Which meant yes, it was centered. Our middle brother, aka genius boy, was never wrong when it came to things like that.
“I should go up with a measuring tape just in case she’s still awake.”
Beckham and Deacon shared a look.
“What?” I asked.
“You sure you should still be indulging her?” Beckham asked. His eyes stayed firmly planted on the furniture, though.
My fingers found the bridge of my nose and pinched tight. “No, I don’t know that. But if either of you have any helpful advice in how to help a seven-year-old girl who lost her mom, then I’m open to suggestions.”
“Maybe you should take her to talk to someone if she’s still doing stuff like this.”
“It was getting better back in LA.” I dropped my hand and studied the crisscrossing scars along my knuckles. “Once she gets used to this house and her new school, it’ll get better here too.”
“It’s been two years, Aiden,” Deacon added.
Like I didn’t know when my wife died. I could’ve counted the days with ease. Without looking at a calendar, I knew how many hours it had been. Maybe even down to the minute, if I had Clark’s skill with numbers. A pervasive emptiness came from losing the person you loved, and maybe that emptiness eased with each passing minute and hour and day, turning into something manageable, but it was always there.
But instead of telling him that, of trying to explain to someone who didn’t have a family of his own and had never loved someone whose loss would carve a hole into his being, I simply nodded. “I know.”
One of the strangest things about being back was moments like this, when my younger brothers helped me. With anything, honestly. Not just that they’d been here every day doing things like hanging hot pink tulle canopies and assembling princess vanities, but they were giving me parenting advice.
The stool assembled, Beckham set it on the floor and gave the cushioned seat a pat. “Not bad. Maybe I have a future in furniture assembly.”
Without looking up from the vanity, Deacon pointed at the front leg. “That’s on backward.”
“The hell it is.” Beckham turned it over, then cursed under his breath.
It was easier to smile than it had been leaving Anya’s room. My brother’s worry only underscored my own. My daughter, seven going on seventeen, was smart and sweet and a complete daredevil. But come bedtime, when the dark took over the skies, she let every fear in her head take the wheel.
“Beer in the fridge?” I asked.
Deacon looked up, then nodded. “Might not be cold yet.”
“Fine by me.”
The house was unpacked, even if it was light on the furnishings. Our bungalow in LA was half the size—and twice the cost—as the home I’d found for Anya and me overlooking Lake Sammamish in Bellevue. And the fridge was no different than the rest of the house. Just shy of empty. Inside was a case of beer, leftover pizza, deli meat, and whatever my mom had bought for Anya’s meals. I moved aside a bright pink water bottle and snagged a bottle of beer.
I didn’t drink often, which my brothers knew, but today was a day I could justify it.
The bottle opened with a twist of my hand, and as the metal top clattered onto the tile floor of the kitchen, I took a deep swallow.
Since the day I retired from fighting, I hadn’t second-guessed any decision I’d made. But today, as I scrawled my signature on a hundred papers in front of a stone-faced notary, effectively making the biggest purchase of my entire life—a gym about to be renamed Hennessy’s—gave me my first moment of pause.
My instincts were always, always spot-on. If I didn’t trust my instincts, I’d never have survived a single fight. Sometimes your body reacted before your mind had a moment to wonder if it was the right move. That was what training was for. Because a shift of your leg in the wrong direction meant you were pinned with your arm above your head. If you didn’t block an uppercut to your jaw or your kidneys, it was a hundred times harder to win.
When I visited the gym for the first time, about a year after Beth died, I felt a shift when I walked in the door. It was the only way I could explain it. Something in my gut screamed at me that it was the right gym, the right place, the right time for Anya and me.
“What’s with your face?”
I blinked because Beckham walked into the kitchen without me realizing it. “Thinking.”
“Get your paperwork squared away?”
Nodding, I took another sip of beer.
He pointed at me. “You’re doing it again.”
Sure enough, my forehead was wrinkled, and my mouth turned in a frown. I took a deep breath, trying to smooth out my expression.
“I’m fine.”
Because my little brother knew me, he didn’t push on that comment. Grabbing a beer of his own, he cracked it open and took a long drag while he stared out of the kitchen window overlooking the lake. “Remember your last fight?”
I gave him a dry look.
Beckham smiled. “The details, I mean. How well do you remember?”
Over a career that spanned almost a decade, I had a few fights that I remembered every move, every pivot, every fall to the mat, every strike as it hit my body, and that was one of them. I knew it was my last, not that I’d announced it yet.
It was my quickest win, over and done in less than three minutes.
Pure rage, anger that was being funneled through my fists and feet and legs, fueled those three minutes. Inside that ring, I was in control. As I thought about it now, until I decided to move and buy Wilson’s Gym, it was the last time I really felt that way.
But instead of explaining that to Beckham, I simply said, “I remember enough.”
“Do you miss it?”
“Yes.” I took a drink of beer and sighed. “And no.”
Before he answered, Beckham stared through the window by the kitchen sink overlooking the lake. “You sure you want to be stuck at a desk all day?”
I shrugged. “I don’t think I will be, once I get the lay of the land. Amy said I could call her if I needed help, and there’s a manager that’s been running the place for her for the past seven or so years.”
“He any good?”
“Don’t be sexist, Beckham.”
He grinned. “She any good?”
“She is not aware she has a new boss, so I don’t know anything other than what Amy told me,” I admitted.
“That’ll be fun.”
I rubbed a hand over my eyes. “Appreciate you pointing that out.”
“It wouldn’t be so bad if you weren’t so … you.”
My hand dropped. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
He tipped his beer in my direction. “Aiden, you have the charm of a rabid porcupine.”
“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
“Nope. Just quality time with my brothers while we assemble bright pink princess furniture.”
I rolled my eyes.
Deacon poked his head into the kitchen. “Anya just called for you.” He held out a measuring tape, which I took with a sigh.
I took the steps two at a time and schooled my face when I pushed open her door.
“Was the tape measure lost?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Sorry, gingersnap, I was talking to Uncle Beckham about my new job.”
She snuggled back underneath her blanket, and in the dim light of her room, I could see the curiosity light her eyes. The canopy was effectively forgotten, which wasn’t a bad thing. Surreptitiously, I tucked the measuring tape into the pocket of my gym shorts.
“Is it your first day tomorrow?”
With a nod, I sat on the edge of her bed. “I signed all the papers today, but I’m going to go just for a little bit in the morning so Miss Amy can show me a few things on the computer. Grandma will be here when I leave, so she’ll probably make you breakfast when you wake up.”
Her lips pursed in thought. “Can I have blueberry pancakes?”
“I don’t see why
not.”
Anya smiled, turning on her side with her arm gripping a small plush dog. “Are you scared for your first day? Do you think they’ll be nice to you?”
In the innocently spoken question, I heard her own fears about starting a new school, even if it was still a couple of weeks off.
“Yeah,” I told her. “I think they’ll be nice to me. The important thing about meeting new people is making sure you treat them the way you want to be treated, right?”
She nodded. “Mommy always said that too. The Gold Rule.”
“Close,” I murmured, ruffling a hand over her head.
“You’re really quiet when you meet new people, though, Daddy.”
“I suppose I am.”
“Does that mean you want people to be quiet with you too?” she asked, completely innocent, and like she did just about every day, she broke my heart just a little further.
But I decided to answer her honestly. “Depends on the person. I like hearing you talk, gingersnap.”
She giggled. “You have to say that.”
“Nah. I only say it because I mean it.”
“I think you should figure out what your new people like, Daddy. They may not be like you.”
“You’re pretty smart, you know that?”
Anya sighed, snuggling her face into the stuffed animal. “Maybe you should take The Mommy List with you,” she said quietly. “Just in case.”
The Mommy List, as she’d started referring to it, was tucked in the frame behind Beth’s picture, at Anya’s request. Over the past two years, anytime I went somewhere new, she asked me if I needed it. Just in case.
I always said the same thing. And she never pushed it.
Like I could forget that damn list anyway.
“Maybe I should.” I smiled. “You ready to go to sleep now?”
She nodded. “I think so.”
I stood, leaning over to drop a kiss on her forehead. By the time I walked into the hallway and pulled her door closed behind me, her eyes were already closed.
Anya’s words rang in my head, and I pulled out my phone and decided to send Amy a text.
Me: I know I’ll be there in the morning, but so I don’t forget to bring it up, I’ll take any tips on the best way to introduce myself to the staff.
She responded almost immediately.
Amy: Most of them were aware this was a possibility, so I don’t think anyone will be too shocked, but we’ll set up a time for you to meet Isabel before we do a meeting with everyone.
* * *
Me: How do you think she’ll take it?
* * *
Amy: She’ll be your biggest ally in this. She’s smart and dedicated, and completely unflappable. I swear, I’ve never seen anything knock her off-balance.
* * *
Me: Unflappable sounds pretty good right now.
* * *
Amy: Tomorrow is her day off, but she’ll probably show up at some point. Not many surprises when it comes to Isabel.
I tucked my phone away and sighed. “No surprises sounds pretty good to me.”
Chapter Two
Isabel
No one in my life knew about it, but my favorite possession in the entire world was a metal box. My Nan—my half-brother Logan’s mom—gave it to me when I turned ten, and she told me it was the best way to keep important things safe. Things I wasn’t ready to share with anyone else or wanted to make sure were taken care of. It came right after a screaming match with Molly because she’d found my diary and made fun of me for something I’d written about a boy in my class. A place to lock things up from my sister’s prying eyes sounded like the best possible gift.
It was sleek and black, a little beat up around the edges, and had a thick lock that had grown dull with age. Along the heavy metal top was a red stripe, and I always liked that surprising pop of bright color. The rest of the box was so forbidding, but that little bit of color gave it personality.
She told me it was vintage, that they didn’t make lockboxes like it anymore. Stamped into the metal along the bottom was 43 Bond, not that I even really knew what that meant.
Over the years, I was very selective of what I put into that box. There were a few keepsakes, some that brought happy memories, and some that served as an important reminder, good or bad.
A silver locket Molly bought me for my eleventh birthday after saving her money for months because she knew I wanted it. I used to look at it when I wanted to remember why my older sister was, in fact, not the bane of my existence.
A ribbon from my senior prom corsage. The date had been forgettable, but his sweaty man-child hands trying to figure out what to do with me were … not. That guy—just like the few others who’d made the sad attempts to date me as I stretched my long legs into adulthood—couldn’t carry a conversation if it was strapped to his back. That one came out of the box if I ever needed to remember why it was easier to say no.
A bracelet our mom gave me just a few weeks before she left us on our brother’s front porch. I’d never worn it. Usually, that one stayed tucked way the hell back because even the smallest glimpse of that delicate silver pattern had my heart racing. People knew when they’re going to leave you. The bracelet didn’t need to come out of the box in order to remind me of that.
Some of the items weren’t that maudlin, don’t worry.
The first pair of hand wraps from the kickboxing gym that had been my second home, my life, since I started working there at eighteen. I was fourteen the first time I wore them.
Some were silly, or made me feel silly, which was a little different. I didn’t usually pull those out to study them. But I was getting there. All of the storytelling had a point, I promise.
As I got older, I realized the box—strong and secure and protective—was a fitting symbol for me.
How sexy, right?
Isabel Ward, the human lockbox.
I was tough and strong. Everything important stayed safe where no one could touch or ruin it. There was space inside me for a lot more, but the older I got, the less opportunity there was for the lid to be opened.
To be honest, I didn’t even really try, which was fine. Nothing that required pity or embarrassment. I liked keeping my lid locked, if you know what I mean. No man had pried that baby open yet, and I was perfectly, one-hundred-percent okay with that.
Not that I judged people who … let someone open their box with frequency; this was just a better choice for me. Safer. Letting it stay closed was better than having it be mishandled.
The box, stored safely in the spare unused room at Logan and his wife Paige’s house, was something I hadn’t touched in a long time. Hadn’t added anything to it since I was eighteen.
But for some reason, I thought about the box and the silly items I didn’t usually look at, before going to bed.
I wasn’t claiming to be psychic or anything. But a few times in my life, I’d fought sleep for hours, consumed with the overwhelming urge to look at something in that box. Urge wasn’t even the right word. It was so strong, my legs jittered and my fingers twitched restlessly.
The night before my mom left us, I swear to you on my Nan’s grave (which I only did when I really, really meant something), I felt that box calling to me like it was alive. At that time, it was in the back of my closet where my nosy-ass sisters couldn’t find it, and I pulled it out while the sky was dark. There wasn’t as much in it back then, so it didn’t take me long to rifle through the contents. Checking that the bracelet was still there, it helped, and I’d been able to sleep.
What an omen that turned out to be.
A couple of years later, it happened again. A different home housed me and the box—the one Logan had bought for our new makeshift family. Something made me open it again, and I studied a picture that I’d tucked inside. It was the five of us. My sisters, Molly, Lia, and Claire, and then Logan. Our protector, the parent who wasn’t a parent, the one who stepped in and righted our world when my mom had turned it upside down.
>
The next day, he brought Paige home and introduced her as his future wife. This time, the change was good. The red-haired tornado, someone I’d take a bullet for, became the mother I always wanted.
That was the last time it happened.
Until now.
I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, trying to visualize the box that I hadn’t opened in probably seven years. I cataloged everything inside it, trying to decipher what it meant. What change might be on the horizon?
Lemme tell you. Women who likened themselves to metal lockboxes did not like change. We hated change.
It was terrifying, like standing outside knowing that a storm was bearing down on you, but you hadn’t yet felt the first fat raindrop.
Even though it was my day off, I showered and dressed to go to work, donning the emotional armor of my favorite dark purple quarter zip shirt with the gym’s logo over my heart. Before I left the apartment, I ate strawberry Pop-Tarts, my version of the breakfast of champions. I sipped coffee on my drive with no music on the radio because all I could think about was what proverbial bomb was about to go off in my life.
For months, I knew my boss, Amy, was going to sell the gym, but she’d never actually said anything to me about who might replace her. But still, as I took the familiar route to work, where I’d invested every ounce of my heart since the day she hired me to manage the place, I had a sinking suspicion that my premonition was about this place that was so dear to me.
My headlights cut a swath through the empty parking lot in front of the low, square building that housed the gym. Instead of pulling around to the back where I normally parked, I decided to come through the front.
I locked the door behind me and punched the security code as it beeped on the wall. The gym was dark when I walked in, which suited me just fine. I’d memorized every inch of the place years earlier, so the weak light of the sunrise was more than enough for me to navigate back to my office.
Forbidden: A Ward Sisters Sisters Novel Page 2