Fire Heart (Broken Bottle Series Book 2)

by Taeuffer, Pamela

  Somehow, the universe understood and gave him a break.

  His head was deep into my shoulder. An inch at a time, his arms took me inside them. My lower back was alive with his touch. As soon as he knew he was released from having to be on for the public, I sensed his whimpers. He was letting go of his sadness.

  I let myself experience his release.

  The late afternoon began to cover us.

  Soon, the valet brought his car to the curb. After tipping him, we slid into our seats. Ryan let out a long sigh and gripped the wheel.

  He must get tired of always having to accommodate his fans, the press, maintain his swagger at social events and in public, and have just the right comment to a fan and avoid a negative write-up.

  We drove to Half Moon Bay. It was a place that stood at the edge of one world as another began, away from the traffic, noise, and the congestion of the city.

  The road hugged the cliffs; their high edges defined and sharp, dipped near the water and rushed down into possibilities. Traveling there brought a certain yearning for something more. Anticipation teased and ran with the ocean’s power, then pulled back against the rounded sand dunes. Finally, the road soared to the cliff’s edge, not quite ready to reveal the full wonder of what awaited us.

  Dozens of grassy fields supported cattle and horses. Their heads peeked over old, gray, wooden fence posts as they watched us drive by. Bent and twisted pine trees on the side of the road showed the effects of the constant coastal winds. In some areas, the ice cactus was in full display; beautiful and succulent flowers bloomed in pink, purple, and white.

  Even though Ryan appeared strong, playing the powerful role of an alpha male and competing at the top level of his sport, I wondered if on this day he needed someone to fight for him.

  Did he ever get to relax and enjoy his precious moments? Was there anyone who stood by and really loved him for the strength of his convictions as well as his fears and insecurities? Had he talked to anyone else about the things that made his body shiver?

  Had he faced what he was afraid of, only by himself?

  How would I be that person to comfort him?

  How could I fight for him when I’d previously only fought battles for myself?

  How could I stay, when every instinct said, run?

  Chapter 21

  Learning to Fight for Another

  “I’ll go into Sammy's and order while you close your eyes.” I turned on the car radio. “Here we go. This is the station I listen to when I'm by myself and need the smallest amount of something. It's soft jazz. Have you ever listened to it?"

  "Once or twice. Now that I know you like it . . ." He pushed a button and set the station as one of his regulars.

  "You know what?” I turned the volume down.

  “What?” He leaned back in his seat.

  “I know I told you I’m sick of battling for everything, and I do get sick of it, well, except when it comes to my education, I never get tired of that, but your brother? He um . . .”

  Should I open up so honestly? Is it too soon to talk like this? What if I offend him?

  “Go on.” He turned and sat with his arm resting on top of the bucket seat.

  “Well . . . I’m sorry to say this; I admit that I don’t know Chris and I really don't have a right to talk about him. He was kind of flippant back there and he me want to fight for you."

  "You put your arm around my waist." His finger traced my arm.

  "Yes."

  "That was a lovely move, Nicky. Thank you."

  "You're welcome. Tonight I’m going to take charge of you.” His wry grin appeared and before he could tease me, I corrected my mistake. “Take charge for you is what I meant.” I swallowed. “So, just let me do everything and you can relax. Is that okay?”

  When he put his arm around me, I felt his body deflate. Perhaps he turned off his protection, if only for one night.

  “Thank you, honey." He handed me the money. "Here you go.”

  I kissed him on the cheek and climbed out of the car. I wanted to rush back to him and say, "I give up. I'm yours." I visualized taking his entire body in my arms, place my hands on his cheeks, and bring his lips to mine.

  Maybe I could finally run to someone instead of running away.

  I couldn't wait to get back to Ryan, but kept the appearance of control. My pace was steady and even.

  When I opened the door to Sammy’s the smells of garlic and malt vinegar filled the air. My mouth watered. I looked for Ermina and Sam, the restaurant’s owners whom I’d met just two weeks earlier. The woman at the counter informed me it was their day off. The locals crowded the cashier, picking up their own dinner orders, while some waited patiently for a table or booth to open up.

  I was glad Ryan had decided to take a moment for himself. The way he so readily agreed to let me handle the order told me he needed a time out from the usual autograph and photo requests.

  When it came down to it, I needed a time out, too, but for me it was from his twenty-something female fans.

  On my way back to the car, I couldn’t help but take a piece of bread and dip it in the chowder. The creamy broth was rich and delicious with the sourdough.

  “Cheater!” Ryan's laugh was robust and warmed me to my toes. “I saw you take a bite.”

  “I did!" Your smile is back! "It smelled so good I just couldn’t wait. Here.” I dipped another piece and then held it out for him.

  “Feed me.” He opened his mouth and I put the chowder-soaked bread on his tongue. He licked my finger and closed his eyes. “Mmm, I like that.”

  Ooh . . . so do I.

  “It’s delicious," I agreed.

  “The chowder’s good, too.” His sexy laugh made the warm bubbles pop inside my belly.

  That tongue of his . . . the things he says . . . he’s got . . . like . . .

  “God, Ryan. I see you’re feeling better.”

  “Mm-hmm.” He smacked his lips and then lifted my finger to his mouth. "You have a little bit of chowder left here." He slowly sucked on my finger with his eyes open and flirting, his strong tongue circling its tip.

  It feels like he has a separate muscle on the end of his tongue, the way it . . . I wonder how it would feel on my . . . maybe I'll dip my finger in the soup again!

  As we drove to the beach, I was aware of the waves of joy that were cresting inside of me.

  Whenever he started his comments, it was as if I was a runner on first base and he was the pitcher. He'd look back at me, daring me to advance. He seemed ready to throw his ball in my direction at only a moment's notice. I wondered, would I ever cross home plate or would I be left standing on base, too afraid to move.

  Ryan pulled off the road to a deserted beach and carried the food when we got out of the car.

  “There’s a good spot to sit.” I pointed to a smooth, sandy area.

  “But your clothes—you'll get dirty. You're dressed so pretty.”

  “It’s all right. My sister will kill me, but so what? Besides, I was the one who suggested we come here. And you dressed nice, too, so if you’re game, I am. If there’s one thing you’ll get to know about me, it's that I don’t care where we go or how we’re dressed when we go out. Except—don’t take me to the snow because I can’t ski.”

  I saw his shoulders go up and down and heard him laughing softly. I felt good that I had lightened his mood.

  “I probably shouldn’t say this because you might think I’m a cheap date, but I’m more of a sitting-on-the-sand kind of woman when it comes to being with people. Come on, let’s eat.”

  “Here, hold the bag." He handed me the food. "I’ll be right back." When he returned, he had a Gladiator’s blanket and two sweatshirts. Locals generally carried them for an impromptu drive to the coast and I was impressed he had them. We each put on a sweatshirt and after fanning the blanket, sat down.

  “Anyway, do you remember what I was saying, Ryan?”

  “Yes.” He laughed again.

  “Don’t w
orry. Jenise and I were talking today. She said I've got to shop for clothes if you and I keep going out together, and—ooh! I have to tell you more about LA. You should see the outfits I got from Alex! I can’t believe she was able to find stuff for me. I have a beautiful business suit and a dinner dress now. I was afraid it wouldn't, well, you know how skinny those models are, so . . .”

  “So?” he pressed.

  “Sew buttons on your shirt, that’s what.”

  “What?” He cracked up. “Buttons on my shirt? I thought you were the one who needed shirts—and now buttons apparently.”

  “Yeah, well at some point you’re going think, ‘My God, she’s wearing those jeans and that T-shirt again,’ but that’s what I own. So I guess my sister will have to loan me her clothes until I can get to the store.”

  “I see.” He seemed to enjoy my story.

  “I’m just kidding.”

  “Uh-huh,” he teased.

  “Really, I am. You don’t care that I'm a casual girl, do you? You don’t want to see me in tight tops that sparkle and dip low, I hope, I hope.”

  “I love your jeans and sweatshirts.” His eyes twinkled. “You know what, Nicky?”

  “Mm-hmm?” I dipped one of the last pieces of sour dough bread in the clam chowder.

  “I don’t care what you’re wearing. In fact, it’d be great if you wore your sweet little birthday suit.”

  “Uh-huh.” Embarrassed, I looked away.

  He’s back.

  He put his arm around my shoulder while we sat on the blanket and opened up about a part of his childhood.

  “Sorry about what happened at the hotel.”

  “It's all right. I understand.”

  “Chris and I . . . I have a tough time forgiving him.”

  “How come?” I didn't want to pry but I knew how it was to have those feelings locked away and how easy it was to close down. “What did he do?”

  “When our dad was killed, Chris was entering his first year of college. It was still summer. He had just started to move into the dorms and school didn't start for another few weeks. That didn't stop him from leaving us. He came back for the funeral and never looked back. Mom and I were left alone to deal with the emptiness of Dad's death.”

  “And he left you.” I tried not to interrupt his thoughts but I needed to show him I could relate to his trauma. He regretted losing his brother and I wasn't sure he understood how much.

  “He told mom he couldn't come home. I called him every day, begging him to come home. I told him Mom was asking for him every day. His response? ‘You’re there, so you help her.’ What in the hell was I supposed to do at only fourteen?” Ryan closed his eyes. “Have you ever had a family member die?”

  “My grandma on my dad’s side. She lived at our house for a while. She took over my room. I was so resentful at first . . . all I wanted . . . anyway. Sorry. This is your story. Yes, my grandma to answer your question."

  “I don't know how you handled it, but what happened to Mom and me was that we became numb. It was like we clicked into automatic and were zombies. We took care of the necessary details of his funeral, then insurance and benefits . . . all of that kept us occupied. As soon as everything was done and there was nothing left to distract us? We fell apart.

  "When they lowered Dad's body into the ground and the flowers and handfuls of dirt were tossed onto his casket, the finality of it literally crashed into me. We needed help and to have people around us,” he continued. “Only problem was that was when the calls and offers to help faded away. It seemed like everyone deserted us. We were alone—I was alone.

  "I’d go secretly hold his dog tags, medals, and fishing gear . . . the sadness really shrouded me." He brushed a tear from his cheek. "Dad was gone, Chris had left, and Mom just cried and cried . . . there was no one left. Friends of the family and relatives got back to their own lives. God, it was tough watching her struggle. I needed someone to talk with but my friends didn’t know what to say. Plus, no boy wants to mope around his friends. That's not cool. I couldn't be vulnerable around them. It felt like I was abandoned in every way.”

  “I’m sorry.” I put my hand in his.

  “One day, Mom finally packed some of Dad’s stuff. She didn't know I was watching her. She brought each piece of clothing to her face and cried. It was so sad.”

  “You were too young to be her savior.” I put my arm through his, thinking back to all the nights my father came to my bedside drunk, sharing his misery with me. I thought by listening to him I could help. It took me years to understand—he didn’t remember anything we’d discussed from the night before. He was too drunk. I was like a fly batting itself against the window, repeating the same, sick pattern and hoping to change the outcome.

  “I know, but there was no one around except me. That asshole brother of mine couldn’t even help us call our relatives and friends to tell them about Dad’s death. Then Chris left again—it was like another funeral. Mom needed the love of both her sons. She was left with a son who didn’t know anything.”

  Ryan put his head down.

  "You knew enough," I added. "The both of you got through a terrible time together. I'd bet you helped your mother survive." I rubbed his leg for several minutes.

  “I really missed Dad,” he said quietly. “I still miss him, but back then I was so sad, angry, and just . . . a stupid adolescent who needed to talk to him about teenage stuff. After Dad died, whenever I had a question for him—even months later—I couldn’t wait to see him. Then, that empty feeling would hit—the one that reminded me he was dead. Those times were the hardest.

  “I finally understood,” he paused as if still trying to comprehend the finality of it. “He was dead. He'd never walk through the door again. I'd never see him at my game, he wouldn't be there to teach me to drive, or see me go to my prom.”

  Just then a sneaker wave came in and the water rushed up the beach. We scrambled to save the blanket and foot and ran as fast as we could, our arms full, both of us laughing and me screaming to beat getting my feet wet.

  When the water receded we set the blanket down higher up on the sand, and settled in again.

  "That was close!" I said loudly. "I almost got it!"

  "Well . . . I have to admit, it would've been kind of . . . amazing to see you get wet."

  Is he being sexual?

  "Yeah? Well you would have been something in a suit all drenched. What about that, mister?"

  "True," he said, slurping down an oyster. "Anymore of that soup and bread?"

  "A little."

  "Be sure and dip it for me and then put it in my mouth," he smirked knowing I couldn't look at him.

  "Here's the container," I handed it to him without looking. "I'm not feeding you. I'm afraid I'll lose my finger."

  He laughed and after a few pieces of chowder-soaked bread, I opened the conversation once more so he could continue his reveal.

  “What kind of questions did you want to ask your dad?” I hoped saying them out loud might help with the pain he felt.

  “Why girls were so confusing, millions or questions about sex, peer pressure at school, the clumsy way my body felt, wet dreams, pimples and when they would go away, masturbating . . . you know how odd everything is at fourteen.”

  “I get it. I ask my sister about all that stuff. There’s nothing like talking about those things with your own gender, I guess. And friends just don't cut it. They're as stupid as we are.”

  "You're naive, but not stupid. Isn't that what you told me?" He looked at me from under his eyelashes.

  "Don't tease me." I pushed my shoulder into his.

  "I'm not. I'll never forget when you said that to me," he confessed. "I thought, naive? She's innocent, but no way is she naive. They're not the same."

  "Good point." I felt special he had remembered what I told him. "Go on, Ryan."

  “I was broken. Mom was broken. Chris didn’t give a shit about us. My mother would hug me and cry while I was in her arms.” He shiver
ed. “I couldn’t . . .”

  “You didn't have the answers. She was looking for them through you because you were there, but you couldn’t give them to her. I can’t wait to get out of my house, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love my parents—or in your case, you with your mom.”

  “I wanted to get away so badly. There was a point where I didn’t think I could endure one more hug or long talk.” Ryan put his head down. "All I wanted was to get away like Chris."

  “You were a confused boy,” I counseled. “That’s understandable.”

  “I was so tired of talking about death. Dad was gone and nothing was going to bring him back. I wanted to move on, but it seemed like Mom wanted to live in his memories. His death was all she talked about from the time she got up until she went to bed. I needed to be with friends so I could try and fill up again. Chris did, after all. What was wrong with me wanting the same thing?”

  “Nothing. You had every right to want that.” I rubbed his forearm and traced the veins that stood out all the way to his wrist. "I like these."

  "My veins?" He was obviously amused.

  "Yeah. The way they stand out on your forearms," I admitted.

  "Good to know. Anything I should do to get your attention elsewhere on my body?"

  "You've got my attention everywhere," I confessed. "Continue on, Mr. Tilton."

  “Okay." His expression was much lighter and even though he continued, the heaviness of his mood was lifting. "On Chris, I understand my brother wanted to start his new life, but that wasn't the reason he chose to stay away. It was because he’d have to face Mom and he didn't want to grieve with her. The bastard didn’t even come home for Thanksgiving. It took her four years to recover and stand on her feet again. Just when I was off to college, Chris came home."

  What an ass.

  “He acts like the big man in front of you, throwing jabs at me? He’s a phony and an ass for trying to make me feel guilty. I've been through enough and I don't need his sarcasm when it comes to mom visiting me."