by Lori Wilde
Oh gosh. What had she done? Going for a guy she didn’t know. Based on nothing more than physical attraction, and the fact she’d dreamed about him.
Was she losing her mind?
“You look pretty,” he said, when she shut the door and buckled her seat belt.
“Thank you.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Nervous,” she admitted.
“Me too,” he said.
She didn’t know if she was comforted or bothered by that admission.
He reached across the seat, gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. Drove across the train tracks to the other side of town. Pulled into a vacant strip mall. Parked in front of an empty building with a faded red sign on the roof that read “Twilight Lanes.” Giant twin bowling pins framed the sign.
Gideon Garza had inherited the old bowling alley from a cousin, and he hadn’t been able to find a buyer for the building. It had sat in disrepair for years.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you inside.”
“You’re not planning on buying the place, are you?” she asked. Joking. Mostly. But part of her perked up. If he was buying the place, it meant he was staying in Twilight.
“Gideon let me have it for the evening.” He took a key from his pocket.
“You know Gideon?”
“He’s in the group therapy sessions I’ve been going to,” Mark said.
“Is it helping with your PTSD?” she whispered.
He met her gaze. “More than I ever dreamed it could.”
“I’m happy for you.”
He didn’t drop her gaze. “Me too.” He paused. “Thank you for being there the other night when I . . .”
“Do you have nightmares like that often?”
“Some, less often now.”
“About the war?”
He nodded, his eyes darkening. “I’m told it will get better with time as long as I do the things I need to do.”
“Like what?” she said.
“Develop a routine. Eat healthily. Get plenty of exercise. Talk it out with people who’ve been there. Work on mindfulness practices.”
“And you’re doing all those things.”
“I am.”
She smiled, so happy he was making progress, and shifted her gaze to the vacant building. “We’re going bowling?”
“Not exactly.”
“What exactly?”
He got out of the Jeep. Went around to help her out. “Let’s go see.”
“You’re freaking me out a little.” She chuckled.
Mark wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drew her close. “I want to assure you of one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“No matter what happens, you’re absolutely safe with me.”
“Okay now, see. That right there? That just doubly freaked me out.” Her laugh was shaky. What was up?
He stopped outside the door. Cupped her face in his hands. Kissed her soft, sweet, and slow. “Does that help any?”
“A little,” she admitted.
“Then let’s try that again.” He deepened the kiss, held her close.
She leaned into him, sighed dreamily. His kisses were the stuff of romantic movies. “I’m somewhat reassured. But do it again, just to be sure.”
He kissed her again, and then, grinning, opened the door. He went first to turn on the lights. With a gentle hand on her shoulder, he waved her over the threshold.
The inside of the building was covered with tarps. As if someone was intent on painting the ceiling and protecting the walls.
“What is this all about?” Naomi turned to look at Mark.
“It’s not as creepy as it looks,” he said.
“I wasn’t creeped out until you mentioned it. But now that you did, it does have a Dexter vibe. Good thing I trust you implicitly.”
“You sure?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.” She peered into his eyes. Saw nothing but honor and honesty.
“I’m glad that you trust me,” he said. “Because I’m going to ask you to do something that might initially make you uncomfortable.”
“If it involves latex suits and ball gags, I’m out of here,” she said, only half teasing. Her pulse jumped from a canter to a sprint. Was he sexually . . . um . . . adventuresome? She’d only been with Robert and their sex life had been normal, ordinary. Rather humdrum in fact. If he was looking for something kinky, she might have to take a pass.
Depending, of course, on what it was.
She did have a curious streak.
“Hey, me too,” he said. “I’m not into the rough stuff. Too much of the hard side of life when you’re a Marine on the front lines.”
His sincere and gentle expression relaxed her. She smiled at him and he smiled back, and she did feel totally safe.
“What is this all about?” She swept a hand at their surroundings.
“Wait right here.” He walked across the room. Opened a door where the owners used to store bowling shoes. Wheeled out a metal cart stacked high with various colors of glass plates.
Taken aback, she frowned at the cart full of dishes. “What the heck?”
“We’re going to throw these,” he explained. “Or rather, you’re going to throw them.”
She glared, not tracking. “At what?”
“Down the lanes.” He pointed.
“Why am I going to bust perfectly good plates?”
“They’re not perfectly good. They’ve got hairline cracks or chips.”
“Where did you get them?”
“Various places. Pasta Pappa’s, school cafeteria, thrift store. Terri Longoria hooked me up.”
“Terri knows about this?”
“Yep, and she’s fully on board. She agrees this will be good for you.”
“Why are you two talking about me behind my back?”
“We’re both worried about you.”
“Again, why are we throwing these?”
“You’re throwing them to get in touch with your anger.”
She backed up. The last thing she wanted was to get in touch with her anger. She wanted as far away from her anger as she could get. “No thanks.”
He leveled her a chiding stare. “You need to do this.”
Naomi crossed her arms over her chest. “I don’t.”
“You do,” he said, sounding really certain. “You’ve tamped your anger way down inside and covered it up, but it’s still there. Simmering.”
She snorted and rolled her eyes.
“Aha. A symptom of suppressed anger right there.”
“I don’t see the point.”
“I told you it was going to make you uncomfortable.”
“You were right.”
“You’re used to building stuff, preserving things. You’re not one to destroy.”
“That’s right. Let’s go.” She turned for the door.
He grabbed her arm, towed her back to face him.
She couldn’t meet his gaze. Her stomach was knotted and her heart was a thoroughbred racing the final furlong. She closed her eyes.
“Remember that analogy you told me about sweeping dirt under the rug.”
Oh crap. Bitten in the butt by her own advice.
“Naomi,” he whispered.
She opened one eye, peeked at him. He was still hanging on to her wrist.
“They have to tear down this old building before a new one can be built in its place.”
“Or they could restore the old building.”
“Not if the foundation is crumbling. The old has to fall away in order to make room for the new. Cycle of life.”
“If you start singing songs from The Lion King, I seriously am going to belt you.”
“There it is,” he crowed. “That’s it. Reach right on down and grab hold of that anger.”
“You’re the one making me angry.”
“Good. Be angry. Get mad. Throw a fit. You don’t grow when you’re comfortable.”
&nbs
p; “You want me to take a wrecking ball to my life?” she wailed, startled by how upset her voice sounded. Why did this idea scare her so much?
“No,” he said. “I just want you to smash a few plates.”
“I don’t want to do this.” She tugged against his grip, but he would not let her go.
“Naomi.” His tone was calm, but firm. “Do you trust me?”
It might sound stupid, but she did.
“Trust,” he murmured, his voice low and reassuring. “Trust.”
“Fine. Okay. Give me a damn plate.” She didn’t cuss often, but he was pushing all her buttons.
“Thatta girl.” He produced a pair of goggles. “First put these on. Safety first.”
Snorting, she put on the goggles. Part of her felt cornered, but another part of her was strangely excited.
He grabbed a white dinner plate off the cart and passed it to her. Naomi balanced the plate in her hand, saw the hairline crack running through the middle. She wasn’t destroying a usable plate. She felt better about that.
Mark studied her with encouraging eyes. “Go ahead.”
“You want me to just hurl it at the wall?”
“That’s why I put the tarps up.”
“You did all this?”
“Yep.”
“Why?”
“To help you.”
“I don’t need—” She cut herself off. Maybe she did need help. He’d gone to all this trouble for her.
Once upon a time, she’d pitched for the church softball team. Back before her life got so complicated. Heaving in a deep breath, she wound up her arm and sailed the plate down one of the tarp-covered alleys.
It whizzed through the air and hit the wall with a satisfying smack. Busted into fragments.
The air rushed from her in a cannon breath. Hard and all at once. Whoosh.
She remembered the pickle jar Hunter had broken. How Mark had cleaned up the mess. He had that quality about him. The guy who picked up the pieces.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
A wiggle of relief squirmed through her. “Give me another.”
Mark passed her a second plate.
Crash.
The china exploded into smithereens.
She smashed a third, then a fourth.
Mark fed her plates.
She threw them.
They got into a rhythm. Mark handing her dishes. Naomi breaking them. Systematically, they moved down the alley. Naomi filling the lane with busted glass. Mark pushing the cart over to the next lane.
The deserted bowling alley rang with the sound of shattering glass. They ran out of white plates. Switched to blue. Red. Lemon. Green.
At first, throwing the dishes was about breaking the rules. There was a sassy daring to it. Out of the ordinary and unexpected. It was bold. It was disrespectful. It was fun.
She liked it. Laughed. Threw more plates.
“Now really get mad,” Mark told her. “Think of all the times you wanted to throw a fit but didn’t.”
Ugh. Uncomfortable. She spent her life avoiding confrontation. Fought to keep things light and happy. Intentionally calling up her anger scared her.
“What are you afraid of?” Mark asked, sounding like the Marine gunnery sergeant he’d once been, all the tenderness gone from his voice. “Get mad, dammit.”
“You want me to get mad?” she yelled.
“Yes. Get furious. Don’t hold anything back. Become the Incredible Hulk. When was the first time you remember getting angry?”
“When I was Hunter’s age, and I saw a man kick a dog.”
He put a plate in her hand. “See that man now. See that man kick the dog. Throw this plate at his head. Make him stop hurting the dog.”
She closed her eyes, latched on to that memory. Felt a surge of dark red anger pulse through her. She let out a ferocious warrior cry, flung the plate with all her might.
“Good job,” Mark coached. “Again!”
He pushed another plate in her hand. She curled her fingers around it. This one was a platter, bigger and heavier than the others.
An image popped into her head. This one of a boy who’d once poked her in the butt with a straight pin on the school bus when she was eight.
Drawing on every bit of strength she had in her, Naomi gave a strangled war cry, and hurled the platter. It exploded into white glass powder.
She had no time to recover. There was another plate in her hand, Mark whispering, “Make it bigger. Feel the rage. Live it. Breathe it. Own it.”
He wanted it bigger? She’d give him bigger. This time, she let loose with a string of curse words along with the plate.
“That’s it! That’s it!”
She didn’t wait for him to give her another plate. She was grabbing at them with both hands. Rage boiling up inside her, furious at everything and everyone who had ever hurt her. The pervert who’d exposed himself to her on a jogging trail when she was in college, the rheumatoid arthritis that robbed her mother of her mobility, the mother-trucking Marines for leaving her brother behind to die in Kandahar.
No man left behind? Ha. What bullshit. The Marines had run away. Left Clayton in enemy hands. She grabbed plates faster than she could throw them. Some fell to the floor, shattering around her.
Naomi didn’t care.
She was sobbing and flinging, surrounded by glass and pain. So much damn pain. Years of repressed anger came rolling out of her. She smashed and smashed and smashed until she stood trembling, and sweating, all the dishes shattered.
All the energy drained from her body. Salty tears flowing from her eyes, dribbling down her cheeks, over her lips.
She was exhausted. Wrung out. Muscles twitching. Shattered glass everywhere.
Naomi glanced over at Mark.
He came to her. Crunching across broken glass in his combat boots. Swept her into his arms. Picked her up as easily as if she were Hunter. Carried her from the circle of broken glass. Held her tightly. Took off the goggles. Kissed her forehead. Murmured soothing words.
Finally, finally, she stopped jerking and trembling and panting.
“Now,” he whispered. “When you’re ready. We build a tribute to your brother.”
Chapter 24
Shepherd had brought a folding table, two camp chairs, a square of plywood, and glue. He also had bottled water and snacks.
They sat at the table. Shoulders hunched. Sorting through glass shards. Looking for the right pieces to create a mosaic image of Clayton. From the photos on her phone, Naomi selected her favorite picture of her little brother.
The photograph had been snapped a few days before he joined the military. In it, Clayton had hair that curled about his ears, and a neatly trimmed goatee. And he wore that teasing grin that could both inspire and irritate, little-brother style. His blue eyes sparkled with inherent mischief. He was a young man in love with the world.
This was how Naomi wanted to remember him.
They worked for hours. When they finished the mosaic—made of shards of shattered glass—it was a decent rendition of the photograph. Good enough to keep. Good therapy. Surprisingly, a good memory.
“How do you feel?” Shepherd asked.
Naomi exhaled in two parts. “Better. Thank you.”
He looked at her with such tenderness. Her heart skittered. “Now for the hard part,” he whispered.
“Cleaning all this up.” She sank her hands on her hips. Surveyed the plate carnage. Wow, she had been pretty ticked off. Who knew?
“I’m not talking about that.” He reached for her hands. “We need to have a serious conversation.”
“Do we have to?” She wrapped her arms around his neck. “I’d rather kiss.”
“Nao—”
She closed her mouth over his. Kissed him.
“Not now.” His voice vibrated against her lips.
Ticklish. She laughed. “Yes. Now.”
“Naomi, we must talk.”
“So talk,” she murmured, moving her mouth down hi
s chin to his throat, where she playfully sucked on his neck.
Shepherd groaned. “I mean it.”
“Your mouth says no, but your body says yes,” she teased, pressing her hips against his erection.
“Are you sure you’re a pastor’s daughter?” His breathing was heavy, hot.
“Wanna know a secret?”
“What?” he gasped.
“The pastor’s daughter has a tattoo,” she whispered.
“Really?” He breathed. “I do too.”
“You’re supposed to have one. You’re a Marine.”
“That’s stereotyping.”
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” she said, not caring one whit how brazen she sounded.
“Cheeky.” He lowered his eyelids, sent her a seductive glance. Licked his lips.
Had she successfully derailed him from that “serious” conversation? She hoped so. “Let’s see it, Gunny.”
He rolled up his shirtsleeve. Revealed a muscular arm roped with strong veins. The material of the shirt stretching tight against his biceps.
Her mind went arid with lust. Her insides twitched. Holy smokes, what guns!
Shepherd showed off the Semper Fi navy blue ink on his left upper arm. The tat was simple, understated. But artfully done. Just those two words in script font.
“Are you?” Naomi stared into his eyes.
“Am I what?”
“Semper fi. Always loyal?”
He flinched as if she’d stuck a knife into his solar plexus. Mark dropped her gaze. Glanced over the bowling alley. His breath quickened.
“Mark?”
He didn’t answer her question. Instead, he said, “Your turn.”
She slanted her eyes to the side, a sly smile sliding across her lips. “Um, the ink is in a naughty spot.”
He rubbed his palms together. Laughed. “I want to see.”
Here was the deal. The tattoo was on her fanny, and she wasn’t sure she was brave enough to moon Mr. Shepherd. Not when she found him so irresistibly sexy. Why had she started this?
It had all the earmarks of a Bad Idea.
Yes, she definitely wanted to have sex with him. But not in a vacant bowling alley filled with busted-up plates and a heartfelt mosaic of her dead brother. Not exactly high romance.