Plus Three

By Chloe Alice Balkin

I am a liar.

The only person Flynn never lied to was Tara, but that doesn't matter now. She's gone forever, forced to flee and change her identity. Without Tara to center him, Flynn spirals into a wasteland of depravity, his world blurring into a haze of sex, drugs, and alcohol. He always said Tara was the only reason he had to do good with his life, and he's determined to prove that.

I am a superstar.

Tara has enough money to be set forever, but she needs a stable life where she can raise the child she carries. She finds that in a sleepy mountain town and its local theater company. Even better, she meets a handsome widower who's interested in her and ready to be a father again. With Paul, her dreams of easy, simple happiness could be a reality, even when complications arise in the pregnancy.

We are fated in the stars.

Tara is not destined for a quiet life. Without her sister holding her back, she shines too brightly. It doesn't take long for Flynn to accidentally find out where she is, and he is dying without her. He must go to her, and he must save his child.

Tara has moved on.

Flynn will not let her go.

Tara and Paul are in love.

Flynn will do anything to get her back.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chloe Alice Balkin
• Release date: Jun 6, 2021
• ISBN: 9780463553022

Chloe Alice Balkin

Chloe Alice Balkin writes steamy speculative romance ranging from demons and angels to clones to aliens. Her stories include pastries, weird science, and incredibly quirky characters – no surprises there, since her background includes cake decorating, physics, and a decade of vending at music festivals. She's also handy with a sewing machine and knows a thing or two about hanging drywall.Chloe enjoys painting Bob Ross murals on her walls and baking, but her expertise in cake decorating in no way translates to expertise in baking. She currently lives in the Atlanta suburbs with her platonic lifemate and their two children, which are cats.

Book preview

I'm a liar.

I've lied about a lot of things in my life. Who I am, what I do, why I exist. I lie because I don't want people to think I'm weird and they wouldn't believe the truth, anyway. I lie because I'm bored, and if I can convince you I was the original bassist for Skid Row or one of the ewoks in Star Wars, why shouldn't I?

I only lied to Tara twice, and I truly believed Hunter was chasing us and I could be a good man without her when I spoke those lies. It was hard being honest about everything else—every instinct told me she'd run screaming from the absurd truth of my existence—but I wanted us to be real. I could accept her weird, and she could accept mine, and we could live happily ever after.

Two out of three isn't bad, I guess. We accepted each other for as brief a time as we had.

I try not to think about the life she must have now, but that's impossible. Does she have that first hint of a bump rising from her stomach? Does she mindlessly rest her hand there? Or, more likely, does she only glance at herself quickly as she walks by a mirror because she's embarrassed about it? She was always so self-conscious about her perfectly normal, healthy weight.

Maybe her stomach will remain flat. I told her she could terminate the pregnancy, and I meant it. I want to hear her voice on the radio one day. I want to see her walk onto a Broadway stage. I want her face on the silver screen. I don't want motherhood to hold her back.

That's what I want on good days, but this isn't a good day. Today I want her pregnant with my child, and in love with me, and in my bed. Tied up there, naked and sprawled so I can love her without being hindered by her natural bashfulness. I want her wanton and aroused and refusing to put on clothes even if I asked, just walking around naked at all times. If I'm going to make a fantasy Tara, I should at least make her perfect.

No, she was perfect. I don't want a butterfly, I want a caterpillar. I want to watch her crawl out from her chrysalis and spread her wings. I never will, so I wave a single finger at the purple-tressed bartender.

She shakes her head, no.

I pick up my glass and shake it in case she didn't realize what I was asking for the first time.

Again, no.

I slam it down hard on the bar.

Don't be a prick, she snaps.

The man two stools down from me snorts. I glare at him, and he smirks, tosses his whiskey back, and waggles his glass at Collette.

She pours him a fresh one and yells, Sit your ass back down! before I even realize I'm standing.

Whatever, I'm going home, I try to say, but it comes out gibberish. I try again, but the best I can do is, Wudduffhh, gohn himm.

Collette nods. Good idea, let me call you a cab.

Wuh? Nah, man. Got muh..gah muh key...sommer. Somewhere, my key is definitely somewhere, but someone must have sewn my pockets shut. They're too small for my hands.

Please? Collette says sweetly. It will make me feel better.

I tell myself to smile and thank her and graciously decline, but what comes out of my mouth is, I sen I'm fiuh.

The man says, Hey, she's just trying to help you. Why don't you take a seat and—

That's as far as he gets before he reaches for me and I take a swing at him. My fist doesn't get anywhere near him. I put my foot down and my knee keeps going. I'm going to fall. I know I can stop it if I just catch my balance, but the world is spinning.

I never hit the ground. Suddenly I'm hovering. An arm is around my waist, holding me up. Come on, a familiar voice says. Let me take you home, okay?

I peer up, but there are at least three Buckys above me. I reach for one of them, and he grunts as I accidentally smack him in the crotch.

Not sure where on the spectrum of friendship punching a guy in the dick becomes acceptable, but I don't think I'm there yet.

I try to apologize and end up drooling on the floor. This is becoming embarrassing. I gotta get my shit together.

I flail until he drops me. I can do this myself, I swear, I just have to get my feet under me. But they feel like newborn calf legs.

Maybe if I sit here for a minute on this filthy bar floor, really focus on making it stay still, I can do this. I just have to believe in myself.

A friendly hand on my cheek makes me realize my eyes were closed. I won't say I was sleeping, but that doesn't mean I wasn't. I open my eyes and for one tortuous second, I think it's Tara. And then she says, I gotcha, Flynn, and I glare at her. Tara rarely called me Flynn.

This one is a liar, too. A fucking façade, a pale, scrawny, heartless near-facsimile, the ghost of my perfect past. Fucking bish, I growl.

She smiles sadly. I'm going to take you back to Hunter's, put you in bed, and you'll feel better in the morning.

I-uh never full bedder, you fuckin bish! I bellow. Bucky helps me back up, and I don't fight him this time. If someone has to take me home, it better be Bucky.

No, I can just cross the street. I'll be home in a couple of minutes. I start to shuffle toward the door, and Bucky grabs my collar to restrain me. Not so fast, speedy. Last time you tried that we found you asleep in the middle of the road, remember?

I wish I did remember, because that was the most brilliant thing I've ever done. I just wish it had been a busier intersection. I'd be dead now and out of this.

I slump down. I don't care. If Hunter and Kay want to take me to the estate, I don't care. They can lay me in the bed where Tara and I first made love, that magical evening when I realized this random, awkward, painfully beautiful woman was my entire future.

When she laughed and cried and fought me fiercely and loved me more fiercely yet, when she slept soundly and I had the privilege of studying every inch of supple but scarred flesh and thanked the gods above that the woman I would spend the rest of my life with was so kind and funny and strong even if she didn't know it.

I lean heavily against Kay, but she holds me up like a champ. She's used to it by now.

I know, she murmurs. I miss her, too.

Bish, I grumble.

She sighs, but lightly. I know. But you're the one that ran her off.

I did. If I hadn't, it wouldn't be Kay sharing my brother's bed.

It would be Tara, against her will.

Because with Hunter, no one has their own will.

I'm a superstar. A diva. The next Barbra or Cher or Bette. My name—my new name—will be in lights one day.

It's what I tell myself as I prepare for my audition. A little pep talk, a reminder I can do this.

I know I shouldn't doubt myself, not with a community theater, but it's been several years since I last auditioned. My undergraduate years, maybe. I was too busy during my post-grad studies to moonlight in performances I would have had to audition for.

The audition is informal. The director and his assistant sit near the stage, and a small section of the auditorium is seated by the others who are trying out. I'm not really comfortable with open auditions, but beggars can't be choosers. I want this—who could pass up a modern musical retelling of Much Ado About Nothing?—so much I've already set up a meeting with a realtor tomorrow. I'm settling down here.

One last breath before I turn around, but I'm practiced enough I doubt anyone will notice. Ideally, it will come off as nonchalance. Just taking my time here, folks. No rush. I am in no way a girl who gets jitters over community theater auditions. I have nothing to worry about, but here I am, struggling to keep my hand off my belly. How did I develop this habit already?

How did I develop a bump already? It seems so early.

Miss…Wright, is it? the director says. Tina Wright?

I nod. The man who gave me my new identity allowed me to choose my name. I don't know why I went with a surname so close to Flynn's, considering he's the ass who stole my life, but I know why I went with Tina. I'll respond to it readily enough.

What will you be singing for us, Miss Wright?

"Maybe This Time from Cabaret."

The accompanist plays the opening couple notes.

It's a slow start, a bit of a crap shoot. Casters don't necessarily want to spend more than a couple seconds on the song—too many people to go through.

So I start strong, digging deep within to hit those low notes, refusing to compromise on the original Liza Minelli octave.

My voice begins to warble as I near the chorus. Not because I'm losing momentum, but because I haven't been interrupted yet and I really should have. I focus on the director, expecting to see him taking notes or chatting with his assistant, distracted by something that would lead him to the minor faux pas, but he's staring right at me, his head tilted slightly, listening intently.

I forage on ahead, gathering steam as I go, and as I near the end I realize how much I need this. I have no home, no family, no future. This can be it. This stage, these people, this ridiculous village on the side of a snow-crusted mountain I feared the van would go tumbling right off the edge of, I can make this my world. I hit all the notes, belt out the finale, and have to catch my breath when I finish.

There is a subdued applause at the end, but I'm competition to most of the audience. Plus, I'm an outsider. I'm sure many of the people here have shared this stage frequently. There are probably whole families auditioning.

The director thanks me politely, and it's not until a couple hours later, after everyone has had a chance to run through lines, that he explains why he kept me onstage so long.

Miss Wright! he calls as I head out toward the parking lot. Miss Wright, a moment! He's frazzled, his heavy winter coat only half on and his one arm laden with the entire stack of forms teetering dangerously. As he hits the parking lot, his left boot skids slightly, and he nearly topples but corrects himself. He even manages to keep the paperwork steady. He makes one of those woo sounds most people do when regaining balance, and his cheeks flush.

His surprisingly bronze cheeks. He reminds me of Hunter. Not in a bad way necessarily, he just has a touch of Hollywood to him. I'd guess him to be in his later 30s, and though the hem of his jacket is frayed and there's a bit of pale in his otherwise black hair, it's obvious he cares about his physical appearance. Again, not a bad thing. My guess is he had Silver Screen dreams but never got past the moth-eaten community stage curtain.

I don't judge him for it. I don't even consider it a sign of inability or ineptitude. Maybe he was amazing and never got that one-in-a-million lucky break.

Please, call me Tina, I tell him, not just because it's polite but because I'm starting to regret my chosen surname. Or Tee. That's what everyone calls me.

Tee. Excellent. I'm Paul Reardon. He juts his hand out, but I now have a dense pile of paperwork in my right hand. I fumble the mountain about, he does the same, and by the time we get it figured out, we both have red cheeks. And then he says, Oh, I guess you already know who I am, nullifying the whole thing.

I laugh. Yeah, I didn't want to say anything.

Right. Anyway, I was looking at your form, and you don't have any contact information listed.

I nod. I just moved here, still working that out. I'm going to look at houses tomorrow, though.

Ahh! That's why I hadn't seen you around before. Where did you park?

I nod toward my van, pretending it's not the most embarrassing first-impression vehicle ever. I have the money to get rid of it, but I've lived out of it the past two months while I figured out where I was going, and it's served me well.

Oh. Parked next to me, perfect.

Okay, he's driving a Plymouth Sundance, so maybe mine isn't so bad.

Who's your realtor? he asks.

Uhh, Debbie something. Cor-something.

Debbie Cordova? Jeez. Carolyn! he yells toward a group walking the other way, but they don't hear him. Carolyn! Bah. Lemme give you Carolyn's number. She does the choreography for us. She'll get you a better deal on closing costs.

He digs into his breast pocket and pulls out a pen, only to realize he doesn't have loose paper. Undaunted, he scribbles the name on the bottom of a form and tears it off for me. There, it was your slip anyway. Wait, no. It's Bruce's. Cripes, what did I do with yours?

I glance down at the stack I took from him. Mine is on top.

Right. So, I'll post the cast list Saturday here on the door, so you can check it out anytime, and rehearsal starts next week.

I smile, trying to hold back any comment about how he went over this already.

Oh! Are you really only interested in the part of Margaret? Not Hero or Beatrice?

That's sweet of him to ask, but those characters are both maidens. Certainly not ones I could play. No, I'm pretty limited on what I can do.

You sure? Is it the move? We could help. Or, your job...? He leaves that open as he glances to the blank spot on my form. No job.

I pat the slight lump above my pelvis, buried under winter layers now but prominent in my profile when I'm topless. No, no. I'm expecting. It feels weird to say, probably because Paul is the first person I've said it to.

Oh. The syllable is clipped. His shoulders sink as his eyebrows lace, but only for a second, probably while he debates if I'm even worth considering. Dammit.

But then he perks back up. Oh! Well, congratulations, then. When are you due?

Not until September, but I don't want to mess things up if I start showing a lot early. I've already got a bump and...and everything.

Paul has a goofy smile, reminding me of Flynn. It throws me off.

He shakes his head with a light, carefree laugh. Gosh, I must look crazy. You just reminded me of my wife. We had planned to keep both the pregnancies hush hush, not wanting the drama, you know? But she couldn't help gushing about it. Hell, I probably gushed a bit myself. This your first?

I nod. It's obvious, isn't it?

Nah, you're great. Brave, really, moving now. Your husband's work bring you here?

Thankfully it's dark; I'm sure my cheeks are crimson. The topic is going to come up far more than I want it to, but I can dodge that. Just needed a change, I murmur vaguely. I should get going before the roads get rough, I continue more confidently, gesturing to the snow.

Of course. Oh, hey! It says here you have a, what, Masters, in music? Performance? If you're interested in doing voice lessons, let me know. I have a paltry amount left in my budget I can send your way for it. Pennies, really, but we're big on the arts here, could get you students outside of the theater.

I'll keep that in mind, I tell him politely as I get into the van. I don't need the money but I might need the time killer. I'm still not sure what people do with themselves when they can't work. Hobbies, I guess, but I've already maxed out my hobbies getting a degree I planned on doing nothing with. I have a Masters in Hobby.

Oh, and Tee? he yells through the window.

I roll it down enough that I can hear him. Yep?

We're supposed to get a rough storm Friday, so don't bother coming up here Saturday. I'll see you Monday! He turns and scurries to his door before I can yell my thanks to him for giving me the advance notice.

The entire drive back to my crappy hotel room, I can't unscrew the smile from my face.

This is my home.

Chapter Two

I'm a figment of science, a myth of the speculative fiction genre, an abomination of the Judeo-Christian belief system.

Or maybe I'm crazy. Wouldn't that be nice? I'm not the wunderkind clone of a man who pales intellectually but dictates my entire existence. I'm not a doctor or scientist of any kind, certainly not the kind who would invent the ultimate date rape drug and then supply it to my sociopath brother.

Sitting right here, Hunter says affably.

I feel like I should lift my head up and acknowledge the prick, but my head is so goddamn heavy. I'm pretty sure it hasn't landed in my Eggs Benedict—not this time—so I don't bother to move.

Brother, Hunter muses. Brother, brother. What am I going to do with you?

Kill me, I grumble, thinking it preferable to his voice droning in my brain.

He laughs, and that sound is so fucking worse. It feels like my brain is exploding out from my ear drum, ruining those perfect eggs his chef prepared.

Flynn, brother, you need to get over it. You're not fifteen anymore. I'd offer you some flannel to go with your angst, but I'm starting to think we can skip right over that to black nail polish and eyeliner. Like that guy. Crap, what's his name, hun?

The response comes from opposing directions. Lilith says, Robert Smith, and across from her Kay says, Marilyn Manson?

Hunter snaps his fingers, causing me to flinch but immediately go back to near-dead. I don't even know why he dragged me out of bed at this godawful hour. It's not like I have a job.

Manson, that's the one. And hey, we could remove your rib so you can suck your own dick, just like that guy.

It's an urban legend, and not a particularly good one. Not only is it prohibitively dangerous performing a cosmetic procedure near the spine, it likely wouldn't increase flexibility in the slightest. Also, a small percentage of men have that ability naturally. I'm not amongst them, I just don't understand how this is a worthy topic for discussion. I will unabashedly admit to a wide array of sexual fetishes, but the only way I'm tasting my own dick if it's vicariously through—

Oh, c'mon, Hunter jibes. You know you tried it.

I muster all the strength I have to lift my hand and raise a single, meaningful digit.

Hunter clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. No reason for that. Remember what father always used to tell us? Play nice?

He was no father to me, I growl.

Ah! He has a tongue yet! Hunter applauds, and the sound is enough for me to tip my head back to see if this asshole is willfully trying to kill me despite his claim he prefers me amongst the living.

The world spins, tipping dangerously toward the horizon. Jesus fuck, why the hell did…who was it, Collette at the bar last night? Why the fuck did she let me drink that much? No way was I charming enough to sell her on over-serving me. Charming Flynn was so 1995. 1996 is all about miserable bastard.

Miserable bastard who is about to vomit. Again.

Nah, have this juice. You'll be right in no time. Hunter is all sympathetic smiles now—he knows exactly what I need, he feels my pain, he's the only one in the world who truly gets me, whoop-de-fucking-doo—but it's crocodile tears. I know what he thinks of me, his stupid, love-sick, fuck-up little brother. Not even a brother. I'm nothing more than a pet to him.

He sits in the empty chair next to me, the one I briefly entertained as a regular spot for Tara. This was back in the early days, before Halloween when he told the only woman I ever cared about that he planned to fuck her. And now he sits there, and he pats my leg, and he tilts his head and pulls his eyebrows together, as though trying to agitate a response from said dog.

Aww, does puppy need a new toy? he coos. Tell you what, puppy, you can borrow one of mine.

He looks over at our breakfast companions. Lilith is simultaneously picking at her manicure and screwing around on her PDA, feigning disinterest even though I know the bitch hangs on to every stupid word exchanged between me and Hunter. It's the only reason we even talk out loud.

Kay is…hmm. I can never read her well. She's a gaunt, less vibrant Tara, but she's close enough that it's tough for me to get her expressions. If she was Tara, she'd be bursting to say something and fighting it back because she doesn't want to irritate me, but I don't think that's it. I think Kay's simply irritated that Hunter would propose sharing her. I don't know what's going on with her and her husband these days, but she's in Hunter's bed more often than his wife is.

Or maybe this is a look of contrition. Lord knows I never would have seen that from Tara. She was unimpeachable. Kay could be blaming herself every bit as much as she blames me for Tara's forced departure. If she wasn't so awful to Tara, if she hadn't blinded Tara to how the rest of the world saw them, Tara wouldn't have followed Kay here. Hunter never would have had a chance to spike Tara's drink with the massive dose of—

No, it's absolutely my fault. What kind of man allows something so foul into any woman's drink, let alone his girlfriend's fairly innocent sister? A piece of shit, like me.

Hunter claps my back vigorously, I swear trying to loosen whatever bile remains in my gut. Buck up, champ. We're having a party next Friday. I think it's about to you get back on the wagon, right?

Nothing in the world would please me less, but it doesn't matter.

Carolyn Hughes is the greatest realtor ever. I have no basis for this, having never been in the market to buy a house before, but I tell Carolyn exactly what I want and within two hours she has it for me.

It's a split level built into the side of a steep hill, but the back lawn is flat. With the addition of fences, I'll have a safe spot where my child can play. There's a dormant patch blocked off for a garden and space behind it for a small orchard. The four bedrooms, two-and-a-half baths is a bit much, but I really like the massive kitchen it has. I don't know how to cook, but this is the time to learn.

It's already furnished. There are a couple empty rooms and the kitchen appliances are avocado, but it's ready for me to move in the moment I close. Since I'm paying cash, that moment is nearly immediate. I can move in a few hours after the bank opens on Monday.

The best part is the cat it comes with. The previous owner passed away and, with no feline next of kin, it's lived here the past few months. Carolyn offers to 'get rid of it' if I don't like animals—and by get rid of, I think she wants to keep it for herself but needed a good excuse to add it to her household—but I want it. Cats are awesome. The fluffy calico is sweet and does this little prancing thing when I get close to the Lazy Susan where Carolyn has kept cat food. It's completely adorable, and I want her to be mine. She will be mine.

We meet with the lawyers Monday morning, and by the afternoon I'm lounging on the sofa with my new cat, Penelope, and a random selection from my new library. Thornbirds, which, depressing much, but there's no TV. I briefly entertain the idea of going to a…baby supply store? Is that what they're called? And picking out a nursery suite, but that's crazy.

I haven't even seen an obstetrician yet. At all. If Flynn knew—

No. His opinion does not matter. Women had babies for thousands of years before the advent of modern medicine. Yes, I need to see a doctor, but I feel great aside from the morning sickness. There doesn't seem to be anything happening that's not supposed to.

Except that I've had a liver transplant and take some serious medications to keep that liver happy. I'll have to lie to a doctor—something I swore I'd never do—to get enough Imuran to last my pregnancy. It's dirty, but I don't know if a doctor will write a prescription for it for a pregnant woman.

I'm one of the first people to arrive for the first rehearsal. Normally this wouldn't be worth noting—someone has to be the first arrival—but my quick stop for dinner on my way to rehearsal turns into an epic binge at the local diner. I'm about to get super fat whether I eat or not, I may as well eat. I waddle in five minutes before our scheduled start, but there are only three actors there before me.

I tell myself to channel my inner Kay and go introduce myself to them, but it's clear they're friends and the conversation they're having might not be meant for strangers. I pull my book out of my purse, lean against the wall, and turn to the page where I left off in the diner. Nothing to see here, just a girl reading her book.

I keep my eyes trained to the book when a door squeaks open. I hear Paul say, Oh, hey guys. The kids are just finishing up with the stage, I don't know, fifteen minutes, I guess. Sorry, I tried to leave everyone messages about the late start. Oh, and Mrs. Wright? Erm, Tee?

I perk up, but the addition of missus to my moniker hurts. Paul stands at the doorway, again holding a stack of papers, this time in two binds: a pair of scripts. He has a brilliant smile that softens my inner skitters. Whatever is happening in the theater isn't a big deal, and someone here is talking to me. I might not be in with the in-crowd, but I'm being invited into something. Yay, me.

A moment of your time, if you would.

I follow him back into the Green Room. I expect it to be empty, the items from old productions given away at the end of the run or stored elsewhere, but this room is prepared to clothe the cast of everything from Antigone to Grease. There's also a monstrous shelving unit, complete with one of those goofy library ladders on a rail, filled with meticulously labeled cardboard boxes: a lifetime of props.

I must be looking around in wonder because Paul says, Oh. My high school uses this theater.

His high school? Is he one of those people who spends his entire life in his home town, never more than five miles from his alma mater? He looks like someone who dreamed of the stage. To never make it out of West Virginia is heartbreaking.

Then he clarifies with, I teach drama. The school is just down the road, and it's too small for a theater, so they let us use this one.

That's kind of sweet. If I hadn't taken voice lessons from a high school drama teacher when I was growing up, I would never have taken an interest in the stage. She forced me into my first production, and I'd be lying if I said my extremely positive reception and glowing reviews in the local paper weren't the greatest thing ever to an eleven-year-old who knew nothing but her sister's shadow. If Paul is as passionate about encouraging teenagers to get onstage as she was, the man is a hero.

I try not to bask, but it's sweet and he's handsome, and I'm really bad about idol worshiping. Since I'm pregnant and he knows it, maybe he'll write it off as that glow people are always going on about. I respond with a subdued, That's nice of them, instead of gushing over Miss Dulin.

He shrugs. I don't know if nice has anything to do with it—my father-in-law owns this building.

Oh. I don't have anything else to say, but it's nice to know I'm not the only one out there who can so skillfully crush a conversation—unless I've brought up a sore subject in my meaningless response, in which case I'm even better at crushing conversations than I previously thought. Look out, world, Conversation Killer Tee is on the prowl.

After a beat, Paul says, Oh! I revised the script. I'd like your opinion on it.

He hands me one of the two scripts he holds and opens it up to the cast list. It includes a breakdown of scenes and songs each character will be featured in, as well as the number of lines. He's highlighted one of the characters: my role, Margaret.