by Alex Lidell
A familiar, clawing pain raked over Cullen’s heart. The same ache he’d woken up to every night for the past week, when he’d jerked awake to an empty bed and unanswered calls. She’d never given him a chance to talk about the argument that had her walking out of his life. He still didn’t know whether it was his callousness that drove her away, or the fact that he’d uncovered the truth about her past, which she’d worked so hard to keep buried. Did her fiancé’s return have something to do with it? Or some story Frank Peterson had told? Maybe if Cullen hadn’t kept cutting her off midsentence in his office, if he’d shut his mouth and truly listened to what she’d been trying to say, things would have turned out differently.
She’d always listened to him, hadn’t she? Oh, she might argue, or push back, or disagree—the woman’s mind was as captivating as her heart—but she never shut the door in his face the way Cullen had done to her.
He scoffed at himself. She’d left because she was too fucking smart to be anywhere near him. It was his own fault that he’d let himself get too close, as if he didn’t know his own volatile nature. He’d never been fit for normal company, and given the last two weeks of spiraling nightmares culminating in unrestrained violence, he never would be.
He rose to his feet, grunting at the sharp stabbing pain piercing his left shoulder.
“Cullen.” Sky reached for him, the concern on her face telling him exactly how awful he must look just then. He’d hurt her. He’d nearly killed a man before her eyes, for fuck’s sake. Any reasonable person would be halfway to Canada by now just to get away from him. But Sky had always had more compassion than reason, hadn’t she?
He stepped back, putting himself out of Sky’s reach, though his every fiber longed to feel the coolness of her fingers just one more time, to inhale her passionflower shampoo and let the scent wash away the acrid memories pounding against his mind. Every inch of distance hurt, but it was the least he could do for her. She’d been right to walk away from him, and he cared too much for her to let her undo that decision.
“Don’t touch me,” he told Sky.
Her hand lowered, but the desperate concern painting her beautiful face did not. “Talk to me,” Sky whispered. “You aren’t all right. This isn’t you.”
“Oh yes, it is.” Cullen snorted. “If you haven’t figured that out by now, then you’re either stupid or a liar.” Turning his back so he didn’t have to watch his words hit her, he walked away from the scene, all his self-control engaged to keep from breaking into a sprint until Skylar Reynolds and the others were out of sight. Once they were, however, once Cullen had only the full range of nature sprawling before him, he ran.
Five miles later, the rage inside him still hadn’t dissipated. So when he came across a thick, gnarled tree three times wider than him, Cullen reared back and punched it with all his strength. Agony spiraled up his arm, but it wasn’t enough to keep him from doing it with his other hand. Only when he’d bloodied both sets of knuckles and the pain had become prohibitive did he cease his attack.
Shaking, he peered at the damage he’d done to himself, both with the tree and when struggling against Liam’s hold. Cullen’s heart hammered against his ribs, the scent of pine filling his lungs not holding a candle to the calming tang of passionflower that he’d never again inhale without thinking of Sky. His left shoulder wasn’t moving correctly, but at least the fury had burned itself out like a fire started with an accelerant, leaving fatigue washing over him.
He hadn’t felt steady ever since finding Sky’s “I quit” note, but making someone bleed in front of her was a new level of damage. Rubbing his face, he surveyed his position for landmarks and slowly made his way toward Denton Valley. Once he made it back to a paved road, he dialed an Uber, giving the driver directions to get him the hell out of town.
The clerk at the hole-in-the-wall motel off Interstate 25 gave Cullen a wide berth, watching him with an eagle eye as Cullen collected his door key and requested extra towels for the room.
“The police patrol this here place every day,” she said, looking over her brown-rimmed glasses, her tone that of a displeased nun. “We may not be a large chain, but we don’t stand for any poppycock around here. I thought you should know.”
“No poppycock, yes, ma’am,” Cullen said, starting to give the woman a mock salute with his left hand. Twelve inches into the movement, the blazing pain that had eased in the car ride returned with bazooka-level vengeance, Cullen’s knees buckling beneath him. The piece of shrapnel. Shit.
“Sir?” the clerk’s tone shifted from condescension to concern. “Sir, do you want me to call an ambulance for you? You’re very pale.”
Swallowing, Cullen shook his head. “Thank you for the towels,” he managed to say without his voice cracking before he headed into his room. It was surprisingly homey. Double beds with matching quilts in a block pattern. Simple maple headboards. A stack of three extra pillows on the table next to the old CRT television set. The place smelled comfortingly like fabric softener. It might not be the Ritz, but it was a hell of a lot better than the stony wasteland he’d slept on overseas.
After taking a quick shower, Cullen sat on the closest bed and wrapped a makeshift sling over his arm, the room swaying gently around him. He’d done it. Exactly what Dr. Yarborough warned him about. But the thought of going into surgery scared him nearly as much as facing Sky ever again did.
Arranging himself as comfortably as he could on the bed, Cullen attempted to get some shut-eye—which refused to come despite his deep exhaustion. Moving on to plan B, Cullen sank into the slightly lumpy mattress and attempted to empty his mind. Bar had been into this meditation crap—had sworn by it, in fact, despite the hazing he took for it—and at this point, Cullen was willing to try anything to get ahold of himself. Staying in this fucked-up state wasn’t an option.
That all ended fifteen minutes later when some trucker used his Jake Brakes right in front of the motel. Cullen startled out of his meditative state—not that he’d been in much of one in the first place—his gaze snagging on his lit-up phone. He had it on do not disturb, but that didn’t mean anyone had quit calling him. Eli. Liam. Kyan. Even Jaz. Yeah. He wasn’t answering any of them. Life would just have to go on without him for a while.
Sky hadn’t called. Not that he’d wanted her to.
The phone lit up again just as Cullen had put it away, and he straightened his spine to see who it was this time. Whether it might be Sky, though he didn’t want her to call. It wasn’t. But it was Addie. Shit. He couldn’t ignore her, not with Frank Peterson on her heels.
“Hey, Addie,” Cullen answered quickly, before he could reconsider. “You all right?”
“Me?” She sounded incredulous. “Cullen, are you all right? What do you need? What the hell happened?”
Fuck. He knew he shouldn’t have picked up. “Yes. Nothing. I’d rather not go into it.”
“Well, you’re going into it whether you like it or not, because I just got a video from Frank that shows you beating the shit out of some guy at WorldROCK. Start talking, Cullen—and don’t try to bullshit me. I lived with Bar. I know all the tricks. Did you stop taking—”
Cullen cringed. “No, of course not. I’m fine. An asshole was hurting someone I care about, and that’s all it was.”
“What are you, twelve?” She sounded exasperated. “You couldn’t just restrain him like you usually do and call the police?” She was right, and he had no business arguing the point. Pissed off at himself all over again, Cullen gripped his phone so hard, it hurt his injured hand. On the other end of the phone, Addie sighed. “I also caught sight of Liam holding you back. How’s the shoulder?”
“Bye, Addie.” Cullen went to hang up the phone, his finger stopping a millimeter from the button. Why would Frank have a video of the fight? More importantly, why would he send the coverage to Addie instead of posting it on Denton Uncovered’s channel? Seeing the CEO of Trident Medical Group going berserk was going to hurt share prices. Snapping the
phone back to his ear, Cullen heard his tone change. “Adrianna. Did Frank send any instructions along with that video? Did he threaten you with anything?”
“No.”
“Addie!”
“Cullen—don’t worry about it, okay? I can handle Frank. I’m more concerned about you just now.”
“Don’t you dare give in to his demands,” Cullen growled into the receiver, his pulse picking up all over again. “I’d rather the video go public than negotiate with terrorists. Do you understand me?”
“Did you forget who you’re talking to?” Addie’s sounded genuinely curious. “Because it will be a cold day in hell before I let you give me orders. You want a say in what happens? Get your ass back here, get your shoulder checked out, and go talk to that girl of yours. Then you can call me.”
Cullen opened his mouth to reply, but Addie—being Addie—disconnected the line.
33
Sky
“Are you all right?” Eli asks, drawing my attention away from where Cullen’s back had disappeared from view a few moments ago. To my right, Jaz is quietly telling Liam off, Kyan having taken Jaden somewhere. A dark ditch, hopefully.
I swallow, Cullen’s phantom green eyes still staring into mine, so much vulnerability lurking behind that steely gaze. No matter what he’d said, the pain raking through his body had been too real and too overwhelming for anyone to have to deal with alone. “Is somebody going to go after him?” I ask when I realize none of the men are following after him.
Eli shakes his head. Despite the coolness of the autumn air, perspiration has gathered along his curly hairline. “Not a good idea.” His voice is calm but the tightness around his eyes as they flick to the place where Cullen disappeared gives him away. He’s worried. “He’ll resurface when he’s ready.”
I snap myself around to face him. “Really? Just like that? You aren’t going to help?” I huff a breath, feeling my nostrils flaring in the breeze. Cullen is hurting, has been hurting for a long, long time. “You are going to let him just flounder in the deep end by himself?”
Eli cocks a brow. “You did.”
My jaw tightens, Eli’s accusation hitting me like a sheet of ice water. He blames me. Of course he does. I don’t expect anything different. Bros before hoes and all that.
Guilt rakes through me, tearing at my heart. But I can’t, I won’t apologize for refusing to become my mother. A sugar baby. A pet, bought and paid for, expected to stay blind to other women, to not question the sanctity of the military, to be controlled for the man’s peace of mind. Cullen wants me. Sometimes. But he doesn’t need me. Doesn’t trust me with his pain. Or with the truth.
My heart breaks for Cullen Hunt. But my staying with him would eventually tear us both to shreds. I swallow the bile gripping my throat and will my stinging eyes to keep the tears at bay. I… I fell in love with the wrong person. And now, there’s no good answer. No solution bar walking away.
I realize Eli’s expression has changed just as I hear Liam talking, plainly repeating his question not for the first time.
“I take it you are not, in fact, engaged to Jaden Harris?” Liam says.
“What?” I shudder. “No. I broke up with him before I left New York.” A chilly breeze blows over us, rustling the yellow leaves of the nearby aspen as if to help me make my point. “Jaden showed up at my apartment a week ago. Said he wanted me back. I said no and stupidly thought that was the end of it. I was an utter idiot coming here today. I knew he was covering WorldROCK and… Shit, I thought the place was big enough.”
“It’s not a secret you like rock climbing,” says Liam. “If he’s the asshole you claim he is, he may have been looking for you all along.”
If he’s the asshole I claim he is. Brilliant. Even after what just went down, Liam is going to give his fellow soldier the benefit of the doubt, despite the fact that he’s a stranger to him. I’m sick to my stomach of my recounts being doubted just because I’m not a penis-carrying member of the military club.
But I guess it is what it is. Turning my back to the Tridents I walk away.
“What happened during Fleet Week, Reynolds?” Liam calls after me. “And don’t bullshit me. I run a security company.”
I stop and, with my back still to him, smile without any humor. Like a final capstone rounding out the situation, Liam’s question falls right into the narrative they all want. And since they do, they can fucking have it.
“I conned my way into an exclusive party, seduced upstanding marines into pawing at me, and then tried to print lies about them to give my career a boost. Got caught, fired, and rightfully blacklisted from the industry.” My voice sounds too detached to be mine, but I’m past caring. Past arguing the truth. Whatever Liam thinks he knows about what went on that night, that’s what he’s going to believe. After walking down this particular road too many times to count, I’m… I’m done. “You run a security company, Liam. Go ask Jaden. He’s the one who turned me in. He’ll tell you all about it.”
This time when I start walking, I don’t stop for follow-up questions. Not from Liam and not from Jaz. Not from anyone. Pulling my phone out as I walk, I dial Rush, the cheap-ass phone service provider I’d been using here.
“Rush Wireless,” a perky female says on the other end. “Your number has been matched to existing records. How can I help you, Ms. Reynolds?”
“Yes, hello. I’d like to disconnect my service, please.”
The Denton Uncovered office is still locked when I get there early the following morning to slip the envelope with my resignation and press credentials under the door. It hurts. Despite the place being an utter sensationalist looney bin, it was still a link in my dream. I thought I could do it, could escape my past and pave a new path for myself. But I was wrong. Because maybe it was never the Post or even the Fleet Week fiasco that was the problem, but me. My choices. The people I let myself get close to.
Walking back out to my Corolla, I hunch my shoulders against the drizzling rain, my sneaker-clad feet making slapping sounds in the copious puddles of standing water. It’s not a good day to be cold and wet, but the weather cares little for my preferences. Turning on the ignition, I hold my hands in front of the heater to warm them before pulling the throwaway prepaid card I picked up at Walmart.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Lary!” My mom sounds too perky considering our last conversation, a television in the background announcing business news that her boyfriend must be watching. New York is two hours ahead of us. “Honey, what number are you calling me from?”
“I—” I swallow a sudden sob. “Mom, I think—”
“Greg,” my mom calls out on the other end. “Can you turn the TV down, please? It’s Lary.”
The noise stops, and this time, I can’t contain the sob.
“Lary, what’s wrong?” Mom asks.
“You told Greg to turn the news off. Because I called,” I say through ragged breaths. “And he did.”
Silence reigns on the other end for a moment. “Of course I did. And of course he did. Why is that bad?”
Because you’ve never done that before, Mom. And you’ve never been with a man who would care. “Is that offer to come home for a bit still good?” I whisper into the line. “I wouldn’t need to stay long—”
“You can stay as long as you like,” my mom says firmly. “Oh Lary, we would love to have you. I’m so glad you called. Whatever is happening, we’ll get through it. As a family.”
A lump forms in my throat, and for the first time in a long time, I want to reach through the phone and hug my mom.
“Do you want Greg to make some inquiries at the local paper? It’s not fancy, but—”
“No. No, thank you. Please don’t ask me to explain now, but I’m ready for a career change. It’ll take me some time to drive over to New York, but I’ll try to have some interviews lined up.”
“Hold on one moment,” Mom says, the muffled sound on the other end telling me she’s covering the receiver. A minute l
ater, she returns, clearing her throat. “Listen, honey, Greg is going to send you an email with a contact of his at a physical therapy clinic his friend runs. I remember you used to like medicine before that whole journalism nonsense. Give him a call. Just another name to add to the interviews, okay?”
“Sure, Mom.” I force myself to smile at the phone as I say goodbye, trying to tell myself that returning home is not surrendering, but a strategic retreat.
It’s ten in the morning by the time I collect all the good boxes I can find from recycle bins and drag them down the hallway toward my apartment. With my hair a mess, my clothes still damp from the sprinkling rain, and cardboard slipping from my hands, I’m the kind of sight that scares off the neighbors. Which makes it especially odd to see a woman still lingering as I approach my door. With her long dark hair and bright blue-green eyes, the woman looks strangely familiar, though I’m certain we’ve not met before.
“Excuse me, are you Skylar Reynolds, by any chance?” she asks as I stop in front of my door to pull a key from my back pocket. “I’m sorry to accost you like this. I tried calling, but the number I had wasn’t connecting. I’m Adrianna Peterson. Do you have a moment?”
34
Sky
Adrianna Peterson. For a second, I simply stare at Cullen’s gorgeous sugar baby and wait for the red-hot burst of jealousy-infused scorn to descend on me. But nothing comes. It seems that time has passed. I care about Cullen—there’s no getting around that no matter how much I want to—but I have too much self-respect to remain in his world any longer. Maybe my mother is right. It’s not fair of me to judge other people and their choices. And maybe if I’d been in Adrianna’s shoes, I’d act no differently. But I’m not her. And I’m not Cullen. I’m Skylar Reynolds, and I will always fight to stand on my own, no matter how hard the wind blows.
So, as I consider this drop-dead-gorgeous brunette standing at my door requesting entry, I do the only thing that makes sense.