#Blur (The GearShark Series Book 4)

by Cambria Hebert

  He was rejecting me.

  It hurt.

  It hurt worse than just pain.

  It was nothing short of total annihilation.

  I’d finally started opening up. I’d finally started to maybe feel again, only to be served a cold dish.

  I shoved off the locker, paced away from him, and stared at the cold floor.

  What the fuck was I thinking? I knew better than this! Opening myself up to this again was nothing short of suicide.

  “I have to go,” I said, brisk.

  I didn’t look back. I didn’t say another word.

  I high-tailed it the fuck out of there, my tires leaving tracks in the newly falling snow.

  God, he felt so fucking good against me.

  One second I was drowning in him. The next? The next I had water in my lungs and drowning took on a different meaning.

  So much for taking my power back.

  I was beginning to think the only kind of life for me was a lonely, solitary existence.

  It was dark, and I was roaming the streets.

  Not an unfamiliar place for me, though it wasn’t the middle of the night.

  My insomnia started early tonight. The fog hung low over all my thoughts with no sign of settling anytime soon.

  I was back. Back where I’d been for five long years.

  How odd yet entirely eye-opening these past few days had been.

  You never quite realize how much you hurt, how much of a fog you live in until you’re granted a reprieve.

  My reprieve was short. Hell, it wasn’t even total.

  But it had been enough.

  Enough to make the way I felt now far worse than it was before.

  It was like being sick for so long you forgot what it was like to be well. Being chronically exhausted only to have a few days of infinite energy.

  Going back should be easy, right?

  Oh, hell no, it wasn’t.

  It was like being given a few bites of rich chocolate cake only to have it swiped away and a Brussel sprout put in its place.

  Now I knew what I was missing. Just that brief taste made going back to nothing so painful it was shocking. So here I was. Out walking already. Out drowning in thoughts, letting them blow me around like a piece of paper in the wind.

  It was just past dinnertime. Night claimed the sky and the temperature dropped. Snow continued to fall lazily, but it was random, so it likely wouldn’t amount to much more than the inch that coated the ground earlier that afternoon.

  The pockets of my cargo pants were weighed down with my phone, keys, and the money clip that held all my cards and cash. I approached the coffee shop up the block from my hotel. I stopped and stared at the welcoming lights in the windows and knew the entire place was likely scented with brewing coffee.

  But I kept walking.

  Arrow didn’t like that place. And now I didn’t like it either.

  I don’t know how long or far I walked. Hell, I didn’t even pay attention. I couldn’t tell you how many people were out in the streets, how the traffic was, or anything else about my surroundings.

  I was lost in my own head, replaying the scene with Arrow over and over and over again.

  All the fighting I’d done inside myself. All the tug and pull, the guilt. Somehow, surprisingly, it started to be overcome. Overcome by Arrow and the way I felt when I was near him. How the look in his eyes was like two hands reaching into my chest and taking my heart.

  The way he pulled me back from the edge of the fog so many times.

  The way he boldly kissed me when now I knew physical contact wasn’t something he was used to.

  Hell, he’d even leapt between me and his brother. He challenged Lorhaven, something I was sure not many people did.

  For me.

  He’d done that for me.

  He also looked at me with panic in his face. With dread and even terror. His eyes, which I loved when they focused on me, glazed over. His lips, which were pouty and juicy, the perfect place for my own to rest, whispered words that felt like a knife stabbing straight into my heart.

  It wasn’t the first time Arrow trembled when I touched him, but this was the first time he let it overcome the moment. Not just the moment; it overshadowed everything between us.

  I ran.

  Without looking back.

  I had to protect myself. I had to guard what was left of me.

  Who will protect him?

  He’d been protecting himself just as I had done.

  Except he didn’t run away. He’d stood there, albeit trembling and clearly feeling threatened. He apologized, and he tried to explain.

  I’m afraid I’ll just bring you down with me. The only thing worse than what I’m saying now is to someday have you look at me and realize you made a mistake.

  He wasn’t rejecting me to hurt me. He’d been trying to protect me. Again.

  And I ran.

  My footsteps halted over the stone-cold concrete. A great gust of wind slammed me in the face from out of nowhere, like the universe itself was smacking me in the face.

  I deserved it.

  I was selfish. Self-absorbed. I’d thought only of myself back there instead of trying to stand and deal like Arrow.

  The memory of the day on the snowmobile flickered in my mind like a home movie. The texture was grainy and slightly lagging, but I saw it all so clear.

  I’d been panicked that day. I’d been insecure and downright fucking scared. He didn’t get mad when I retreated into my own world. Arrow offered to leave with me. When I refused, he stuck it out. I asked him to pull me back. I asked him to help me stay there with him.

  He’d done it.

  He kissed me. He kept me close. It was as if I’d been learning to walk again, and he’d held my hand to give me balance.

  I stopped walking again, bent at the waist, and put my hands on my thighs.

  What the fuck have I done?

  It wasn’t the first time he’d responded with apprehension when things between us got heated. The first time I’d stuck it out with him, adjusted what I was doing, and it turned out okay.

  Why hadn’t I done that this time?

  Why hadn’t I pulled him back the way he had for me, more than once?

  It was a missed opportunity. A chance to draw him out of his shell, maybe understand a little more about what shattered him into those million tiny jagged edges.

  Something Lorhaven said to me echoed through my head.

  That’s for him to share. And when he does…

  He didn’t say if he does. He said when. His words implied Arrow planned to talk to me. He wanted me to know.

  Arrow stayed. He sent his brother back to his plane and stayed. He’d chosen NASCAR. The way he looked when he said it? It felt like he’d chosen me just as much as NASCAR.

  I’d been so fucking euphoric I’d practically jumped him. Kissed him so fiercely I’d felt like I was burning up. He’d been right there with me. I knew he liked it. I felt the electricity and hunger in his lips.

  And then I’d put him up against the wall and ripped at his shirt…

  Fuck.

  The more the scene replayed in my head, the more I heard the words that had been spoken…

  The more I knew.

  I fucked up so bad.

  I should have thought about him. I should have looked past my own hurt and paranoia about being slaughtered by loss again and seen him. I shouldn’t have focused on what he was saying.

  Fuck, what he must be thinking right now. He was probably beating himself up, feeling like he wasn’t enough.

  He was.

  Arrow was more than enough.

  I had to see him, to go to him. Like that night he’d shoved me away and then pulled up to the curb. He’d come to me. He’d talked to me. I’d shoved him away that night, too. I told him I couldn’t do it. The same thing he’d said tonight.

  He understood. He drove me back to the hotel. He didn’t run.

  I started running. Snow was fa
lling more steadily now. The icy, wet flakes pelted my cheeks and pierced my eyes as I ran. I felt blind, numb, but I had to get there.

  A little bit of reality rushed in, and I searched around my cargo pocket for my keys. Once I had them, I glanced up, noticing my surroundings for the first time in a while. I scanned the street for my car, for the hotel sign. I need to get to Arrow.

  More snow blew into my eyes, and I blinked furiously to get it out. Once it was melted, my vision cleared. This place was familiar to me.

  I turned slowly, glancing across the wide street.

  The airstrip was there.

  Seeing the airport was an even bigger wakeup call than my thoughts had been.

  Even drowning in brain fog, even overcome with regret… I’d led myself here.

  To Arrow.

  I rushed across the street, closing in on the large fenced-in area.

  My footsteps slowed as I looked at the gate. It was open, something I knew was unusual.

  I glanced through toward the hangars. Everything looked okay.

  But I knew better than most that didn’t mean a thing.

  I didn’t notice the cold.

  If anything, it helped numb the pain. But it wasn’t enough to stop my brain.

  The look on his face before he left—I hurt him. It was the last thing I wanted, but it would be worse for him later.

  Like the kind of worse I was experiencing right now.

  Snow fell from the sky, the white flakes streaking the darkness with sprinkles of light. I hoped it kept coming. I hoped it covered the mere inch that fell earlier and blanketed everything with the kind of cold stillness only snow could bring.

  My feet were propped on the old, useless dash, my head resting against the cold pleather of the chair. I remained unmoving, stared out through the three-sixty-degree window, and tried to reconcile myself to the fact I did the best thing.

  It wasn’t what I wanted.

  A foreign sound disturbed the silence, but I didn’t move. Normally, any kind of sound would have put me on alert, but not tonight. Tonight, I just didn’t care.

  Behind me, in the direction of the open doorway, the noise came to a stop.

  “The gate is open,” Hopper said. His voice was low but breathless, like he’d been running.

  My chest clenched. The melancholy wrapping around this entire space pressed in at the sound of his voice. I loved the way it sounded.

  “Forgot to close it,” I replied, still staring out the wide windows of the old control tower. I always came here when I needed somewhere to just be, when working in the hangar wasn’t enough. I liked the feeling of being suspended in the air, high off the ground. The only thing in my line of vision was the sky, the vast horizon, and landscape below.

  One might think it would make a guy like me lonelier, but in fact, it was just the opposite.

  “How did you know I was up here?” No one knew I sat up here, not even Lorhaven.

  “It’s where I’d be.”

  I didn’t know why he was here. Part of me was relieved he was; the other whispered it would only make it worse.

  “My real name is Jayson Hamilton.” His voice filled the circular, window-encased room. It was quiet and steady, kind of like the snow I stared at.

  He cleared his throat. “Do you, uh, know that name?”

  “Should I?”

  “Five years ago, when I was right around your age, I was at the top of my game. I raced in Motocross, specifically for Ducati.”

  His past. He was telling me about his past. My interest was piqued, and though I didn’t turn to look at him, my head tilted a bit, my ear ready to capture all his words.

  “I was in the top ten racers in North America. I fucking loved it, the thrill speed gave me, the way I could make a bike respond to my every command. I was chosen to go international, to race overseas, go on tour, and basically kick my career into worldwide success.”

  I could tell by the sound of his voice, by the rawness of his words, he didn’t speak of this often. Hell, if ever. He literally went by another name now, and I’d never seen him on a bike.

  The day on the snowmobiles flashed into my memory. How panicked he’d been, how nervous and unprepared. It also explained how he handled it so well. He was practically a racing superstar.

  “What happened?” I asked, invested.

  He didn’t answer at first, not for a few minutes. I didn’t push him because I knew whatever he was telling me was likely what broke him. I continued to watch the snow blow around beyond the glass, just waiting… hoping.

  The pain I carried up to this control tower tonight was muted now. The second his cautious, heavy voice floated through the room, pain became second.

  “I was involved with someone five years ago,” he said, and my heart deflated. My teeth sank into my lower lip with the news. Picturing him with someone else made the pain reappear. “In a relationship. I met Matt when I was eighteen… He was a Ducati driver, too.”

  I swallowed, closing my eyes.

  “I loved him,” Hopper said, stark, and it pierced my heart. “We lived together, drove together… He was basically my life.”

  My feet dropped off the old control counter, my high-tops making a heavy thud when they hit the floor. “Hopper.” His name ripped from my throat. I couldn’t hear this. I didn’t want to.

  “He died,” he rushed to say. I didn’t know if it was because it was beyond painful to recall or if it was because he knew I was getting ready to bolt.

  I stayed in the old chair, my back ramrod straight and my feet flat on the floor. My fingers ached from the cold, but they squeezed my knees as I sat there.

  “He died because he took my place in a stupid challenge, one I never should have agreed to. I had hit my head, and he drove for me. The guy I was racing… he was pissed. He’d planned on taking me out so he could take my international spot. He did take me out that day…” His voice went hoarse, then fell away for a moment. “But it was Matt who died.”

  I couldn’t think. All I could do was feel. I knew how much it cut him because it still echoed in his voice. Whoever Matt was, he’d been everything to Hopper. And he died.

  “He died on the side of the road because of me.” Hopper’s voice was anguished. “I tried to stop them from running him off the road, but I was too late… I saw it all. The way his bike flipped, the way his body shuddered on impact… I was too late.”

  I wanted to get up and go to him, but I held myself back. He was grieving still. Maybe he always would be. I couldn’t compete with that. I didn’t even want to try. His pain hurt me, too. Not because he’d been in love either, but because he’d lost it.

  “Afterward…” I could hear him swallow from across the room. “I sort of went into a freefall. My life fell apart. I quit racing, cut off my friends and family. I drank too much. I walk the streets at night because sleep never gives me any peace. Gamble found me about eight months after Matt.” I heard his feet shuffle. “He offered me a job, a place to live, and a fresh start.”

  “You took it,” I said, impressed.

  “Ron Gamble isn’t someone who takes no for an answer. So I moved across the country, from Seattle to Maryland, into an apartment here at headquarters and changed my name.”

  “The press?” I questioned, thinking of the way they fed on Trent and Drew, my brother and his woman.

  “Were ruthless,” he spat. “Matt dying, the wreck, and my crash and burn was the hottest story of the year. Gamble helped me bury it, gave me a place to start over.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. Two stupid words. But I meant them. I meant them infinitely.

  “I grew my hair, a beard, and fell off the map.”

  And that’s what broke Hopper, aka Jayson. It was bad. I understood now why he was so careful not to get close, why the first sign of hurt when I pushed him away sent him running. He couldn’t go through it again.

  I understood.

  “And so I can’t give you my body, and you can’t give me your hea
rt.” I surmised, depression threatening to swallow me whole.

  It was us in a nutshell. Broken beyond repair. Tethered together by understanding; kept apart by experience.

  “What about your heart?” he whispered as if he hadn’t heard what I said. Only what I didn’t.

  “My heart isn’t mine to give.”

  Footsteps echoed behind me. I sat back when Hopper stepped around the chair to stand before me. I didn’t look up. I was a chicken shit and I was afraid if I looked in his eyes, I’d crumble.

  He was still in the same clothes from hours before. He still looked just as good.

  “Your heart isn’t yours?” he intoned.

  I shook my head.

  Hopper dropped, squatting in front of my chair. His thighs were spread so me and the chair were between them. I avoided his stare, though I felt the penetrating gaze.

  The gruff quality to his words caught me off guard. “Whose is it?”

  I didn’t reply.

  His hands shot out, gripped the edge of the seat, and pulled. The wheels the crappy office chair perched on squeaked and creaked as it moved closer. So close my knees bumped his chest.

  “Arrow,” he commanded.

  I lifted my eyes.

  We stared into each other. I don’t know what I was looking for, but it seemed he was searching out the same.

  “Who?” he demanded.

  He was jealous. When I said my heart was unavailable, suddenly it didn’t seem to matter his was, too.

  There was a difference, though. A huge, gaping difference.

  His heart belonged to Matt.

  And mine?

  “You,” I practically growled. “My heart is already yours.”

  The icy quality in his eyes flared; the color turned brilliant, like a sapphire on fire.

  “I tried to stop it.” I went on miserably. “I kept it behind all these walls, the locks, the fences… but it got out anyway.”

  The pleather where he gripped the edge of seat groaned under the pressure of his hands.

  I shouldn’t have told him. It wasn’t as if it would change anything. It merely made me look weak, made my inexperience shine through, my loneliness. My heart had been ripe for the picking—I saw that now—but even if I had known before, nothing would have changed.