Last Time We Kissed_A Second Chance Romance

by Nicole Snow

  If I hadn't confronted that asshole after I found the dirty secret in his Porsche? If I hadn't ran? If I hadn't lost her?

  “Ryan's on it,” Leonard says, making me blink a little quicker than I'd like.

  Of course, he means Ryan Hayes, the smart thirty year old at the other end of the table. He gives me a smile and jokingly salutes.

  Yes, that Ryan. Not Caspian, who died on Lake Superior three years ago. I pushed him out of my head the second I found a man who could give me a new name and social security number.

  Ryan Caspian was the second death that night. If he'd lived, Tanner wouldn't be sitting here staring at the greatest success of his life, managing men older and more experienced, who look at me like I'm some kind of freak who's going to lead them to billions.

  Maybe I am.

  “Take the night off to celebrate, people,” I say, picking up the manila folder in front of me and tossing it over my shoulder. “Then I want your asses back here tomorrow, in your seats, making the calls that are going to grow this company. This week, we're two million dollars richer. There's a lot more where that came from, and we're going to get every dollar for Punch Corp.”

  They cheer. They grin. They slap each other on the backs. I think I see a few genuine tears threatening to roll down Becky's cheeks, our lead in customer service. Until next week, our only receptionist. We're going to need a lot more like her to field calls where we're going.

  “Jesus, we're going to need more units,” Leonard says, pushing tense fingers through his dark slicked hair. “Should I start making inquiries around SeaTac about who's willing to work on manufacturing until we can get a real factory?”

  I shake my head. “Forget it. If revenue keeps rolling in the way I think it will this month, I have somewhere else in mind. Much lower costs of production.”

  Leonard cocks his head. I'm not going to ruin the occasion by dropping the surprise that we're going to be looking at Michigan for facilities in another year. Half the people here are Washington born and raised. I know they'll think Superior is a poor substitute for the Pacific, and the area around Marquette is a cultural wasteland.

  “We'll meet on Monday again, and I'll have more suggestions then,” I say, getting out of my chair. “It's been too damned great a week not to get out and unwind. Go crazy, everybody. You've worked for it.”

  I turn around and head for the door, making my usual exit. Tonight, they aren't going to let me go home by myself. There must be three sets of hands pulling on my arms, jerking me backward, attached to the mouths yelling invitations into my ears.

  I start laughing. I can't help it. It's a strange sound, one I only mimic once in a blue moon to pretend I'm still human.

  It's a beautiful moment. Tanner should smile and laugh along with his employees tonight. For once, I won't hold the lying bastard back.

  Deep down, I don't deserve it. Every day that goes by after walking out on my fiancee, abandoning my adopted family, after doing what I did in Michigan is one where I ought to be burning, instead of celebrating.

  Nobody needs to know I'm indulging a privilege I don't deserve until I can make things right.

  I'm only human. Turning around, I flash a rare smile to their happy faces. “Okay, okay! Give me a minute to get everything together, and I'll meet you at the usual spot along the pier.”

  “Hell yeah you will, boss. It wouldn't be a celebration without you.” Leonard claps me hard on the shoulder. Reaching up, I squeeze his hand before I step out into the main part of the coffee shop. Bystanders are staring at us, wondering about the commotion back in our meeting spot. The cash we give the manager will probably be our last payment, now that we can afford a proper office.

  Forget about Split Harbor tonight.

  Forget the dead asshole.

  Forget about her.

  I turn the phrases over and over in my mind while I order a black cold brew for the road. It's the same shit I've told myself every single day since I took the new name, staring into the mirror and seeing the reflection that's still Ryan's.

  It's an incredible day, but it doesn't matter. The words I've burned into my brain aren't going to magically start working, even if I wake up tomorrow a billionaire.

  Talk is cheap. I need action if I ever want to make myself whole again, and this is just one more mile on the long, crushing odyssey home.

  Once everybody around me is good and drunk, I pull out my phone. I've been nursing the same scotch all night, pecking at a platter of shrimp and oysters.

  I can't pretend to be happy here tonight without at least checking the news. It's the lone ritual I allow myself when work is done for the day, always around the same time, when I have a few hours left before crashing into sleep's merciful unconsciousness.

  There isn't much new in the Harbor Herald. Hell, there never is.

  Same old weather forecast for spring: gloomy with a chance for early thaw.

  I scroll down the main page, and see a few local ads for Pepe's Garage, the new chain that's filled the hole left by Bart's Auto closing down. My fist tightens, and I clench my jaw.

  “What's the word, boss? We brought you out of hiding, and you're still spending the evening alone?” Leonard slides onto the empty stool next to me, his hair a little messier above the drunken glow taking over his face.

  “Just relaxing,” I say. It wouldn't be another night as Tanner if I didn't lie about something, after all.

  “Bullshit. You're working,” he says, wagging a finger my way. “Put that thing down and take in the scenery.”

  He elbows me gently. I give him a dirty look and lift my head, following his line of sight across the bar.

  There's a woman waiting for me to flash her my ocean blue eyes. My gaze locks on hers, long enough to turn her cheeks red and send her eyes to the green margarita in front of her.

  She likes what she sees, of course. They always do.

  Gorgeous looks got me further than they should've back in Michigan. Today, they get any woman I want wet, ready to follow me to bed like they've been waiting their entire lives for the chance.

  I've filled out. Changed. Gained a few more tattoos and one choice piercing. I've become a man who only resembles the sad, broken kid I used to see in the mirror.

  Maybe it has something to do with the hours I put in at the gym, or running through every corner of this dark seaside city. I never miss a day, not even when it's pouring rain. When I break down and take a chick to bed for one night, giving into urges no man can neglect forever, I barely recognize the body fucking her.

  It's huge. Inked like a storm criss-crossing the sky. Angry.

  Would Kara recognize any piece of me?

  Catching myself thinking about her, I realize I'm evil-eyeing the broad across the bar, giving me come hither eyes. Unfortunately for her, I'm in control tonight, which means I'm not in the mood for another anonymous fuck that has about as much meaning as blowing my nose.

  Yes, as a matter of fact, I am a complete bastard when I get my rocks off. I never do it twice with the same chick. Drain my balls, and then move on.

  No exceptions. Doesn't matter how good they moan for me when I'm fisting their hair, pushing every inch against their tongues, letting a bitter roar slip through my teeth when I blow, overflowing their lips.

  After Kara, sex is mechanical. It has to be.

  Falling for anybody else – really, truly moving on – is the equivalent of burying her alive, shoveling dirt on her face with my own bare hands. No, I can't have her, I can't even speak to her again if I want to remain a free man, but I'll be damned if I'm going to let go and accept this new life as a liar.

  I don't give the stranger a second glance. Next to me, Leonard shakes his head, sadness and amusement warring in his smile. “Really, boss? You're going to pass her up?”

  He can't believe it. Some nights, neither can I, but only the ones where I forget who I really am for a few empty hours. My right-hand man at Punch doesn't have my gift, but it's hard for me to fathom why a
smart, well dressed guy isn't as on his game as I am.

  “She's yours, boy,” I whisper, turning to him with a sly smile. Nervous sweat instantly forms on his brow, and he pushes up his glasses. “Go over there, buy her another of those sugary green things, and tell her she has beautiful eyes.”

  “Boss...you're a hell of a guy, but sometimes I think you're fucking crazy.” He looks past me, his face heating from alcohol and approach anxiety when he sizes up the woman I'm ordering him to chase.

  “Don't make me put you back on the clock, Len. You want to see crazy? I'll make your bonus dependent on bringing me her panties in the morning.”

  Leonard's jaw drops. Reaching up, I slap him on the back, giving his drunken ass a little help up off the stool.

  “Now, go. It'll be good for your confidence, and great for her to have a millionaire in the making. I don't want to see you again tonight unless you're back early to tell me how good it was.”

  He doesn't say another word. I knock down the rest of my scotch, watching his slow, somewhat awkward approach. Five minutes in, I know he's said a few things right, because the woman is turned toward him with a smile on her face, her heel bobbing like a cat's tail while she laughs at his jokes.

  Smiling, I stare at my cup, empty except for the melting ice. There's no sane reason watching Leonard warm his dick up should feel more satisfying than the fact that we're bringing in over ten million dollars this month, but hell, it does.

  I turn back to my phone, finishing my scan of the latest news from Split Harbor. There's a few words about twenty-something Reginald Drayton, Nelson's great nephew, holding a major fundraiser to help keep the Armitage lighthouse open.

  I almost slam my phone on the counter then and there. Sure, the town deserves its history, but that place is always going to mean broken promises. My vow to marry her, make her happy, all destroyed that cold, stormy night I left forever.

  Armitage isn't a happy place anymore. Every time I see the lighthouse's name, I hope the fucking thing burns to the ground.

  Rage surges in my veins. I'm glad everybody else seems to have taken off, or else they're so lost in their own conversations they've forgotten all about me. I'll be calling an Uber soon.

  But not before I stab at my phone with my thumb, flipping through a few more screens. The news about the local sports doesn't interest me. By now, the little brothers of the kids who feared me in high school are having their day on the field, living it up like any kid should, each one ready to roll the dice for his chance at a Happy Ending after graduation.

  There's no happiness on the last page I scroll through, anyway. I barely read the obituaries, but today something forces me to go down the list. All five of the deceased names, quite a busy week for the reaper in such a little town.

  When I get to the end, I see it. The name hits me like a dagger in the guts. I'm motioning the bartender for another scotch, before I let my eyes roll over the ugly details.

  BART E. LILYDALE, 56

  Husband. Father. Former business owner. Lost his valiant battle with cancer last week.

  Survived by his wife, Bets; one son, Matt; and a daughter.

  Kara.

  I close my eyes, trying to summon the strength to walk out of here without turning the whole fucking bar upside down. It's like her pain reaches me across time and a couple thousand miles. Reaches down my throat, throttles my heart, and reminds me what a complete cowardly jackass I am for running, when she should've been my wife.

  Leaving her to get lonelier, when she ought to have my hands, my lips, my smile in her eyes for comfort. My drink goes down in one gulp, and I stand, dumping a pile of cash on the table that's probably the biggest tip this bartender has ever seen.

  I don't care. I need to get some fresh air, before my stomach turns over and half the crew sees me vomit hateful bile in the little urn holding the palm tree by the door.

  I barely manage a few words to my driver as I climb in the black Lincoln taking me home. A cool Pacific rain pelts the car as it inches up the steep hills down by the waterfront. I'm on the other side of the country from Split Harbor, but rain is constant on the sea.

  A rare, crisp lightning bolt cuts across the downtown sky as my ride rolls on. Too much like the night I had to leave, the darkness that would have swallowed me whole if it hadn't been for Bart.

  “Go, son. Leave the rest to me. You have to get on that ship and go now. It's your only chance. Remember – and it's going to be an absolute bitch – you can't come back. You can't call her. You can't write, phone, email, or send a note by fucking pigeon to anyone here. Because if you do, and they realize where you are...”

  Even after all these years, I remember his words perfectly. They still have a scary power to make my balls pull up inside me, like someone just dumped a bucket full of ice over my head. I never let my girl's old man finish before I got in his truck. He drove me to the boat, threw off the ropes, and made sure I steered it out into the screaming night.

  Scariest storm I ever saw, much less sailed into. Yet, I survived. It's the only reason I'm in this car, with several million to my name on paper, and a whole lot more coming.

  If it wasn't for Bart finding me, pulling me up in my zombie state, rinsing me off with a hose, and marching me down to the docks, I'd be rotting in a small town prison cell.

  Shit, maybe that's where I deserve to be. At least then I'd be close to her, even though she'd probably spit in my face the second she found out the truth.

  If only she knew I didn't have a choice. Not that it matters. No court in the world – certainly not in the U.P. – would hear any excuses for why their dearly beloved hero was slain in cold blood.

  Halfway through my trip, I have the driver change destinations. He drops me at a twenty-four hour gym about three blocks from my place. I need to get this poison out of my system, and doing it by running myself ragged on the treadmill sounds more productive than boozing my brain into the next century.

  The run only helps so much. My shirt and tie are off, hung over the chair next to the treadmill. I'm running like a maniac, alone except for the lights and the top of the Space Needle peeking through the window, abandoned to the brute regret that always comes.

  Tonight, my regret's on steroids. Just a savage hulk trying to choke the life out of me, making me re-live the night everything went to hell over and over and over.

  Fuck, I miss you.

  Kara-bou. I'm sorry.

  Apologies won't do me any good. They're a bad reflex, and they frustrate me a hundred times more when I catch myself turning them over in my head. If I could rip the fucking thing off, and be done with it all, I would.

  It's not just regret with its teeth locked onto me, tossing me around the room like a ragdoll in a Rottweiler's mouth. It's the memories, and they come faster and harder than the sweat pouring off me, louder than my beat up heart banging thunder into my blood.

  I remember her kiss. How hot, how sweet, how perfect she tasted the day she said yes to that simple little ring I'd worked like a dog to buy.

  I remember her eyes, green and beautiful, deeper than the peaceful forests ringing our little town. Her hair, like soft gold, worth trading everything I'd earned before and after the engagement.

  All gone.

  Gone forever. Stolen by a freak accident.

  Running isn't enough tonight. I step off the treadmill and dry myself with a towel. My legs are about to explode, but my upper body has some fight. I drag myself over to the punching bag, where I slip on the gloves to protect my knuckles, and lay into hell.

  Yes, hell. That's what's spilling out of me every time my punches land. Thank God I'm alone because several minutes in, I fucking scream.

  Over-dramatic? Insane? The sound of my own heart coming through my ribs in pieces?

  Yes, yes, and yes it is. I don't give a single shit.

  I can't. Because if I become a modern day Midas, richer than every billionaire who's ever turned grit to gold in this city, and there have been a lot
of them, it changes nothing. Even if I out earn Ty Sterner and his huge local empire, the whiz kid billionaire who married his own step-sister, I'm the same hollowed out shell.

  It won't take away what happened. It won't bring her back. And if it wasn't for trying to enrich my friends, my employees, nursing the dreams I'm clinging to for sanity, I'd hang it all up and turn myself in just for a chance to look into her eyes one more time.

  I'm not an idiot, though. Bart would never forgive me if I gave up, lost it, and did something that insane. Now that he's dead, it seems like I should double down on honoring his memory, the second chance he gave me to make this life matter.

  I owe him. I can't screw this up. And I damned sure can't bring his little girl more pain, even if every selfish bone in my body aches like mad for one more chance to make this right.

  I'm a realist, the older I've gotten. It's done me a lot of good. I wouldn't have gotten anywhere in a multi-billion dollar business without it.

  When I collapse on the floor, drenched in a second wave of sweat, unable to put my exhausted fists over my head, I lean on that cold, rational side of me to put the leash around my throat. That's the part that keeps me in line, prevents me from doing something stupid.

  And injecting myself into the ruins of Kara's life again would be very foolish indeed. I'll leave her to grieve, and mourn us as long as I need to.

  Come Monday, everybody in Punch Corp is going to know we're making plans for Michigan, even if it'll be years before we're manufacturing there. I'm coming home in six months as Tanner Brooks.

  There's a chance we'll cross paths again, me and Kara, if I spend more than a week setting up the factory. If it happens, then there's a greater chance she'll still recognize me beneath the hurt, the muscles, the tips of the dark tattoos that sometimes bow up around my collar, or out the edges of my sleeves.

  What then? What can I possibly say?

  “I'll do what I need to,” I mutter to myself, bowing my aching head. Serious as a monk before raw, divine power. “I won't hurt her again.”

  Except, that's one more lie. There's one thing I should do if I ever see my woman again – turn my back and walk away. It's the only option I've got to keep the big lie going, everything Bart spelled out crystal clear the night I lost it all.