  Morgan sighs then leans over the table. She she speaks slowly, cautiously, and in a tone that’s warm and motherly. “All I’m trying to say, and this is between you, me, and the fence post, is that those two are close. Unusually so.” She stands and takes her coffee mug to the sink and quickly changes a subject I’m nowhere near done with discussing.

  “Jack is making burgers tonight. Why don’t you join us and get your mind off all this? His famous ‘Jack Burgers,’ as
he calls them, are definitely addictive. One bite and you’ll be thinking of nothing else. That’s a promise. I’d love you to join us, sweetheart.”

  Appetite gone, I thank her, but decline.

  Food is the last thing on my mind.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jen

  The days have passed in an anxious, hurried blur. We’ve arranged what’s an amazing collection of Western heritage and Native American art and artifacts, along with rows of old firearms, saddles, bits and spurs, and early rodeo trophies. Beautiful Western art lines two walls, showcasing and bringing past outlaws and lawmen back to life. Keith has already scheduled an invitational art exhibit with paintings and sculptures by some of the most well-known Western artists in the nation, and providing we do well in the next three months, he’s already considering a small addition to house more history and culture of the working cowboy.

  I’m actually excited out of my mind.

  With both of us working like Trojans, we’ve barely had enough time to catch our breath or even stop for lunch, much less talk about anything that doesn’t involve what still needs finishing before the opening.

  “I’m fucking beat, Jen.” Keith pushes a palm over his sweaty forehead. “Nothing I can think of sounds better than a long hot shower, a bite of something to eat, and a nice warm bed.”

  Same shit. Different day, Keith.

  Thrown by the repetitive, direct, and straightforward word-for-word of what he’s said each of the last few nights, his comment still stings—deep down, burning in a way that’s kept me tossing and turning at night in my dark bedroom, alone, wondering, worrying, and fighting heart break. Undoubtedly, he’s chosen to brush off what happened between us.

  “Sounds good.” My response comes out clipped, which makes me wonder if we can work together productively.

  The past week has been damned difficult.

  “Get some rest,” I add icily as I near the front door while feeling his hard fixation on me and hoping like hell he follows me.

  He doesn’t.

  Is he crawling into that bed alone? Is it just him in that nice big shower?

  Two weeks ago may as well never have happened. My mother was right. My brother was right. My heart is still full of him, and I know I’m only footsteps away from a second dose of excruciating sorrow and regret. There’s a seriousness to Keith that wasn’t there before, a cold chill to his tone, a stiffness to his body. One minute he’s fine. The next, he’s pulling away. Emotion flickers in his expression then, just as quickly, returns to cold ice. He appears overwhelmed, confused. Doubt swims in his eyes, which tugs hard at my heartstrings. But yet, I’ve caught him looking at me during the day. I’ve seen his jaw clenching tight and the vein in his forehead pulsing like he’s holding something back or being pulled in opposite directions.

  There’s something he’s struggling to tell me. Something big. Something life altering.

  Use your head, Jen. Don’t be a fool. You know what he’s not saying.

  Heavy-hearted and second-guessing every single thing I’ve done, every word I’ve spoken, and every move I’ve made, my eyes sting with tears, yet, I’m compelled by this undying urgency to simply be near him, to share his air, to breathe his breath. The need is so strong at times that it’s almost crippling. With a sudden surge of adrenaline flying through me, I pull out my phone a block away from home and enter a text.

  I’m coming over. I can’t do this.

  For long seconds, I stare down at the message, my mind a blur, my heart way too susceptible. I want to hit Send when I shouldn’t even be texting him. I want him to respond when I shouldn’t even want him touching me. I want so many things that shouldn’t even be crossing my mind. But it’s Keith, and he’s like a powerful opiate, a compulsive habit that I’ve been unable to kick since I walked into second period late and saw his face bend into that immaculate grin. He’s in my soul in ways he could never understand, in ways that make no sense even to me. Sensations twist and tug through me that feel like knives and hot pointed objects trying to sever my heart while awareness slaps at me like an angry palm across the cheek. Keith doesn’t need to see me.

  He doesn’t want me coming over.

  He doesn’t need or want me at all.

  I delete the message as quickly as I typed it.

  I love Keith Ryker, unconditionally, categorically. I’ll love him until my last dying breath. But along with the love also comes uncertainty and indecision, which is so deep, so heart wrenching, that I’m battling to keep a sound mind … and my sanity.

  Can I work for a man I’m in love with when he doesn’t return the feelings?

  Can I be in love with a man and be in lust for his best friend?

  Does Keith regret bringing me back to Springhill?

  Does Jason?

  ****

  Just before 5 PM, with my stomach in knots, I arrive at the museum. The Grand Opening is only a little over an hour away, a quick sixty plus minutes before Springhill residents, I hope, start coming out to see Springhill Museum of the West. Surprised to see Jason’s Escalade parked beside Keith’s truck, I’m suddenly a good ten times more nervous than I just was. I slide in the spot next to Keith’s Ford F-350 with my Jeep feeling like a Matchbox car against the Texas-size truck.

  After another smoothing of my dress and re-check of makeup, I add a touch of gloss to my bottom lip then gather my purse. I’ve dressed in a knee-length, sleeveless, fitted black dress that’s simple, but classy and, ironically, comfortable. My shoes are nude, open toe, high-block heels with tie-ups, and I’ve worn my hair in a simple-to-fix twisted bun with the crown teased up high and a few strands left loose around my face. My stomach shifts with nerves, but I’m also excited out of my mind. I’m pumped and almost giddy with eagerness.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Seconds later, I’m reaching for the door with adrenaline coursing through my veins, only to get an instant sinking feeling deep in my belly when I discover it locked. Brows rising, I shrug off the eerie vibes and dig inside my purse for the key.

  The instant I step inside, that rush of excitement returns. Everything from the light fixtures to the shiny wood floors to the smudge-free cabinets is all sparkling clean and absolutely picture perfect. Chest contracting, happy and positive, I blow out another long breath, which almost sounds loud in the pin-drop quiet building, and then I stride toward the back where Keith and Jason must be. With a smile on my face when I reach the room that has no name because Keith decided there was absolutely no real need, the sight only feet away has shock and doubt and a whole other list of emotions rushing through me in gut-grinding waves. I feel my knees wobbling and the color draining from my face while past images play through my head.

  Stares that seemed sensual.

  Touches that appeared stronger than casual friends.

  Boots kicking at the ground that seemed angry and frustrated.

  Tension so thick you could cut it.

  Looking gorgeous and sophisticated in charcoal-gray dress slacks with a perfectly starched, perfectly fitted white dress shirt and monk strap shoes in a shiny brown leather, Keith looks like he’s just walked off the floor of a GQ shoot as he peers silently into the Western stagecoach. He appears content and relaxed and pleased.

  He’s also not alone.

  Jason is behind him. He’s dressed similarly, but in all black. His face is against the nape of Keith’s neck, his arms wrapped around his torso. He’s saying something I can’t hear, but it’s amusing Keith, and I can see a hint of a grin on his face. The two of them are painstakingly engaged in the moment, the intensity and sensuality burning between them like hot white fire.

  For the next few seconds, every tender affection I’ve ever felt for either of these men is lost. My chest almost chokes. I want to scream, but my voice is lodged in my chest. I’m trying my best to will the emotion away and calm the anxiety inside me, but the tears keep welling, and the images of Keith and Jason from years back keep coming. I want to run and never l
ook back, but then, I can’t move. I’m frozen in place and thinking about … everything. Should I turn away? Should I leave Springhill? Should I demand the truth? Should I…

  Sometimes things aren’t as they seem, Jen. Morgan’s words run through my mind as my head tells me to pack up my belongings and drive straight back to my paralegal job, my small but comfortable apartment, my long-time friends. Heart springing into my throat, I’m numb, immobile, my blood running cold. Unequivocally, utterly turned to stone, I can’t avert my gaze from the two of them or my thoughts of Keith pushing into Jason from behind, Jason holding my head between his palms while he thrusts between my lips, the two of them inside me at the same time. Everything in my breasts, my belly, and between my legs longs for sex. Extraordinary, unconventional, lewd, salacious sex … skin slick with sweat, muscles contracting, nerves being breeched … with not one but both Keith and Jason.

  Nothing can change the hunger inside me. Nothing! Not fourteen years. Not four hundred miles. Not the two of them longing for each other or sharing an intimate moment.

  With my breath lodged deep in my chest, I watch Jason’s ass muscles flexing every time he leans into Keith, his body as close as humanly possible, his lips brushing against Keith’s neck. He’s in his element, happy, relaxed, at ease. And Keith … well, is Keith. Hot as hell with dress pants that fit him like they were made for him, a dress shirt showing every ripple of muscle across his back—he’s hot sex and sin. His head tips back, and he reaches behind to caress the side of Jason’s thigh, which lifts a soft, deep groan from Jason that has me sucking in air and shamefully wet.