One More Time

  One More Time

  By Shawn Lane

  Published by JMS Books LLC

  Visit jms-books.com for more information.

  Copyright 2018 Shawn Lane

  ISBN 9781634867030

  Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com

  Image(s) used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.

  All rights reserved.

  WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

  No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the purposes of review.

  This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It may contain sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which might be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States of America.

  NOTE: This book was previously published by Loose Id.

  * * * *

  One More Time

  By Shawn Lane

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 1

  The funeral was the worst day for me. Not that anyone loves funerals, but I had to stand there accepting everyone’s condolences for Donald’s death as though my life for the last six years hadn’t been one big lie.

  Well, maybe six years was an exaggeration.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, Dane,” a neighbor, Mrs. Worth or Mirth, something like that, said as she stopped before me at the cemetery. She held my hands in a viselike grip, her skin ice-cold. I shivered. “Donald was such a sweet man. And he adored you so.”

  He did, once. I didn’t know when he had stopped; he hadn’t told me, though I guessed maybe he’d planned on it.

  “Thank you,” I said, numb to the words but not to the hollow feeling in my heart. She continued past me and another person took her place, saying similar words meant to comfort me for the loss of my partner.

  I wanted to scream, to rage, that Donald had not loved me, not anymore, and was planning on leaving me before he inconveniently had a heart attack, but his service wasn’t the time or place. And there never would be a good time for the people here at the cemetery. They didn’t need to know.

  The sky was dark and ominous with clouds, though the rain hadn’t managed to appear…yet. The news reports were all about storm watch. Rain was so dramatic in Southern California.

  A colleague of Donald’s came to stand before me. They’d taught at the same university for years before Donald’s mother’s death a couple of years ago. Donald’s mother had been very wealthy, and since he had inherited everything, Donald had taken early retirement.

  “You know, Dane,” Professor Arndt said, taking my hands as everyone had before, “it’s all right to cry. You don’t have to be so strong and controlled.”

  I supposed that was some sort of comment on my dry eyes. I hadn’t cried during the service, hadn’t cried as I tossed a handful of dirt on Donald’s coffin. But if this guy thought my heart hadn’t been shredded, he was wrong.

  “I will. Thank you for coming,” I said, like a robot.

  “If there’s anything you need…”

  I didn’t miss the innuendo. The offer came with a barely hidden leer. My stomach lurched.

  “There’s nothing. Thank you, Professor.”

  I’d met Donald at the university as a student myself, barely twenty when I entered his classroom. Expecting to take a class on criminal justice, I had instead found myself a lover and a mentor. Donald was by the book, though, and insisted I transfer out of his class before he took me to bed the first time. We’d moved fast then. Too fast, really, and just a month into our relationship, I was moving in with him. But I’d never left in the last six years. I wondered as Professor Arndt continued down the line if he and Donald had ever been lovers.

  As people do after funerals, everyone made their way to our house—Donald’s house—to talk about Donald and to bring food and see if I needed anything in that big lonely house. I could barely function as people tried to engage me in conversation, some pushing glasses of brandy in my hand as though that would bring Donald back to life or make him love me again.

  I missed my best friend, Marty Castle, who’d left only a couple of days before Donald’s death for a whirlwind European vacation. I didn’t figure his trip needed to be ruined by me contacting him, but just then I really felt his absence.

  Friends offered to stay with me as everyone finally, mercifully left, but I turned them down, assuring them I would be fine. Alone.

  I shut the door on the last well-meaning person and double-locked it.

  For a few moments, I leaned against the closed door, the silent, empty house mocking me. This had been the house Donald grew up in, inherited upon his mother’s death. When I’d first moved in with Donald, he’d had a small bungalow in Burbank. This house, this mansion really, was in Hollywood Hills.

  I moved away from the front hall and made my way to the kitchen. Earlier it had been a mess with glasses and paper plates everywhere from those who had visited, but some of the neighbors had cleaned it for me before they left. Tears stung my eyes, and I willed them away. I couldn’t afford to break down. I might never recover.

  After I made myself a cup of tea, I walked down the long hallway to the room at the end on the right. Donald’s office. I twisted the knob and entered the dark room. Flicking on the light, I stared at the large empty leather chair behind his mahogany desk.

  How often had I come in here to ask him a question or to tell him something? A million times. Or so it seemed. And he’d always looked up from whatever he was doing with his glasses perched on the end of his long, thin nose. “What is it, Dane?”

  I could almost hear him.

  Mechanically, I walked around the desk and sat in the oversize chair. It smelled like him. Masculine, fresh, and safe. Funny how safe had a smell, but if it did, it was Donald. I used to love this office, but now it reminded me of what I’d lost. Even before his heart attack.

  Just two days before Donald’s death, I had been in here cleaning. My lover had kept lists for everything. He was very organized. He always left them sitting in the middle of the desk, face up or face down; it never mattered as long as they were within his reach. I’d read them because they amused me.

  Talk to George.

  E-mail Kathy.

  Need paper towels and TP.

  Check source for Dane.

  Stuff like that. I wrote crime novels, had even gotten a couple published, and was working on another for my agent. Donald liked to help me with the research.

  That day I found some old lists, but also a new one he’d recently added to the stack. I suppose it was an invasion of privacy of sorts, but I hadn’t thought we had any secrets. He might have known I read his lists—he’d never made much of an effort to hide them.

  Talk with lawyer.

  Drinks with George?

  Contact University Review Board.

  Talk to Dane about Chris and Bobby, relationship.

  I had stared at the list, wondering what in God’s name the items on the list meant. As f
ar I knew, Donald didn’t know anyone named Chris or Bobby. And the only thing I could think of that Donald would talk to his lawyer about was finances. Of course the most troubling thing on the list was Talk to Dane about Chris and Bobby, relationship.

  I had tried to think what that could mean other than the obvious explanation, and I couldn’t come up with a single plausible reason he’d write that other than that Donald had been cheating on me. What did he want to talk to me about regarding our relationship, and what did it have to do with Chris and Bobby? But then I started to wonder if someone, even someone as organized as Donald, would really write breaking up with their boyfriend on their to-do list. Maybe it was something else he wanted to tell me about. Was it his relationship with me he wanted to talk about or his relationship with them?

  But who were these people? Were they the hot young things Donald planned to replace me with? I was twenty-six, hardly old, but then when Donald and I met, I’d only been twenty, so maybe six years was all the difference in the world to him.

  When Donald returned home from wherever he’d been that day, and of course I wondered if he’d been with these mysterious men, I waited for him to tell me. My stomach had been knotted with dread.

  Donald pecked me on the lips, then pulled back and frowned. “What’s wrong? You’re pale.”

  “Um.” I felt foolish, and he looked at me as though I’d lost my mind. “H-how did your day go?”

  “Good.” He continued to frown. “Maybe you should sit down.”

  I nodded, swallowing. Here it would come, at last, I thought. “Okay. Where do you want me to sit?”

  Donald shrugged. “I guess in a dining room chair. I don’t think it really matters, Dane.”

  So I sat in the high-backed wooden chair closest to the kitchen, looking expectantly at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Don’t you want to tell me something?” I ventured.

  “Tell you something?”

  Like, it’s over, Dane. I’ve replaced you.

  “I thought that’s why you wanted me to sit down.”

  He laughed. “No, Dane. I wanted you to sit because you look like you might faint. Do you want tea or something? Are you coming down with something?”

  “No, I—No.” Why wouldn’t he just spit out? This waiting was killing me.

  “All right, then I’m going into my office. Let me know if you need anything.” Donald kissed the top of my head and went down the hall to his office.

  But he never said a word that day or the next. Doubt, horrible doubts, had filled my head for two solid days. I’d thought about bringing it up myself, but every time I went to say something to him about it, the words froze in my throat.

  That night when we went to bed, Donald had made love to me like there was nothing wrong between us, and I was more confused than ever. Even the next day, though we didn’t have sex, he didn’t tell me it was over. Didn’t mention Chris, Bobby, or his lawyer. Nothing.

  The next day while having lunch with his friend George, whom he’d known all his life, Donald suddenly grabbed his chest, collapsed, and died before the paramedics arrived. George had told me about Donald’s death himself.

  Tears blurred my vision as I stared at the hated list. Would I ever know what any of it meant? Maybe. Talking to his lawyer could have meant changing his will, in which case I might be out of the house soon. The lawyer would come tell me—if Donald had changed his will. I didn’t know.

  Maybe I should ask George, Donald’s best friend. If anyone knew what had been going on with Donald, it would be George. How did one go about asking someone why their partner no longer loved them?

  Not that Donald had ever been particularly affectionate. He had no pet names for me. It was always Dane and nothing else. He rarely spoke of his feelings directly. He just indulged me in anything I wanted or thought I wanted, and when we made love, his body convinced me he loved me. Right after Donald’s mother died, he had come out and said, “I love you, Dane.” I’d been so startled I had stared at him until he actually laughed. I managed to form words of apology and love of my own, but he brushed it off and said he supposed I knew how he felt even without the words.

  I did, I had thought.

  Outside, rain splattered the office windows. The storm had arrived at last, and with it a chill in the room. Too many memories in this place. Like the time I had come in to distract him from whatever he’d been doing and he’d fucked me on his desk, brushing the papers off onto the floor in a frenzy to get us both naked. I’d yelled loud enough for it to echo through the whole house as he’d pounded into me. God, I had loved that night.

  I stood up and walked back around the desk, my fingers grazing the rich wood, memories flooding me with such pain I could barely breathe. Even if Donald had left the house to me, I might sell it. I couldn’t imagine living here without him.

  And so for the third night since his death—at the age of forty-eight, for fuck’s sake—I went upstairs to our bedroom, collapsed on our king-size bed, and sobbed myself to sleep.

  * * * *

  I woke to ringing. It took me a moment to orient myself. My heart thudded hard, as happens when one is awakened by a phone, I guess. Wiping my hand across my sleep-heavy eyelids, I sat up and reached for my cell phone, which rested on the bedside chest of drawers.

  “Hello,” I rasped. Then I looked to see who had called me. I didn’t get a lot of calls; I never had. Mostly from Donald. And those wouldn’t come any more.

  “Dane? It’s Emily.”

  My sister. We rarely talked. Of course, this was a rare occasion. I tried to figure out what time it was by looking around the room. Donald had insisted we have no clocks in our bedroom since he retired. The drapes were closed, and only a bit of light streamed in.

  “Dane?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” Though completely out of it, obviously. “What time is it?”

  “Ten. Did I wake you?”

  “Yes. I got to bed late. Given everything.”

  “I know; I’m sorry. I should have been there. I couldn’t get away.”

  Emily lived across the country in Vermont with her husband and two little kiddies.

  “So you said.” I winced, knowing it came out more harshly than I had intended. Sighing, I said, “It was okay. I managed.”

  “But you should have had family there. I’m a terrible sister.”

  “No, I…It’s all right, Em. There were lots of people at the service.” I swallowed the heavy lump in my throat and tried to ignore the sting in my eyes. No more crying, please.

  “Is anyone staying with you? What about your friend Marty?” she asked. In the background I could hear her children laughing and yelling at each other over some silly game. Life goes on. Somewhere.

  “I don’t need anyone, and anyway, Marty’s in Europe. He left right before.”

  “Dane.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Others offered. I said no. Kind of want to be alone right now.” Maybe.

  “Being alone is probably the worst thing right now. Come to Vermont for a visit.”

  “Emily—”

  “I’ve already spoken to Hank about it, and he thinks it’s a great idea. And I know the kids would love to have their Uncle Dane stay with us for a while. Say you will.”

  “Not right now, Emily. I have to get things settled here. Go through Donald’s things.”

  “I’m sure that can wait.”

  “Probably, but I think it might be better to get it done before I make any long-term plans.”

  “Coming for a visit is not long-term.”

  Closing my eyes, I resisted sighing again. “I know. I’ll think about it in a couple of weeks. After I make sure everything’s in order here.”

  Emily huffed. “All right, but I’m going to keep calling you until you agree. How are you holding up? I know it’s got to be terrible.”

  She had no idea. And it would be so easy to tell her everything. The lawyer, the Talk to Dane about Chris and Bobby,
relationship message. All of it. I hadn’t been able to tell anyone. Talk to anyone. Everyone around me was Donald’s friend, not mine. Rather pathetic.

  But my throat clogged on the words, and all I got out was, “Yeah, I’m managing. I’ll talk to you later. I need some coffee or something.”

  “Okay. Love you, Dane.”

  “Love you too.” I ended the call and just stared at the cell phone in my hand for what must have been five minutes.

  As much as I wanted to, lying in bed all day feeling sorry for myself would not be a healthy way of dealing with my grief, so I tossed the cell back on the bedside dresser and swung my legs out of bed.

  The house was so big for just me. Really, it had been too big for just Donald and me, but now that I was alone in his family’s house, the silence and emptiness was overwhelming. Donald had hired a housekeeper who came in every Tuesday and Friday to clean and prepare meals that could be reheated by us over the entire week, but when Donald had died, I had given her the week off.

  After my shower, I dressed in old jeans and a navy T-shirt and padded barefoot to the kitchen to make coffee.

  I couldn’t shake the feeling that I shouldn’t be here. How could I stay in Donald’s house if he didn’t want me? It had to be wrong.

  As I poured water in the reservoir for my coffeemaker—Donald didn’t drink coffee, so he’d purchased it as a gift for me—I stared out the kitchen window into the vast backyard. The house was old, built for some famous actor back in the 1930s, so it had an enormous yard, not like the houses they built nowadays. A swimming pool, a garden, even a little building with a sauna.

  How was I to even keep it up? Donald liked to spend his days messing around in the garden and keeping his pool in tip-top shape, but I didn’t. I burned if I stepped outside for five minutes in the sun.

  Just as I pushed Brew for my cup of coffee, cinnamon-roll flavored, the massive door chimes rang. I jumped.

  Fuck.

  Maybe Donald had written me out of his will and it was the sheriff’s department coming to toss me out of his house on my ass. With a frown, I walked out of the kitchen toward the big wooden double front doors with etched glass, the door chimes ringing two more times before I reached them. Whoever they were, they were impatient.