by Beth Andrews
Marcus threw an elbow into the guy’s gut and rolled out from under him. He followed, still shouting, still punching, then his hands went for Marcus’s throat. Marcus shook his head, his vision blurred by the stinging rain and the blood seeping from a cut above his eye. He reared up with a head butt, going for the guy’s nose—caught his cheekbone instead. As the guy recoiled, Marcus aimed a punch at his jaw and he slumped to the ground, groaning.
Marcus staggered to his feet, tasting blood and ready to kick more ass before calling the sheriff. What the hell? Where had this asshole come from? The guy on the ground mumbled something, and Marcus went still. Then he put a boot to his shoulder and pushed, rolled the guy onto his back.
Shit.
It was Joe.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JOE LAY IN BED, too afraid to move. The moment he opened his eyes, or raised his head or even swallowed, he’d start heaving and he’d never stop. His stomach hovered on the hairy edge of Armageddon, like when he was seven years old and ate four hot dogs and two ice cream cones before riding the Tilt-A-Whirl. The aftereffects hadn’t been pretty.
Still, he had to move eventually. He had to take a piss. And there was a heavy, disturbing sensation pressing at him from all directions. Telling him he had something to take care of. Something that couldn’t wait.
Something unpleasant.
Like the taste in his mouth.
Slowly, cautiously, he cracked open one eye. Found the room blessedly dim. Maybe he wouldn’t have to clean puke up off the carpet after all. He blinked his eyes to chase away the haze and raised a palm to his throbbing head. What the hell had he been thinking, dipping back into the whiskey like that? Dipping? Hell, he’d dived in. And after he’d told her he was going to quit.
Allison.
He imagined the disappointment on her face and groaned. Then groaned again, when the noise ricocheted like a bullet inside his brain.
It took him a while, but he finally managed to push to his feet and stagger his way to the bathroom, where he dry-heaved for several minutes, then downed four ibuprofen and two glasses of water. He felt better when he stepped under the hot spray of the shower—until the water hit his hands. He held his knuckles up to his face, saw the shredded skin and fell back against the shower wall.
Ten minutes later he found Allison yanking paneling in #6. He stepped in between her and the wall and the misery in her expression nearly sent him to his knees.
“What did I do?”
She lowered her mask. “You attacked Marcus,” she said quietly.
“I what?” Judas Priest. He looked down at his hands, then back up at Allison. “Why?”
With slow, deliberate motions, she set aside her tools and removed her goggles. “Our theory is that you mistook him for someone sent by Sammy.” Her voice shook. His throat tightened.
“Is he all right?”
Her shrug was anything but casual. “I haven’t seen him since last night. He helped me get you inside and into bed, then disappeared.” She answered his unspoken question. “He was outside when you jumped him.”
“Did I hurt him?”
“You hurt all of us,” she whispered. “Yourself included.”
He nodded, wanting to reach out but afraid she’d only flinch. “I—I don’t know what to say.” What could he say? He rolled the fingers of his right hand into a fist, watched the blood ooze and felt like his soul was bleeding.
“I have to find him.” He looked up and into her eyes, hating what he’d done. What he’d become. “Allison. After I’ve talked to Marcus, will you...can I...”
“I’ll be here,” she said. He heard what she didn’t say, too. Because I wasn’t before. But damn it, he didn’t want to be somebody’s good deed.
He’d wanted so much for her to be a part of the reno. To see the before and after. Experience the difference for herself.
Right now, she was probably thinking the before and after looked pretty much the same.
* * *
IT TOOK JOE twenty minutes to find it. A cloudless blue sky mocked from high overhead and birds chided loudly as he tromped through the woods behind the motel. The smell of damp pine and his own whiskey-soaked sweat rose up around him. With each stick that snapped under his boots the pain in his head spiked, and every time he tipped his head back to scan the treetops, his neck muscles screamed.
But it was the dread that begged him to stop, that tempted him to sink to his knees and sob like no man had a right to.
It scared the hell out of him, what he might have done to Marcus.
When he spotted a weather-beaten wooden rung nailed to a tree trunk, he knew he’d found it. He craned his neck. The rungs led up to a small shelter he recognized as a deer stand. Looked to be in pretty good shape, too, considering it must have been there a decade or two. He inhaled and hoped he wasn’t going to have to climb up to that thing. With the shape he was in—
“I’m here.”
He swung around. Marcus watched him from just outside the woods. He stood with his shoulders in a slight hunch, his arms hanging stiffly at his sides. He had a bandage above his left eye and a nasty bruise on his jaw. Joe felt his hands start to shake. Marcus shook his head.
“It’s humiliating,” he said.
Joe swallowed thickly. “I know. I know, man, and I’m sorry. I can’t even—”
“Not you. Me. The fact that you expected to find me here. Hiding in the woods, like a scared little kid. The worst of it is, you were right.”
“You have every reason to keep your distance, Marcus. You okay?” He nodded and Joe rubbed a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers found the bruise on his cheekbone. Slowly he made his way back to the field, and looked Marcus in the eye when he reached him. “I won’t make any excuses. I screwed up.”
“So did I,” Marcus said roughly. “I broke my promise.”
“Promise?”
“I promised myself a long time ago I’d never hit anyone in anger again.”
“Marcus, it was self-defense, man. What, you were supposed to just let me beat on you? And speaking of promises—” His breath snagged on an inhale, and he had to work to get the words past the hot ball of shame blocking his throat. “I promised you’d be safe from me. I broke that pledge all to hell.”
Marcus squared his shoulders. “I know. And...I’m not sure I can hang around and wait for it to happen again.”
Joe felt the cold, hard clutch of panic, deep in his gut. Why did he do this? Why did he ruin every good thing he had in his life?
“I understand,” he managed. “However you need to handle this, man.”
Marcus opened his mouth, closed it, looked away.
“Tell me,” Joe said. “I need to hear it.”
The kid hesitated then shook his head. “It’s okay to ask for help,” is what he finally came out with, then, “I need to find the cat.”
Joe watched him walk away. All the spackle in the world wouldn’t help him fix what he’d just broken.
* * *
HE NEVER DID get back to Allison. After Marcus walked away, Joe retrieved his keys, set a dish of cat food on the sidewalk and headed for the Pennsylvania Turnpike. Other than the two times he stopped for coffee and a restroom break, he spent the day in his truck. He drove for hours. The rumble of the pavement beneath his tires alternately soothed and scolded him. When it got dark and he got sleepy he rolled down his windows. The relentless rush of cool air stung his cheeks and burned his throat.
He ranted. Begged. Grieved. Prayed.
And realized.
He needed help. He didn’t want to hurt himself or anyone else anymore. And he wanted Allison in his life more than he wanted to drink. He just didn’t know how to make that happen.
When he remembered the brochure June had given him what seem
ed a lifetime ago, he turned the truck around and headed home.
* * *
ALLISON POURED HERSELF another cup of coffee and peered out the kitchen window. She had work to do—all that paneling wouldn’t take itself down, and the electrician was supposed to come tomorrow to do the rewiring—but it was hard to feel motivated.
Joe’s apartment was quiet. Too quiet. Marcus had headed out first thing, to pick up a special order of tile from some warehouse in Buffalo. At least he’d returned to his room in the motel. Meanwhile, poor Tigerlily hadn’t found her way home yet. Neither had Joe.
But he’d called the night before to let her know he was okay. Of course, she could tell from the unsteady timbre of his voice that he wasn’t anywhere close to being okay. Neither was Marcus. Since Joe took off, Marcus had been moodier than usual, and Allison couldn’t help wondering if he regretted confiding in her. If he was tempted to torch the place after all.
She knew she was.
Joe had her worried, but he also had her angry. After that scene at Hazel’s he’d supposedly meant to apologize but went on a bender instead. And rather than talking with her about that, like he’d said he would, he’d decided to drive across the country.
Now she was feeling inspired to pick up a hammer.
Her stomach grumbled. Breakfast first, demolition second. When was the last time she’d eaten? She sipped at her coffee and opened the refrigerator door, stared with disinterest at the eggs and fruit inside. Then her glance slid sideways, to the box on the table. The bakery box Marcus had left behind in her room. The box that smelled like cinnamon.
She shut the refrigerator door and went on the hunt for a fork.
* * *
JOE INHALED, COUNTED to ten, exhaled and knocked on Allison’s door. It took her a few minutes to answer. When she did, and he got a load of her red, swollen eyes and messy hair, his belly went sour.
“Shit.”
“As in, I look like?”
“As in, I feel like.”
“I’m glad. And by the way? Now’s not a good time.” She trudged to the bathroom. He heard her fill a glass with water, and the telltale snick of a cap being popped from a bottle of pain relievers. Damn it. He shut the door behind him.
“You okay?”
“No, I’m not okay,” she snapped from inside the bathroom. “I’m worried and angry and sad and I just ate three of Cal’s cinnamon rolls.”
“In one sitting?”
She came out of the bathroom, glaring, and jabbed a finger at the door. He held up a hand.
“I’ll leave you alone, but first I need to apologize.”
“And I want to hang on to my mad awhile longer.”
“Allison.” He set aside the shopping bag he carried. “You said you’d hear me out.”
She scowled, and opened her mouth—probably to tell him to go screw himself. And rightly so.
“Please,” he said before Allison could get her words out. “I know I have a lot to apologize for. Just...give me a chance.” He picked up the shopping bag and gave it a rattle. “I bought you a present. The least you can do is open it before you kick me out.”
Her gaze traveled from him to the bag and back again, and some of the tension seeped from her shoulders. She sank down onto the bed and dipped her head, started running her fingers through her hair.
“Hey.” He crouched in front of her. “You okay?” She hesitated, then nodded. “Good. Marcus okay?” Another nod. He had to ask, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer. “Where is he, by the way?”
“On his way to Buffalo.”
The tile. Better and better. Joe would have another chance to make things right there, too. “Okay. First things first. Let’s start with what happened at Hazel’s.”
She was shaking her head. “Joe—”
He pushed the bag into her hands. She accepted it with a sigh, peered down at the contents and frowned. “You bought me a pillow?”
“Thought maybe you could whack me with it while I apologize.”
“Is this some kind of kinky sex thing?” She said it with what could barely pass as a smile.
“No. But I will keep that in mind.” He plucked the ridiculous square of fluff from the bag, needing her to take a closer look. He set the pillow in her lap. It was the same emerald hue her eyes reflected in the sunlight, but that wasn’t why he’d bought it. As soon as her fingers encountered the tangled strips of fringe that bordered the thing, he knew he had her.
“I outjerked myself again.”
She gave him a “no kidding” look and bent over the pillow, her fingers already busy combing out the fringe.
“I never meant to imply that you’d intentionally hurt your mother. I said a lot of things I didn’t mean because I was scared as hell. The thought of Sammy or his goon putting their hands on you is enough to—” He rubbed a hand over his chin, then settled it on her knee. “Look, I get it. You were abused as a child. It makes sense, your having control issues.”
Her fingers halted. She drew in a breath, smoothed a hand over the fringe she’d already straightened, rotated the pillow in her lap and started on the next row. She was making too much progress too quickly. He added his own fingers to the mix.
“But what gave you control issues also gave you a good heart. Which I’ve always admired. So I’ll back off, and let you be who you are. But I need to know that you hear me—that you’ll think about what I said, and that you’ll...stay safe. After the five weeks are up, I mean.” He held his breath, continued to fuss with the pillow.
She slapped at his hands. “You’re making it worse.”
“The fringe? Or this thing between us?”
She straightened her back and sighed. His knees had started to ache so he rose out of his crouch and settled beside her on the bed.
“I know what you’re going to say, Al. That it’s not worth the heartache. That we shouldn’t see each other as anything more than coworkers from here on out. That being lovers will make it that much harder to say goodbye. Well, it’s too late for that. But I don’t want to waste any of the time we have left.”
“And when the month is up and I tell you I’m staying in D.C? You’ll hate me all over again.”
“You know that’s not true.” He leaned in, scooped a tousled hank of hair out of the way and nuzzled her neck. “I’ll be sad, bitter even, but I could never hate you.” He closed his eyes. Sad? Bitter? He’ll be damned lucky if he can manage to haul his ass out of bed every morning.
Allison jolted to her feet and swung to face him, the pillow clutched to her belly. “Sad enough to keep binge drinking?”
Direct hit. “Okay. Let’s talk about that.” He blew out a breath and stood. Faced her. Felt his knees go loose because nothing, nothing had ever meant more than this moment. Than convincing the woman he loved that he could change. That he would change.
Because if he couldn’t convince her, how the hell could he convince himself?
“I have a drinking problem,” he said, his tone steady. “I will always have a drinking problem. I can’t cut back—I have to quit. And the thought of never having a drink again scares the shit out of me. But I’ll take it one day at a time. Today, I won’t drink. And I’ll be that much closer to kicking this tomorrow.”
He moved closer, staring into her cautious eyes. “While I was out driving yesterday, it struck me. This motel is all I have left of my brother and I don’t want to lose him again.” He reached down and took the pillow from her and placed it on the bed. Pulled her close. Inhaled her warm peach scent. “I know you’re not mine to lose, but even though I can’t have you, I would like to have your respect. I intend to win that back.”
She put a hand to his face. He turned his head and kissed her palm and she shivered.
“Damn you, Joe Gallahan,” she whispered, h
er voice thick with tears. “You made me care for you all over again and it’s not going to end any better than it did the first time.”
“We have five weeks,” he said. “Something could change.”
Her gaze roved his face, lingered on his bruises. “I think something already has. You seem to have a...a new sense of peace about you. That makes me happy.”
“What would make me happy is if we could pretend all this never happened. Our argument about your mother, my drunken rampage. Can we pick up where we left off? You know, right before you left for Hazel’s card party two days ago?”
“I believe where we left off was in the shower,” she said primly. He wiggled his eyebrows and she huffed a sheepish laugh. “If you’d asked me that half an hour ago, I never would have—” She paused, glanced at the pillow on the bed and back at him. “You did that on purpose.”
“Had to find some way to distract you.”
“Oh, really?” She draped her arms over his shoulders. “That thing you were doing before? With my neck? That was working pretty well.”
“Yeah?” He buried his face in her hair. “That was working for me, too.”
“So you’re saying we work well together?” She said it lightly, teasingly, but her words taunted a void he was damned weary of staring into.
His fingers flexed on her hips, and even he could feel the desperation in his grip. “Does this mean you accept my apology?”
“Actions speak louder than words, Gallahan.”
Her hands dipped beneath his T-shirt and went exploring. He hissed in a breath, his skin burning where she touched him, gratitude and regret making it hard to find his voice.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” he said gruffly. “I promised Snoozy I’d help Noble build Mitzi’s pen since we couldn’t con anyone else into doing it.”
“You wasted ten seconds right there,” she breathed. “Ten seconds we could have used to—”
“Point taken,” he muttered, and helped himself to her mouth.
* * *
AN HOUR LATER Allison lay panting in bed, her last few shreds of energy focused on admiring Joe’s jean-clad ass as it headed out the door.