Say You Love Me (Book 9: Charlie & Angel’s Story of Love and Redemption)

Charlie & Angel’s love is tested by betrayal and secrets in this emotional family saga of redemption. Book 9 in the Steamy Destinations Series.

I park alongside the curb on Sunset Boulevard and turn off my engine.
“That sounds like a great plan.” I try to force myself to smile, but it’s hard. The air conditioner is on the highest setting and blowing an arctic wind into the cab of my car, but I’m still sweating bullets.
Angel sighs heavily. “She’s so toxic, and I don’t understand why she always gives me attitude. Granted, she was boning Papa for a while. Maybe she’s mad because I never agreed with their relationship. How many times have I warned Papa about screwing the talent?”
“I don’t know.” I fidget nervously against the leather seats. I want to say in Jacques’s defense that he rarely fucks around with the talent, but Mita Capelli is a special case. The more I’ve gotten to know her, the more I’ve learned that it was a mistake to engage with her in the first place. She snacks on men—the wealthier, the tastier. She has long, silky black hair, creamy tan skin, and curves galore. Hardly any man could resist going for a dip in her deep, hot, wet well. I resisted up until a slight moment of weakness, when I let her spread her legs on top of me and sit on my dick. It didn’t even last half a minute. Hell, I didn’t even enjoy it. All I could think about was losing the only woman I could ever love, so I found my common sense, and I pushed her off me. She didn’t like the rejection, and now Mita Capelli wants me to pay for my minor lapse in judgment.
“Babe, why don’t you just come home?” I ask.
“What?” Angel says as if I asked her to swan dive off the London Bridge.
I rub my eyes. I can’t believe I said that. Or maybe I can. Two days after Maggie and Vince’s wedding, Angel flew to London to star in a musical called The Dazzler for a month, six shows per week. I wasn’t okay with her leaving. I’m tired of us spending time apart. Then to make shit worse, four days in, Angel called to complain about Mita Capelli, the cellist. I nearly shit myself when she told me Mita was part of the live orchestra.
About three months ago, Mita sent me a letter, saying I’m the father of her child. How the hell could that have happened? I never came inside her. In the letter, she told me to pay her $20,000 a month or else. For certain, I didn’t get her pregnant. So I consulted with Maggie, and she said I could call Mita’s bluff and tell Angelina what happened. I was planning to call her bluff until last week.
I’m scoring a film at Jacques’s Hancock Park studio. Two days ago, a package arrived, addressed to me. I opened the manila envelope, and inside was a single flash drive. I figured Jacques had sent some harmonies he thought I should use in the film. I plugged the drive into my computer. There was a single file titled “fuck.” I thought it was strange, but I double clicked on it anyway, and a video of me fucking Mita opened. I was waiting for it to end after ten or twenty seconds, but the act went on for five minutes and twenty-three seconds. It even looked as if I had come.
I checked behind each shoulder to make sure I was alone. To my relief, I was. I sat there for a long time, studying the moving images on the screen, wondering how in the hell she made it look that credible. After a while, I called Maggie, who instructed me to upload the video to a secure landing page. Shortly after, she called and asked me to meet here.
Still holding the phone, I turn toward the sidewalk and gaze up at the office building. “I miss you, that’s all.”
“Ah,” Angel says sweetly. “I miss you too, honey.”
I check my watch. I’m five minutes late, and knowing Maggie, she won’t be happy about it. “Listen, I have to go.”
“Where are you—at the studio?”
Damn. I don’t want to keep lying to her. The fact that I’m here is a result of the only lie I ever told her. “Yeah.”
“Tell everyone I said hi.” Angel sounds chipper, and that’s a good sign. I’m guessing that Mita won’t screw with our relationship—not when she thinks there’s a chance she’ll get her twenty thousand a month.
I tighten my jaw as I sigh quietly. “I will.”
“And hey,” we say at the same time.
Angel chuckles. “You first.”
“I still want to talk about all the time we spend away from each other. I’m sick of it,” I say.
I can hear her hesitancy in the silence.
“I was just going to say good luck,” she says.
We’re silent again, and that means she’s avoiding giving me a response.
“Will you give it some thought?” I ask.
“Give what some thought?”
“Less traveling. More togetherness. I miss you—all the fucking time.”
She sighs hard. “Charlie, it’s not like I’m lollygagging. And you can come to London any time you want.”
I bite my tongue to avoid another argument. Angel and I do that now—we argue over stupid shit like her not being able to repeat what I say verbatim, in which case I accuse her of purposely not listening to me. We argue over whether or not she or I left a cabinet door open. The quarrel we had before she left for London was her forgetting to pay the gardener on the previous day. We’ve considered a session with Jack and Daisy’s marriage counselor, Dr. Luc Calvet. He’s the guy in France, and he did a good job helping them get back on track. And he even does sessions via Skype.
My phone buzzes because I’m receiving another call from Maggie. “Okay, we’ll pick this conversation up later.”
“Whatever,” she says sharply. “Charlie, you knew I was a dancer before you got into this with me.”
“I know.”
The phone beeps again.
“I love you more than dancing, though, so please don’t ask me to give it up, at least for now, because…”
“Angel, I’m not asking…” The phone beeps a third time. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
She’s silent for a moment. “Okay,” she says softly.
We say, “I love you” one last time before we hang up. Then I answer the call.
“I’m outside and on my way up,” I say to Maggie.
“Then hurry.” She ends the call.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Fucking life—sometimes it’s good, but mostly, it’s out to get you.