by M. Leighton
According to Mom, “people” are calling Tag the only man worthy of the Randolph name. They’re saying he’s a bigger asshole than his father. More cunning, more ruthless. His name is the worst kind of curse in my family and it gets worse by the day.
Some of the local papers have even begun to pick up on what’s going on, citing the whispers of a new corporate magnate on the scene. And evidently Tag is making this name all by himself. Randolph blood really must run in his veins. Turns out my hot-blooded winemaker is nothing more than a cold-blooded shark.
THIRTY
Tag
I rented a little office in Enchantment when I found out about my real father all those months ago. I knew I’d need a place to conduct business that was unrelated to Chiara and my life there. Maybe that was a by-product of the way I felt—somehow separated from my life there, as though my biological father drove a wedge between the past and the present.
In some ways, Chiara and my childhood there felt like a lie. At least for a while. It got easier with time, and even easier once Weatherly came along. She’s why I’ve rented yet another office space, only this one in Atlanta so that I can be close to her, even though there doesn’t seem to be a need to be right now.
I’ve called several times. She won’t answer. She hasn’t said anything about the gifts I’ve been sending either. Not that I’m really surprised. I guess I just hoped.
Since that first day at her place, the proverbial shit has hit the fan. News quickly spread about Jameson Randolph’s heir and his merciless business ethics. Little do they know that the only business transaction I’ve been behind since my father died was the bid for Chiara. The board of directors has been at the helm of Randolph Consolidated—ostensibly in an effort to give me time to get adjusted—and that’s been okay with me. On any given day, I’d rather be working the fields at Chiara than dealing with a bunch of assholes in expensive suits. Chiara was real. They weren’t.
Until now. Now, nothing seems quite right. Nothing seems to fit. Not even Chiara. Without Weatherly, I feel like a ship lost at sea. I’m sort of aimless. Restless. Part of me wants to go back to Chiara and resume my life there, but I know that when I get there, it’ll be empty without her. Besides, I wouldn’t feel right going back there and picking up life where it was before her. Chiara is hers. It didn’t convey in marriage. I know she would never make Mom leave, but it wouldn’t be right for me to go back like none of this happened. Mom is safe. That’s all I care about. That and Weatherly. I’m not sure I even want to go back there yet anyway. Not even to visit. Without my wife, it’s a totally different place. Since my wife, it’s a totally different place.
There’s a knock at the side door, the one that leads to the private apartment behind my new office. Only a few people know I’m back here, but I don’t hesitate to answer it. Since the threats to our team were neutralized, we are all back to life as usual. Well, as usual as it can be for three ex–Special Forces guys trying to make something of their lives.
Today, I don’t have to wonder who’s visiting. Something in my gut tells me who I’ll find at the door, so I’m not at all surprised when I swing open the panel and find Rogan leaning against the jamb.
“You look like hammered shit, man,” he says, scrunching up his face in disgust.
“Thanks. That’s what I was really needing to hear today, dickweed.”
I back up so he can come in, which he does. He slaps my cheek as he passes. “Forget how to shower and shave?”
“No. I just didn’t feel like doing either one.”
“I can smell. I mean, I can tell.” He throws a grin over his shoulder at me. I punch him lightly in the right kidney as a reward. “What the hell did that girl do to you, Tag? I’ve never seen you like this, bro.”
“Like what?” I ask, heading to the fridge for a couple of beers. He doesn’t really need to answer my question. I already know what he means. I’ve wondered the same thing myself, wondered how the hell she worked her way under my skin and into my heart this way. It’s like one day I was fine and the next day, BAM! I hardly recognize myself.
“Pussy-whipped.”
“I’m not pussy-whipped.”
“You are so pussy-whipped. You think I don’t know what it looks like? What it feels like?”
“What? Pussy? I sure as shit hope so.”
He gives me a withering look and takes the proffered beer. “You know damn well what I mean. And I’m not busting your balls. Been there, man. In fact, now I’m quite happily pussy-whipped.”
“It’s not like that,” I tell him, feeling pissy that he reduces it to sex when it’s so much more than that. “I’ve had tons of women. At least twice what your pretty-boy ass has had. This is different. It’s more than that.”
“Calm down, calm down,” Rogan says, holding out one hand like I’m a wayward kid he’s trying to soothe. “I didn’t realize you loved her, dude. Why didn’t you just say so?”
“I thought it was fairly obvious.”
Rogan grins. “It is. I just like giving you a hard time. Next to Jasper, you’re about the hardest bastard to read of anyone I know. But this I could see. Hell, I saw it the day you brought her to my house.”
“You did?”
He nods. “Yep.”
“Then why in God’s name didn’t you tell me?”
He shrugs. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually. And I didn’t want to miss all . . . this.”
“Thanks a lot. You’ve been a great friend, asshat,” I tell him derisively.
“A good friend is there when things are good, but a great friend comes around when the world falls to shit. That’s why I’m here. Your world fell to shit. I came to help you pick up the pieces.”
“I appreciate it, Ro, but there’s not much you can do on this one, I don’t think.”
“Maybe not by myself, but you can’t forget that I have help. Valuable help.”
“What kind of ‘valuable help’?”
“I have the help of a woman.” He winks at me and takes a long draw from his beer.
My curiosity is piqued. A woman’s perspective might actually be beneficial. “Maybe you’re not so useless after all.”
“Right?”
“So what does Katie say about all this?”
“She asked what you’d done. I told her. She cursed you for the sake of all women for about ten minutes, but then she told me to tell you to figure out what’s standing in your way.”
I feel deflated. That’s no help at all.
“Lies. The past. Things I can’t change. But I already knew that.”
“She thought you might say that. She said to ask you if there was anything you could do to prove yourself wrong.”
“To prove myself wrong?”
“Prove yourself wrong. Or maybe it was to prove yourself worthy. I can’t remember now.”
I grab a handful of nuts from the bowl on the bar behind me and throw them at him. “Useless. Asshat.”
I still can’t help smiling when he starts laughing.
“Seriously, though, man. Go see her. Let her see how miserable you are. If that doesn’t snap her out of it, then . . .”
“Then what? I’m screwed, right?”
“You might be.”
“I’ll go by again, but I’m not holding my breath that she’ll even open the door. No, Katie’s right. I need to prove myself to her. I just don’t have a damn clue how to do that.”
“It’ll come to you, Tag. But until then, go see her. It can’t hurt.”
I hope not. She doesn’t need any more hurt from me.
THIRTY-ONE
Weatherly
I can’t imagine being any more uncomfortable. My father was supposed to bring by the divorce papers that his attorney drew up for me. When I heard the knock at the front door, I assumed it was him, so I opened it without checking. I ju
st stood there with my mouth hanging open for a good ten or twenty seconds when I saw Michael Stromberg standing on the stoop.
“I’m sure you’ll be happy to get your hands on these.” His smile was wide and smug when he handed me the envelope. “Your father asked me to drop them by. He had some errands to run. May I come in?”
My father didn’t have errands to run, unless ill-timed matchmaking can be considered an errand.
“Of course,” I said politely, stepping back to allow him to enter. It wasn’t until I opened the envelope and saw the black-and-white evidence of the dissolution of my marriage to Tag that I felt my insides begin to crumble. For the thousandth time. I didn’t know it could keep on hurting, or even hurt worse than it already had, but it could. And it did.
My mind was battered with questions, the same questions I’d asked myself a million times, all without answer. How could something so perfect have been nothing more than a lie? How could something so right have turned out so very, very wrong? How could I be losing the one thing I always wanted—the man of my choosing, someone to love, someone to grow old with? Someone who was mine. All mine. Someone who was with me for no other reason than love.
Only that was never really the case with Tag. He had as much reason to marry me as Michael did, if not more. It was that realization that cut through me, all the way through me, like a sword separating bone from tissue, blood from vessels, heart from chest. It severed the last thread of hope I’d managed to preserve, and without it, I was lost.
That was half an hour ago. Despite my despair, I’ve had to sit and make polite conversation with Michael this entire time. I nearly sigh in relief when the doorbell rings. I don’t care if it’s just the deliveryman bringing me another bittersweet gift from Tag. I’m happy with any interruption.
Until I open the door and find Tag standing on my stoop this time. At the sight of him, my stomach clenches into a tight knot and my heart pounds so hard I can feel the pulse of it in my toes.
“Hi,” he says, stuffing his hands in his front pockets. He looks as though he feels awkward. Under different circumstances, I might call his gesture adorable. It reeks of insecurity and desperation, something that seems foreign on Tag. It probably seems foreign to Tag, too. I doubt he’s found himself in many situations where he isn’t in complete control. I imagine this is hard for him. And it damn well should be.
“Hi,” I reply evenly. “What are you doing here?”
“I, uh, I just wanted to stop by and see you.”
“Tag, you shouldn’t be here. I told you—”
“I know what you told me, but I can’t live with that, Weatherly. I love you. I’m in love with you. I can’t just give up without a fight.”
His words please some pathetic part of me that seems impervious to the deception he perpetrated against me. It loves him without condition, without reservation. Still. Always.
“It’s too late for that. You should’ve fought when there was still something left to fight for,” I tell him, my anger rising. I hate that he can still make me feel regret and sadness and heartbreak. I hate that I can’t be cool and calm and unaffected. I don’t know what’s showing on my face, but my insides are a mess. They were the instant I laid eyes on him, and they will be for hours after he’s gone. And as long as he continues to be a presence in my life—whether through visits or gifts or messages or whatever—I’ll never be able to heal enough, to make myself strong enough to put him behind me.
“You know, when I was in Delta Five—that’s the Special Forces team that I was a part of—they used to call me the brave one. I was always the first one in, always the one rolling, balls out, into our mission. I wasn’t afraid to die or get shot or get stabbed or burned or whatever. I knew I could handle whatever came my way, even death. My parents had bred that into me. To go after what I want, to be fearless and bold. And I always did. I was never afraid of losing. Until now. Until you. I’m brave enough to face knives and guns, death and torture, discovery and capture, and the only thing I’ve ever known that scares the living shit out of me is losing you.”
When I open my mouth to stop him, he keeps going, giving me no chance to speak.
“I know that might not mean much to you, but it means everything to me. I screwed up. I admit it. But I never saw you coming. I never thought I’d meet someone like you, someone who could bring me to my knees with a look or a touch. I wasn’t prepared. But now I am. Now I am.”
My muscles are shivering, my insides quaking. My mind is swirling with emotions and words, choices and consequences. Can I trust him? My heart tells me that I can, but it’s led me astray before.
I want to trust him. I want to believe his words. More than I ever thought I could want anything. Except the man himself.
But I never saw you coming. I never thought I’d meet someone like you, someone who could bring me to my knees with a look or a touch. I wasn’t prepared. But now I am.
My heart taps frantically against my ribs, words perched delicately on the tip of my tongue, but before I can respond, a voice sounds from over my right shoulder.
“Won’t he take ‘no’ for an answer, Weatherly?” Michael asks in a haughty voice. I don’t have to turn around to know that he’s wearing a self-satisfied smile. He was just waiting for the day when he could best Tag.
Tag’s eyes, which had clicked to a stop over my head, drop from Michael back down to me. They’ve gone from warm, soft gray to hard, icy steel. “What the hell is he doing here?” His words are clipped. His voice is low. His demeanor is as ominous as a storm cloud.
Again, before I can answer, Michael speaks up, coming to stand close at my back. “I came to bring her divorce papers. Unlike you, I’m welcome here because I haven’t been deceiving her all this time.”
“Michael, please,” I shoot back over my shoulder in irritation. He’s only making a difficult situation even more so.
“Don’t pretend like you’ve got Weatherly’s best interests at heart, you greedy bastard. At least I’m in love with her and not trying to make her a miserable trophy wife with a powerful father and a big bank account.”
“I can see why she’s had enough of you and your lies. As it is, it’ll take me months to make her forget your filthy touch, but I assure you, I’m just the man for the job.”
I don’t know what Michael is doing behind my back; I only know that I don’t see the explosion until it happens. Suddenly I’m pushed rather gently to the side and Tag is roaring past me, grabbing Michael by the front of his crisp, white, four-hundred-dollar shirt and hauling him up against the wall hard enough to make plaster sprinkle from the ceiling and pepper my hardwoods.
“If you so much as lay a finger on her, so help me God, I’ll burn your life to the ground and then throw you in the fire.” Tag’s chest is heaving. “And if you think I’m bluffing, try me. If you think I’m afraid of you, try me. Try me. Please. I’m begging you. I know more about killing people and hiding it than you know about expensive cigars and cheap whores.”
I’m quietly holding my breath, uncertain how to respond to this, when Tag surprises me by planting his fist in Michael’s stomach. I hear the sickening thud ring through the room. I hear Michael’s garbled grunt when he bends forward and then crumples to his knees. Tag, as if he has to finish making his point, puts his foot on the side of Michael’s face and pushes until Michael falls over, curled on the floor in the fetal position.
I’m standing, stunned and speechless, when Tag comes to me. He doesn’t touch me, but I get the feeling he wants to. Not in anger, but in desperation. He raises his hands twice, but then lets them fall limply to his sides.
“I love you. I love you, damn it! The real, deep, forever kind of love. Can’t you see that? God! God,” he says, gritting his teeth and clenching his fists. “It makes me crazy to think of . . .” With a barely human growl, he spins away from me and stalks to the door. His breath is coming in
harsh pants that stretch his shirt across his back, and I can practically feel him trying to control his rage. He swings the door open, but then pauses on the threshold. He just stands there as though he’s trying to collect himself. After he’s taken several deep breaths, I hear his voice again. It’s a plea full of quiet torture and immense regret. “I’m sorry, Weatherly. I didn’t come here for this. I can’t . . . I just don’t . . . I love you. That’s all I can tell you. I love you and this is killing me.”
And with that, he turns and walks out the door, pulling it shut behind him.
—
I love Tag. That’s the plain and simple truth. I don’t want to. I tried not to. But I can’t seem to stop and it won’t go away. With every day, I mourn the loss of him a little bit more. And this apartment . . . now it’s filled with his words, his confession, his gifts, his desperation. I can feel them like a tangible presence, even when my eyes are closed. It’s getting harder and harder to breathe every day. Every single day.
Besides that, there are the circumstances of our union—as well as our breakup—and the fact that they’re looming around every corner. I know that the only thing that I can do, the only way that I can survive, is to cut ties and start over. I have to get out of here. Away. Way away. However I can. It’s the only thing that will save me at this point. I can’t be here anymore. In this world. So close to Tag in so many ways, yet so far from him, too.
I refuse to ask my father about my trust, about whether he’s decided to change his mind. I don’t need his money when it comes with conditions. Instead, I spoke to a realtor yesterday about selling my place. It should give me enough money to relocate and start over, to buy a modest little house somewhere else. Anywhere else. I have no real ties here. My parents aren’t involved in my life in any way that necessitates me being local. They have a way of keeping tabs on me no matter where I’m located. The only other thing keeping me here is Safe Passage. I’ve good people in charge there, though, so I believe the kids and their best interests will be in good hands until I feel like I can come back here and pick up life again. If that ever happens. Until then, they’ll be fine.