Escalation Clause (Stewart Realty Series)

by Crowe, Liz

  “I don’t actually,” she whispered, still staring at their son as gas bubbles made him grin up at her.

  The gaping hole in her life where her brother once lived had never seemed so huge. It echoed with the sound of his voice—she could hear him every day, even though he’d been dead for over a month. She’d managed to move on, or was trying. There was no other option really, with a needy, colicky infant, a demanding job, and her parents who were having a hell of a time coming to terms with Blake’s death. She talked to her mother daily and was getting worried about her breathiness, and the fact that her father said she’d lost a lot of weight.

  All that, plus no matter how hard she tried to talk to him, to get his advice, to seek reassurance that she was holding together pretty well, her husband was either focused on Katie, or soccer, sometimes the baby, the house and its myriad projects, or work. But never on her.

  “Shit,” she laid the sleeping infant in his bed, turned away from the light at the bottom of his office door to their bedroom where she fell back into an exhausted, fitful slumber for a few hours, only to be woken by the sound of the baby crying again. She groaned, crawled out of bed and heard Jack and Katie making breakfast. His voice was strong and full of humor. She smiled. Maybe she was imagining things after all. She gathered Brandis in her arms and walked down the hall towards the brightly lit kitchen.

  “Hi, Mommy!” The girl said brightly, spoon in hand. “Daddy made eggs. Want some?”

  She looked at Jack. He raised an eyebrow, then glanced away from her making her quiver with frustration. “Um, no thanks, sweetie.” She made a bottle and sat in the rocking chair, watching their son consume it greedily, his blue eyes locked in on her.

  “Sara,” Jack spoke, jarring her from her reverie. “I’ve got to go out of town. Tomorrow. I’ll be gone at least a week.”

  She stared at him. The same blank look met her gaze. The pall of the conversation they might have shared, the partnership they could have had over this soccer thing was a thin veil of un-rippable fabric between them. “Fine.” She said, looking back down at the baby who had finished the bottle in record time and now was about to gear up for more crying. When she looked up again, Jack had left the room.

  A thunderstorm rolled in from the west. Sara watched the clouds gather from her seat in one of the huge leather chairs facing the wall of windows. She had a clear view of the impending violence. Trees lining the perimeter of their well-kept lawn waved as a sheet of rain hit the house so hard it sounded like hail. A blue flash of lightning imprinted on her retinas, and she smiled at the ensuing loud thunder. She loved storms. The sound of feet in the hall made her turn to accept the trembling form of her daughter in her lap. She ran a hand down Katie’s hair, calmed her, and kept an eye on the yard, loving the pure power in every shaft of light, every clap of sound.

  Sara had never in her life felt more hollowed out. Every time she reached down to find herself, to go back to the woman she once was, she came up empty handed, unable to even muster enough energy to try with Jack anymore. She had no idea who she could talk to; who would listen. Certainly not her parents. They were zombie-like after the tragedy. Not Lila, her friend, who was a mere ghost of her former self, and in the middle of her own shit with Rob as they coped with the absence of their third.

  “Mommy,” the girl raised her tear-streaked face from her chest. Dear God, could there be so many tears on the planet as had been shed lately? “Are you okay? Maybe you should go see Daddy? He seems lonely at his desk.”

  She smiled, kissed the girl’s forehead. Katie was the radar of the family no doubt, in tune to subtle changes of mood between everyone and ever anxious to ensure all was well. Her vehement anger at Rob since Blake’s death shocked everyone, but it was just one more thing on a long emotional laundry list of shit to handle. “Okay honey. I will. Now go on, storm’s over I think.”

  She let her gaze return to the rain, now sheeting down onto the green lawn. Obviously, Jack didn’t need her. He was strong as always. The man among men, as usual. He went about his business, on auto-pilot with the kids. She had no complaints about him not helping, but with her, he was someone else. A man she didn’t know anymore. And one she couldn’t get back. That thought terrified her more than anything they’d been through.

  She jumped when her phone buzzed, glanced at it and saw it was Maureen—Jack’s sister—who’d become positively hovering lately, coming over all the time, sticking her nose into their lives. Sara liked her. The urge to talk to her about Jack was strong, but Sara didn’t want to sound like a whiner and still wasn’t completely comfortable around the woman. She already felt like a failure in the marriage department. Why admit it to the sibling of the man you married?

  “Hi,” she said into the phone just as Jack appeared in the room holding the baby. Her heart pounded at the sight of him. He was so much a part of her, on so many levels. They’d conquered so much shit to get to this point. How did the death of her only brother turn him into a stranger? He jiggled their son, his eyes neutral.

  “Hey, Sara, just wanted to remind Jack about the tournament today. I think the storm has blown over. He wanted me to introduce him to somebody. To, ah, Ella’s coach. You know, Rafe?”

  Sara dragged her eyes from her husband and refocused on Mo’s words. “Yeah, Rafe, that guy who….”

  “Yeah,” Mo cut her off. “Um, anyway, is Jack there?”

  She handed the phone over without a word. Jack cradled it between his ear and shoulder and wandered back down the hallway, retuning a few minutes later sans Brandis and the phone. He dropped onto the couch with a groan. Sara’s brain was shutting down from lack of sleep. She blinked at him, wishing she could find words to say but without the energy to try.

  His eyes flickered with something familiar, then he stood, pulling her to her feet. She flopped against him. “You go back to bed for a while.” She nodded, wiped her eyes. Jack grabbed her hand, stared at her, and she willed him to speak, to open up. “Go. Get some rest.” She leaned into him, looked up and kissed him. “Sara,” he whispered against her lips, an echo of their earlier encounter, but she stumbled out into the hall and down to the bedroom, half asleep by the time she hit the pillow.

  One thing Mo had told him must have stuck, she mused as she drifted off. “Brother, one of the sexiest things you ever do for a woman with a newborn is to take the kid away and let her sleep. A full six, seven, or eight hours can be like the best orgasm and a five-star dinner plus roses all rolled into one. Mark my words.”

  Sara had laughed, high-fived her sister-in-law, and kissed Jack that day. That day when Blake was alive, and they were all preparing to mourn Rob who lay in the hospital, dying of a cancer isolated to his lungs, slowly suffocating him.

  In a soft dreamy state, she sensed a hand on her bare leg. She stirred, rolled over, her hair covering her face. She had to rally, had to pull her shit together, force her husband to talk to her, and soon. But, when she opened her eyes, blinking, sitting up fast he launched himself at her, trapping her under his strong body. She squirmed, but the look in his eyes was one she knew—one she missed. She shivered.

  “Cut it out,” she whispered but one bare leg snaked up around his hip. He shoved his thigh between her legs, kept her hands pinned up over her head. Something was roaring through her, deafening her with a craving she couldn’t name. “Jack.”

  “Yeah,” he growled, slanting his lips over hers, diving into her mouth. She arched up into him, her wrists pulling against his hands. He broke from her lips, licked his way down her neck. Maybe this was it. Maybe the near nine week hiatus from any physical contact ordained by her recovery from childbirth and the tragedy on its heels was their problem. Maybe. “God damn, I need this,” he rolled over onto his back, brought her with him.

  She smiled, dropped down over his chest, her hair curtaining them, cutting off the world. He ran a hand down her face. Words caught in her throat, but he yanked her down, kissed her until words were no longer necessary. He shifted
when she did, their bodies knowing the cues and movements of the other, their dance less urgent but somehow even more erotic. “Oh,” she gasped as he slipped into her, spreading her, giving her exactly what she wanted. “Yes,” her whisper set his hips in motion. But he stayed quiet, his usual patter, his normal commands not there. He gripped her hips, watched her eyes as she rocked against him. “Tell me,” she stared at him. “Tell me, Jack. Please.”

  “Come, Sara,” his voice was croaky, as if he’d not used it for a while. She gained strength at his wide smile. “Now. Come for me.” She leaned her head back, grabbed his thigh with one hand, propped up on his torso with the other, taking exactly what she needed from him. His voice filled her ears, sweet and familiar. “Yes, like that baby. Just like that.” He sat, pulled her close and her legs along the side of his hips. They rocked together, his lips on her neck, his cock sunk deep inside her. The stupid ever-present tears flowed down her face, coating his as he kept kissing her again and again. She wanted nothing else, nowhere else and no one else. The climax smacked her hard between the eyes, rolling up fast from the base of her spine making her call out his name.

  He shuddered, kissed her, and fell back, pulling her with him. She could not stop trembling. “Jesus,” he muttered into her shoulder. “That was….”

  She sat up. “I love you. I need you here, with me, really with me. Honey, I’m…I’m terrified.” A tear dropped onto his chest. A wholly unfamiliar sensation of panic enveloped her when his face hardened, closed up again.

  She gulped, started to touch his face but he looked away. Fear and anger roiled in her gut as she rolled off him, exasperated. He put his arm over his face, effectively shutting her out all over again. “Damn it, Jack, what is your problem?” God, she wanted things back the way they were—before, when her family was whole. He took a deep breath, as if preparing to speak. Then sat, facing away from her, his broad back between her and everything she thought she could get from him. She put a shaking hand on his shoulder just as the doorbell rang at the exact moment the baby cried.

  “Contractors,” he said, standing and pulling on jeans and a T-shirt. Sara stared at him, shocked to her core by a simple fact. She was losing her husband—the one she worked so hard to trust, to love; he was slipping away from her and she had no idea why, or how to drag him back. She got to her feet, walked into the bathroom and stared at herself in the mirror long enough for Brandis to reach a full screech and cause Katie to pound up from the basement with the dog, adding to the chaos and confusion.

  By the time Jack had the workers sorted out to his satisfaction, Katie was dressed for soccer and waiting. The girl’s dark green eyes were red-rimmed. Sara stared at her while Brandis kept up his cacophony of noisy protest. “Go,” she gestured to Jack and their daughter. “She’s late.”

  He nodded, and grabbed his keys. “C’mon, super star,” he looked back over his shoulder at Sara, but after meeting them once, she avoided his eyes. Connecting physically had never been a problem for them. In fact at one time it was all they did. And this was that shit all over again, different verse, same as the first. The thought of the work they had both done to get to the Lake Michigan wedding, the new baby, the new house made her positively ill. But the concept of losing him was worse. She made a mental note to corner Maureen and just spill it no matter what the woman thought. Sara needed her help.

  Chapter Nine

  Ella brushed a kiss to Maureen’s cheek before taking off for the field, dressed in her line referee uniform. Mo watched her daughter go. The girl’s long brown legs flashed, a blur, like they always had. The child had been born running it seemed. Never content to be still, she’d caused no end of grief as a baby and was the dictionary definition of a “terrible two.” Her twin brother, Adam, had been her exact opposite, calm to the point of worrisome. Both children had been a scary blessing for her and Brandis. She’d loved all the chaos of twins, reveled in the unconditional love she got from them and her husband. She looked at her phone. Another year had come and gone from the moment she’d gotten the call. The day she had rushed out into the early morning light and held her husband’s hand as he talked for nearly thirty minutes before dying, pinned to a tree by the front of a car driven by a drunk. She shuddered, the memory of him never far from her consciousness.

  Adam ran by next, blew her a kiss on his way to his game several fields over. The kids were refereeing at the younger players’ tournament for their soccer club. Her son turned, gave her a breathless, heart clenching view of his father’s face and pointed at her, then to his heart. Their mutual symbol of “I’m thinking of you right now” had gotten them through many long days of agony. He remembered what today day was and so did Ella. But she had been so incredibly close to Brandis; his death had caused the girl to literally stop talking to anyone for almost an entire year. And she tended to ignore certain dates on purpose.

  She waved back, determined not to cry. When her niece, Katie, streaked by on her way to the game where Mo sat, she smiled, and leaned into the hand Jack put on her shoulder. “Thanks,” she said when he handed her a tissue. “Is Sara…?”

  He looked away. Mo frowned. Something was up with him, but she hadn’t the energy to dig into it. These anniversaries tended to floor her, even years later. But her brother was unhappy, and she made a note to talk to Sara, really talk, and see if she could get to the bottom of it.

  “So, this guy…,” Jack said, looking around.

  “Oh, um, yeah.” Mo squirmed in her seat, hoping on the one hand to catch sight of Rafe, but on the other hand hoping to avoid him like the plague. She put her hand over her eyes, pretending to shield them from a non-existent sun.

  Jack shot her a look. “You, dear sister, are blushing.” He smiled at her, making the blush worse.

  “No dear brother, I am not.” Oh, yes, you are Maureen Taylor. You are blushing, and not just because you can’t wait to see Rafael Inez again.

  And, just as if she had summoned him, there he was, her daughter’s twenty-something soccer coach. A walking, talking six-foot six-inch unconsciously sexy adorable man-boy, who apparently had decided that flirting with her, a boring older widow was some kind of a kick. She flushed again, cursed her pale skin, looked away so Jack wouldn’t see her. Pitiful, Mo, seriously. Get a grip. She stood on shaky legs, smiled at the dark and model-worthy face of Rafael Inez. His smile was genuine, contagious and sent a bolt of a near-forgotten desire from the base of her neck to her core. She had to sit or risk falling over.

  Jack shot her an odd look, then held out his hand. “Jack Gordon. I’ve been wanting to meet you, Coach.”

  Rafe raised a dark eyebrow and gripped her brother’s hand. “I can’t imagine why, but thanks.”

  Mo had to shut her eyes at the sound of his voice. She’d spent a completely inappropriate amount of time replaying it in her head, the sing-song cadence of his sometimes hilarious English mixed with Spanish. The hot moment they’d shared, almost by accident at a tournament the year before shot through her head in a scary, breathless rush. She looked up, saw the men talking but heard nothing. Rafe’s lips moved, his teeth flashed, he talked with his hands, just like when he coached Ella’s state-cup champion team. Jack answered, they laughed, shook hands again and both men turned to her.

  “Huh?” she looked up, twisting the end of her ponytail nervously. “Um, so can he help you out Jack?” She must look like a deer in the headlights, but she couldn’t stop blinking.

  “Yeah. We’re gonna grab a beer after the tournament today, talk more. You okay?” her brother put a firm hand on her arm, making her flinch. Rafe stayed quiet, his calm brown eyes fixed on her. Her scalp prickled. She rubbed her arm and kept messing with her hair.

  “Maureen, you are all right, no? This is a difficult day for you. For all of you,” he turned to watch the younger girls play. Ella ran up and down the sidelines, doing her refereeing job with enthusiasm. Mo ripped her eyes away from the way his shorts hugged his ass, gulped, and was mortified to feel tears pre
ss the back of her eyes and gather force in her throat. On this day, all those years ago, she had lost the love of her life, had watched him die while she held his hand. His last words were etched into her psyche.

  “Be happy, my sweet Maureen. Promise me that?”

  Blinded by tears that were more complex than anything she’d shed in years, she stood up and ran in the opposite direction away from her brother and Rafe. She’d thought Brandis’ love would always sustain her. She had held onto it like a talisman for so long, worrying in between her fingers late at night when loneliness and despair had her in their insomniac clutches. But he was fading. And while that flat out terrified her, it also convinced her that she owed it to herself to move on. Now here she was, perched on the verge of doing just that, rendered speechless, clumsy, and horny by a fucking soccer coach? Jesus. She put her hands on the hood of her SUV, let the heat singe her, distracting her from the pity party.

  Jack’s voice made her jump. “I’m sorry Mo, I almost forgot.” He put his arm around her, kissed her hair. She slumped into his side, grateful but aggravated by him at the same time. Reminding herself she owed him a serious discussion about his bullshit behavior with his wife, she sniffled, pulled away.

  “It’s okay. I can’t go around expecting the world to stop every year on this day. Just because I do.” She sucked in a ragged breath.

  Jack stuck his hands in his pockets and stared at her. “He’s nice, that guy. Thanks for introducing me. He has the exact connections I need. A little young to be a coach, but he could be a….”

  Maureen held up her hand. “Spare me the soccer project, Jack. I’m sick of hearing about it.”

  He leaned back on her car door, his eyes distant. She’d never seen him like this before, but he’d been through a lot, had held the fort down for her when Brandis was killed and she went off the deep end for the better part of a year. “I need your help.” He kept looking out towards the fields as he spoke to her.