Complications Read online

  Complications

  Book Three of the Courtland Chronicles

  Cat Grant

  The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions and do not participate or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Permission is granted to make ONE backup copy for archival purposes.

  Complications

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Copyright © 2009 Cat Grant

  Revised Edition © February 2013

  Revised edition edited by Jennifer Barker.

  Cover design by LC Chase.

  ISBN: 978-0-9884840-6-1 (Kindle Edition)

  978-0-9884840-7-8 (.epub)

  978-0-9884840-8-5 (.pdf)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  This work contains graphic language and explicit sexual content between two consenting male adults. Intended for adult readers only. Not intended for readers under the age of 18.

  For more information on the author’s other works, please visit: http://catgrant.com

  Table of Contents

  About Complications

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Afterword

  Coming Spring 2013 – The Arrangement Book Four of the Courtland Chronicles

  Also by Cat Grant

  About Cat Grant

  About Complications

  Tired of taking a backseat to his lover Eric Courtland’s burgeoning political career, Nick Thompson decides to call it quits. A devastated Eric seeks consolation in liquor—and the arms of college friend Ally Taylor.

  Their passionate rebound affair deepens into something more. Still, Ally’s thrown when Eric proposes marriage, with no mention of love. His wealth and connections would certainly help her career, but is their intense physical connection and Eric’s promise of fidelity enough?

  Ally soon finds herself falling for her husband, and he for her. But the growing bond between the newlyweds is threatened when Nick re-enters the picture. Secrets, lies and betrayal will add up to heartbreak for everyone—unless Eric can bring himself to choose between the man he’s loved for over a decade, or the wife he can’t bear to hurt.

  There are only two tragedies in life: one is not getting what one wants, and the other is getting it.

  —Oscar Wilde

  Chapter One

  “Something wrong?” Eric asked before taking a sip of his favorite cabernet. It wasn’t like Nick to insist on meeting him for lunch, or to sit there staring into his plate for the better part of an hour. When he got no reply other than the desultory clink of Nick’s fork against fine bone china, he added, “If you don’t like the salad, order something else.”

  Still nothing. At last, after the waiter came to clear away his half-eaten meal, Nick ran a shaky hand through his dark curls and blurted, “Laura and I are engaged.”

  Eric started to laugh, until the nervous twitches at the corners of Nick’s mouth morphed into a tight frown. Jesus, he was serious. “When did this happen?”

  “Over the weekend. We’ve set the date for a week before Christmas.”

  Stomach lurching, Eric pushed his plate away, his last bite of braised lamb shank turning to dust in his desert-dry mouth. At last he managed to choke it down. “When were you planning to tell me?”

  “I just did.”

  “I meant about you seeing Laura again. I thought you broke it off with her months ago.”

  “You haven’t exactly been around for me to break the news.” Okay, Nick had him there. With the long hours he’d been putting in at the office lately, Eric had barely had enough time for sleep. He rubbed at his gritty eyes and swallowed a sigh. “Besides, we haven’t been exclusive for a couple of years now,” Nick reminded him. “That’s the way you wanted it, remember?”

  Eric’s skin flushed with heat from throat to forehead, while he cursed himself for even this small loss of control. No way was he about to lose his temper in public. He poured himself another glass of wine and took a slow, measured sip, his gaze darting around the crowded dining room. “This is not the time or place for this discussion.”

  “If we don’t do it now, we never will.” Nick leaned across the table, his voice pitched at a discreet yet urgent whisper. “When you married Barbara, you told me she knew the score, and nothing between us would change. But it did. Everything changed.” Nick’s eyes went shiny, two bright, razor-sharp blades sliding in under Eric’s ribs. “We only saw each other whenever you wanted to. You wouldn’t drop by my place more than once a week, and I obviously couldn’t visit you at the penthouse anymore—which, if you remember, used to be my home too. You’ve been divorced for months now, and you still haven’t asked me to move back in. How much longer did you expect me to wait?”

  “Nick, you know I can’t risk something like this with the election coming up in a couple of years,” Eric said in as gentle a tone as he could muster. “We’ve discussed this before and you said you were fine with it. You know what this campaign means to me.”

  “Obviously more than I do.”

  That brought him up short. He racked his brain trying to think of a suitably pacifying denial. “Please, Nick, just listen to me—”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing for the past ten years, and where’s it gotten me? Alone, in a crappy one-bedroom apartment, waiting by the phone.” Nick shook his head. “I’m not doing this anymore. I’ve taken a backseat to you and your damn career long enough.”

  Eric stared at him. “You expect me to make a choice?”

  “If you really loved me, it shouldn’t be that hard.”

  And how was he supposed to answer that? “What if I demanded that you quit your job? Would you do it?”

  “That’s not the same thing, and you know it. You don’t need to run for senator. You’re already richer than God, and you’ve got more power and influence than half the politicians in Washington. I know the real reason you’re so hell-bent on doing this.” He took a long drink of ice water, his green gaze skewering Eric over the rim. “Your father’s dead. Stop trying to prove yourself to him.”

  Eric’s lips tightened, irritation creeping up his spine. “Stop trying to psychoanalyze me. You’re out of your depth.”

  “Not really. In fact, after all this time, I know you better than anyone.” Nick shot him a half sad, half exasperated glance, then pushed back his chair with a loud scrape. “I’ve given you every chance to commit, and you won’t. Okay, fine. But I’m tired of waiting around for you to squeeze me into your schedule. I want to come home to someone who loves me every night. But you don’t want that, and you haven’t for a long time.” He reached into his wallet for some cash and tossed it on the table. “Goodbye, Eric,” he said softly, then stood and walked out.

  Eric watched him go, longing to jump up and follow him, but he couldn’t—every fiber of his body had gone icy and leaden. So he sat staring at nothing, numbness eventually giving way to seething anger as he nursed his bottle of wine. He stayed until the windows darkened and the rest of the lunch patrons had long since filed out. Finally the maître d' tiptoed over and, with excruciating politeness, asked him to leave.

  So he went home to brood, this time with the help of thirty-year-old scotch. And as th
e sky outside his penthouse window grew black and dappled with stars, his anger deepened into regret and melancholy. The more his memory replayed the scene from that afternoon, the more he ached inside. How little it would’ve taken to change Nick’s mind—a hand across the table and a whispered “I love you” would’ve put everything right again. If he’d only dredged up the courage to say those three small words, he’d be in the bedroom with Nick right now, tangled skin-to-skin atop smooth Egyptian cotton sheets, instead of drowning his misery in single malt.

  The doorbell rang. He considered ignoring it, but then he remembered his office was supposed to be couriering over some papers. Groaning, he hauled himself out of his chair and went to answer it.

  It was Ally Taylor, with the courier packet in one hand, a bottle of Absolut Citron in the other. “I intercepted your guy in the lobby,” she said, shoving the papers at him as she stepped inside. “And yes, I’ve heard the news. Figured you could use some company.”

  She breezed past him without waiting for a reply, tossing her coat and bag on the couch before heading for the bar. She cracked open the vodka, poured herself a double and clinked glasses with Eric. “To us—alone again, naturally.”

  “You’ll forgive me if I don’t drink to that.”

  “Well, if this isn’t the perfect occasion to get shit-faced, I don’t know what is.”

  “When you put it that way…” Eric smirked and knocked back the last of his scotch, then poured himself another and joined Ally on the couch. He couldn’t help noticing how tired and stressed she looked; even a skillful application of makeup couldn’t conceal the puffiness and fresh lines around her eyes. Her blonde hair had grown out of its usual perky chin-length bob, though he thought the longer style suited her better—or it would, once she got the wispy ends trimmed. She’d obviously hit a rough patch in the six months or so since he’d last seen her. It alarmed him more than he cared to admit. “How’d you find out so quickly?”

  “I dropped by the Herald to meet Holly for lunch, and Laura invited herself along too. She couldn’t wait to fill us in on all the details.” Ally rolled her eyes. “She got a bit peeved that we weren’t jumping up and down begging to be bridesmaids. Something tells me we’ve been scratched off the invite list.”

  Eric sighed and let his head loll back against the couch cushions. “I suppose I’ve brought this all on myself. When Nick first started at the Herald, I suggested he take Laura out a few times, solely for appearances’ sake. I never dreamed they’d actually hit it off.”

  “Can’t blame him, I guess. I know he probably never said anything to you about it, but it hurt him badly when you married Barbara. And then when you told him he should start seeing other people—”

  “I didn’t want him to be lonely. Looks like I got my wish.” He let out a bitter chortle. “Funny, but I always thought if Nick or I ever ended up with a woman, it’d be you.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Not at all. Why would you think so?”

  “Because we’ve known each other since college, and I had no idea you liked women until Barbara entered the picture. I didn’t even think you liked me that much, even as a friend.”

  Eric laughed. “Of course I like you. I’ve liked you ever since junior year at Columbia, when you told me you’d rip my heart out of my chest if I ever broke Nick’s. You don’t sugarcoat things, Ally, and I respect that. I’ve got dozens of employees all dying to tell me whatever I want to hear. Getting the unvarnished truth from someone I trust has become a rarity.”

  “Wow.” A slow, sheepish grin spread across her lips. “How’d I rate so high?”

  “There are only two people in this entire world that I can be myself with, and I just lost the other one for good.”

  She wrapped her arms around him and he let her, pressing his face into the soft, warm hollow of her throat. The simple comfort of her embrace nearly broke him; he started to tremble, deep, racking sobs boiling up from the depths of his lungs. He choked it all down through sheer force of will, holding on to her until he’d managed to regain his composure, then gently pushed her away.

  “It’s okay,” she murmured. “Go ahead and let it out if you want. I promise not to alert the media,” she added with a wink.

  “I’m fine.” Still a bit wobbly, he got up to refill both their glasses, making sure to pour himself a single this time. He sat back down at the far end of the couch, putting an extra few inches of space between them. “Might as well get the gory details out in the open. What all did Laura tell you this afternoon? Nick said something about a Christmas wedding.”

  “Yeah, they’re planning to have it up at the farm. Nick’s mom and dad are thrilled.” No huge surprise there. While Nick’s parents had been unfailingly cordial to Eric over the years and seemed to accept their son’s lifestyle, Eric knew they’d never been completely happy about it. “She dropped a few hints about trying to get Nick to quit the Herald and move back upstate to take over the farm. Evidently his parents are ready to retire, and they’d rather not sell the place.”

  “It might be best for all of us if Nick left. Besides, I don’t think he’s ever really cared for city life.”

  “It’s what Laura wants too. She hates working in the Herald’s secretarial pool. If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard her say she wished she’d stayed in grad school, I could buy the whole damn paper.”

  “Still, if Nick quits, there’s a job you’d be perfect for.”

  “With my resume?” She snorted. “Dream on.”

  “They hired Nick right out of journalism school. What makes you think you’re less qualified?”

  “Getting laid off from two features editor positions on two different magazines two years in a row doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

  “That’s not your fault. New publications go out of business all the time.”

  “If it’d only been once, I could get away with chalking it up to bad luck. Twice, and it looks more like bad judgment.”

  She had a point. “Have you thought about switching to TV? There’s a producer from MSNBC who sits on the Courtland Industries board. I’d be happy to put in a good word for you.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t have any on-air experience, except for a couple of video blogs I did at my last gig. I doubt that’s what they’re looking for.” She finished her vodka, then stood, swaying on her high heels. Eric sprang up and caught her under the elbow. “Wow. Guess I drank that too fast.”

  Too fast, and too much—she’d downed that vodka like it was water. “I’d better get you a cab,” he said, letting go once he was sure she could manage without help.

  “You, you don’t have to do that.”

  Now she was starting to slur. Had her life really taken such an awful downturn? He’d never seen her like this before. “Yes, I do, unless you’d rather spend the night in the guest room. I’m not letting you get on the subway in your condition.”

  She hesitated, then nodded, blinking blearily. “I’ll take the cab.”

  He called downstairs for the concierge to hail them a taxi before helping her on with her coat and escorting her down in the elevator. Good thing he’d insisted on coming along—they’d just exited the building’s revolving door when Ally gave a startled yelp and slumped against him.

  “Shit!” she hissed, yanking off her left shoe—an elegant black leather pump now missing its heel. “I just bought these a few months ago. Fine Italian craftsmanship, my ass!”

  Eric bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Want me to ride along with you?”

  “S’okay. I think I can make it from the cab to my front door without breaking my neck.” Still clutching his arm, she bent down to remove her other shoe. “Perfect ending to a perfectly fucked-up day.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Eric replied with a dour grin.

  “You’ve got my cell number, right? Give me a call if you need to.”

  “You do the same.�
�

  “I will.” She stood on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on the cheek, until a gust of wind knocked her off her feet and into his arms. Their gazes locked for an awkward moment. Then he set her down hastily, both of them erupting in nervous laughter.

  He helped her into the cab and, over her protests, handed the driver enough cash to cover her fare and a generous tip. She waved, flashing him a wan smile as the cab pulled away from the curb. He watched it creep south for a block on Eleventh Avenue before taking a left turn.

  * * *

  Ally collapsed on the couch the moment she got back to Holly’s. She tumbled down a deep, dreamless tunnel of sleep for about three hours, then spent the rest of the night wrestling with her pillow, her head pinging like a broken clock. When she heard Holly puttering around in the kitchen making coffee around seven, she hauled herself into the bathroom to pee and wash her face, trying not to glance in the mirror.

  No such luck, of course. God, she looked like she’d been dragged through a knothole backward. That was it—no more fucking vodka. Sighing, she swallowed some Tylenol with a handful of tap water, threw on her robe and trudged into the kitchen.

  “Morning, Hol,” she rasped, pulling out a chair to sit down. “Could you pour me a cup too? No sugar this time.”

  Her roommate swung around, eyebrows arching under cinnamon-red bangs. “Whoa. Did you and my lumpy couch have a battle royal last night?”

  At least Holly was nice enough not to mention how awful she looked. “A little of that, and a lot of me dropping by to see how Eric was doing. We ended up having too much to drink. Or at least I did.”

  And nice enough not to say “Isn’t that getting to be a habit with you?” aloud, even if it was written all over her face. “Hope this helps,” Holly said, handing Ally a steaming mug.

  She took a long sip, grateful for the caffeine, if not the bitter taste. Not exactly Jamaican Blue Mountain, but still a hell of a lot better than she could afford on her lousy unemployment check. “Oh, well. Back to work on that article today, even if I do feel like hammered dog crap.”