by Toni Blake
The night after that, his mother had taken him to see his Grandma Romo, who’d made a huge tray of lasagna and kept stuffing him with it in between kissing his cheek and telling him over and over in her thick Italian accent, “It is so good to have my Jonathan back home again.” It had felt weird being called that after so long—she’d been the only person in his life as a kid who’d never taken to calling him Lucky. And even if she drove him a little crazy, and had given him hell over “those terrible tattoos,” he couldn’t deny being glad to see her again. She’d been good to him when he was a little boy—he remembered her noticing him a little more, looking out for him a little more, than most people had after Anna’s disappearance.
Once the whirlwind week of “family time” was past, though, and his parents had finally flown back to Florida, he’d found himself thinking: Whoa. How had all this happened so fast?
The truth was, he felt as if he’d lost control, as if everything was closing in on him—and he needed some serious downtime, needed to get some space. It was the only way to find any balance with all the damn talking he was doing these days, all the relationships he was suddenly having with people. So he just stayed home and worked. He didn’t go to Gravediggers, and he didn’t even see much of Tessa.
Fortunately, the timing was good—she expected to be busy this week, putting in extra hours at the bookstore due to some kind of May Day festival in town that he was happy to avoid, and he’d also gotten her another potential job. After Duke had come over and seen what she’d done to his place, he’d approached her about making some improvements to the bar.
The problem with getting some space, though, was that it gave Lucky time to think. And when he took a big step back and looked at it all, he was forced to realized that he felt . . . torn.
What he had now was . . . well, the closest he’d ever get to having the things he’d envisioned as a boy, and the things most people wanted: the love of his family, a nice kid, work he enjoyed, and a woman who made him happy. But at the same time, it wore him out. Inside. He wasn’t used to spending time with people. He wasn’t used to being responsible to anyone but himself.
And he wasn’t used to . . . caring so damn much. About all of them.
And at moments . . . hell, it shamed him to admit it, even to himself, but he kept suffering that itchy urge . . . to run, to leave it all behind, just like he had once before—the same as he’d felt that night after reconciling with his parents. Every time the impulse struck, he just shut his eyes, leaned back his head, and tried to will it away.
What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just be grateful for all the good things in his life? Why couldn’t he lose this nagging feeling that kept dogging him?
Because you’re scared. Scared you won’t measure up. Scared if they really knew everything about you that they’d hate you. Even Tessa.
And you’re scared for them, too. You’re scared for them in the way you used to be scared for yourself—you’re scared your past will somehow come back to hurt them, endanger them.
It was funny—sometimes, the more people who came into his world, the harder it was to remember the hazards of his old life. But at strange, stark, almost surreal moments, it made it harder to forget the hazards, too. He wished he’d never seen Red Thornton again, wished the mere sight of the guy hadn’t brought those unpleasant memories back, full force.
Finally, after the tension inside him had risen so high that he feared it might smother him, he did something he hated doing—something he’d been avoiding for weeks now even as it had floated around the back of his mind. But he had to know.
Picking up his living room phone, he dialed the number he’d used to reach Red when painting his bike. When Red answered, he sounded far too happy to hear from Lucky—which Lucky had expected, so he nipped it in the bud by saying, “Listen, Red, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” Putting it off was more accurate, but the question burned inside him now, making it so he couldn’t dodge it for even one more minute. “I was wondering how Vicki is. Or was. When you left the club. I know it’s been a while, but . . .”
Just say she was fine. Or maybe that she’d gotten smart and left Bill. Anything to put his mind at ease. But when Red hesitated a second, Lucky’s stomach sank and he almost knew—even before Red said it. “Well, gosh, Lucky . . . Vicki’s dead.”
Lucky’s gut hollowed and he pressed his lips together tight, trying to steel himself against the news. “How?” was all he could force out.
Red let out a sigh, and Lucky realized the answer was going to be as grim as the news itself. And when Red spoke, his voice came softer than usual. “Cause of death was an overdose,” he said. “But she was in an alley when they found her, beat up damn bad.”
“So Wild Bill killed her,” Lucky said, struggling to breathe, sound normal. It felt like somebody had just loaded a pile of bricks onto his chest. “He beat the hell out of her, then he pumped her full of drugs to cover it up.”
“Bill told the cops she’d been hangin’ with some stoners, and that they musta shot up together and then things musta turned violent. Cops suspected Bill—but couldn’t pin it on him.”
Lucky stayed quiet after that, trying to absorb it, wrap his head around it. Vicki was dead; Bill had killed her. He began to fear he would vomit. And it wasn’t that he’d cared for Vicki deeply—it was just that it was sad. And that it added to those old remnants of worry still floating around inside him.
He heard Red on the other end of the line, changing the subject, saying something about the paint job on his bike, but Lucky just said, “I gotta go, Red,” and hung up.
Then he let out a long sigh and ran his hands back through his hair. Shit.
Maybe this didn’t matter. Maybe it didn’t affect his life even one little bit. Yet he couldn’t help letting it heap new coal onto the fire of his fears. Irrational fears? Yeah, sure, probably. But damn, it made him want to run. It made him want to get on his bike and ride so fucking far away that no one could ever find him, that no one could ever, ever be hurt because of him. He’d done nothing to cause Vicki’s death, but once upon a time, he had caused her to be hurt. Sort of. It all depended on how you looked at it.
Aw, hell. How long would he last like this—before he really did it one day, before he really got on his Harley and started riding and didn’t come back? How long would it be before he hurt people again by running away?
It was on Thursday as he worked that he realized he hadn’t talked to Tessa in a while—at least a couple of days. And maybe that was best. Even if, when he reached a good stopping point now, he found himself putting down his paint gun to walk outside. The day was warm and bright, and blooming redbud trees decorated the woods in purple. When he saw her sedan in the driveway, he knew she was home. And he wondered what she was doing. But he ignored the impulse to find out.
Because he was still just as overwhelmed by all the changes in his life as he’d been a few days ago. And because finding out Vicki was dead was still making him a little sick inside, still creating that knot of fear in his belly. He knew one thing had nothing to do with the other, that Vicki’s death and Tessa were about as far apart as two things could be, yet in his mind, he couldn’t stop linking them.
Probably the best thing you could do is back away from this relationship now. Keep it casual. Slow it down.
He’d decided it was safe to come here, and ultimately he’d decided it was safe to let more and more people—like Tessa—into his life. But it was all happening awful quick now, and the truth was, if something did go wrong, if something bad came back from his past, what would he do? He’d stepped up for his son, determined to protect him if it ever came to that. And then his family had entered the picture and so he’d had to step up for them, too. But hell. He couldn’t protect everybody. Could he? So maybe Tessa—as amazing as she was—was the part he needed to back away from a little bit.
Or maybe it was about more than that, about the other part—the part about him
not measuring up. With his kid, his parents—they were joined by blood, always would be. And his parents had already proven they’d be there for him, they’d already forgiven the unforgivable. But with Tessa—what really tied her to him? What really kept her from waking up one day and realizing he wasn’t right for her, or good enough for her? Maybe backing away from her a little was about protecting himself, too.
It wasn’t until later, just before dark, that he glanced out the front window toward her house once more and realized that . . . aw, crap—overwhelmed or not, he missed her. He missed her and, despite himself, he’d had enough space now. Space she didn’t even know he was taking. He felt like a shit for everything in his head that she didn’t even know about.
Her car was still there, and he’d seen no movement at her place all day—so despite himself, he decided to walk down and say hi. He didn’t particularly like the idea that he’d suddenly become a guy who could get that caught up in a chick, but he was definitely caught up in Tessa—no point in denying it.
Yet the cabin felt . . . weirdly quiet upon Lucky’s approach. He guessed he’d just grown used to seeing her out watering her flowers on the deck or checking her mail, or to hearing music waft through open windows. But everything felt strangely still tonight.
Rather than knock on the back door as he sometimes did, he walked around to the front. He pressed the doorbell and listened to the muffled sound of it ringing on the other side. Then he waited. But no one answered.
Huh. What the hell was that about? He shifted his weight from one work boot to the other, then pressed the bell again, longer this time, to make sure she heard it. And he experienced a definite twinge of relief when footsteps approached on the other side.
When Tessa answered, she wore her sexy little Hot Stuff shirt with a pair of cute drawstring shorts. But her hair looked messy—half of it falling out of a ponytail—and her skin pale, especially for a girl who got out in the sun a lot. Her face appeared drawn, her eyes tired. And Lucky’s heart sank to his stomach. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing.” She gave her head a short shake that appeared to require more effort than it should have.
“Something,” he protested.
She drew her gaze away and said, “Just not feeling well.”
That’s when it hit Lucky. “Is it your Crohn’s disease?” He was aware of her limited diet because they’d eaten plenty of meals together, but he’d never seen her appear ill and had nearly forgotten about that part of her condition.
She looked uncomfortable with the question. “Yeah, but no biggie. I’ll call you when I feel better,” she told him—then actually moved to shut the door in his face.
He raised a hand to stop her. “I hope you don’t think you’re getting rid of me that easy, hot stuff.”
She blinked, clearly caught off guard. “What do you mean?”
“I’m coming in,” he told her. It wasn’t a decision so much as an instinct.
And it came as a pretty damn big shock when she answered with a surprisingly adamant, “No.”
What the hell? “Why not?”
“Because I don’t want you here.”
. . . a solemn passion is conceived in my heart;
it leans to you, draws you to my centre and spring of life . . .
Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre
Thirteen
Tessa didn’t mean to be cruel, but she hadn’t expected Lucky to show up at her door, and she preferred being alone when a flare-up occurred. And she felt too yucky at the moment to mince words.
Lucky just looked at her. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Geez. She hardly felt like explaining her feelings right now, but tried anyway. “Look, I just . . . don’t want you to see me like this.”
He gave his head a short shake. “I don’t care how you look right now, babe.”
But it was more than that. And it wasn’t just him—it was everybody, the whole world. She let out a sigh, trying to find the words that would make him understand. “It’s easier for me to be alone right now, okay? And I don’t like anyone seeing me this way. I don’t like . . . being the sick girl. I don’t like it being this big part of who I am. I don’t want people to start thinking of me like it’s the most important thing about me.”
Lucky just lowered his chin, staring at her like she was off her rocker. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot.”
Another sigh left her as she tried to fight off a wave of nausea. “Well, yeah. In the beginning, I had far more bad days than good. I lost weight, I got weak, and . . . I was the sick girl for a while. It was the biggest part of me.” God, she hated saying that, remembering it.
“I’m real sorry about that, hot stuff—I really am. But if you think it’s possible for me to see this as the most important thing about you, you’re fucking crazy.”
Tessa blinked, taken aback. In Cincinnati, at Posh, she had come to be seen that way—as a liability, and as someone to be pitied. It had been as if everyone she knew forgot everything else about her: that she designed great spaces, that she loved colorful clothes, that she was smart, or funny, or kind. She’d just been struggling to survive and that had been all anyone could see. It had been the worst, most trivializing feeling of her life. Finally, she said to Lucky, “I am?”
He still looked at her like she’d lost her marbles. “Of course. You’re just feeling bad right now, for God’s sake. So I’m coming inside and taking care of you.”
His words settled somewhere deep and warm inside her. Yet old habits—and feelings—died hard. “That’s nice, Lucky, but . . .” She shook her head again, woozy. “I’m just not good at being with someone when I feel this way. I’m not very good company.”
“You’re not supposed to be good company when you’re sick, dummy,” he pointed out.
“Still . . .” she began, ready to argue it. But then—whoa—a thick wave of nausea passed through her, forcing her to reach out and grab the doorframe for balance.
“Still nothing,” Lucky growled. Then he scooped her up into his arms and carried her to her sofa before she could utter another protest.
“Ugh,” she said, happy to be lying down again, then muttered to herself, “Good thing I didn’t adopt that cat.” Since right now it was all she could do to occasionally walk from the bed to the kitchen to the couch.
“What cat?”
Her eyes had fallen shut, but now she opened them to see Lucky’s handsome face hovering over hers. He knelt next to the sofa.
She spoke softly as the nausea faded a bit. “A cat at the bookstore. She’s really sweet, but kind of skittish. I sort of considered adopting her but figured that would be a bad idea, and I was right. I wouldn’t be able to take care of her at times like this.”
Lucky arched one brow, grimacing slightly. “A cat, huh? I didn’t know you liked cats.”
She shifted her head slightly on the couch pillow. What was it with guys? Every guy she’d ever known had either loved cats or hated them—no in between. “So being sick won’t change how you see me, but if I like cats you’re calling it quits?”
He met her gaze, his expression laced with dry amusement. “I guess I’ll let it slide, but . . . what’s so great about cats anyway?”
“It’s not cats in general so much as this particular one,” she said. “She’s just nice to pet and cuddle with.”
The tilt of his head came with a cocky look. “If you want something to pet and cuddle with, babe, you got me.”
She couldn’t hold back a small grin, but ignored his arrogance to add, “Brontë’s very affectionate. I just . . . like being around her.”
Yet Lucky still looked doubtful. “If you ask me, cats are . . . sneaky-looking. Like they’re out to get you. That cat at Mike’s house kept staring at me and I didn’t like it.”
His words made Tessa laugh out loud. “Oooh—big, bad Lucky Romo’s afraid of a little kitty cat.”
He lowered his chin, eyes chiding. “Funny, hot stuff
. You should take that on the road.”
“I can’t,” she said sardonically. “I’m sick.”
“You gonna quit being silly and let me take care of you now?”
Tessa peered up at him. She couldn’t have imagined a few weeks ago that her brawny neighbor would be bending over backward, insistent on caring for her. And the truth was, she still didn’t like the idea of him seeing her at her worst—she wanted him to keep seeing her as his hot, sexy girlfriend. But even though he was asking her, she suspected Lucky wasn’t really giving her a choice in the matter. “What if I say no?”
He shrugged. “You’re stuck with me anyway.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He gave a short nod, apparently taking that as surrender. “Now—how can I help?”
Tessa sighed, finally accepting her defeat, then glanced toward the TV. “Hand me the remote and sit down. We’re watching Ellen.”
Being a small town cop gave a man a lot of time to think. Mike figured that could be a good thing or a bad one depending upon how you looked at it. Most of the time, as he patrolled the streets of Destiny and the surrounding highways in his cruiser, he appreciated that gift of time. God knew he’d spent a hell of a lot of time thinking about Rachel behind the wheel of this car, especially when they’d first met. It had given him a chance to sort through all the complexities of their relationship, time to decipher his feelings for her.
But lately, he was thinking too much. About Lucky. About times when they were kids, and times when they were teenagers. And about more recent times, too. It was the damnedest thing. For the past fifteen years, he’d been sure that if Lucky walked through the door one day, he’d be glad to see him. And he was glad to finally find out Lucky was alive, and healthy—all that. But Mike never could have dreamed Lucky would come rolling back into their lives and that he wouldn’t want anything to do with his little brother.