Strength In Release (The Charistown Series Book 5)

by Lisa N. Paul

  “I don’t mean to brag, but after watching you drive that racecar, I can honestly say I’m just as good as you.” His mouth twitched, so Lyla continued. “Sure, you were going about a hundred twenty miles an hour and didn’t spin out and hit a wall, but really, a little ol’ thing like that? Pshaw, not impressed.”

  “A hundred fifty-eight, and you were impressed.” The dimple on his left cheek winked, and Lyla knew she had him right where she wanted him.

  A prick of fear lit her senses as she readied herself to share a memory from her past. “Okay, maybe a little. Only because I have a bit of post-traumatic stress disorder when it comes to actually being on a racetrack.”

  Gage’s brows pulled together while his eyes stayed on the road.

  “Like you, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents when I was young. They were always taking me to cool places and on fun adventures.” God, she hadn’t thought about this in years, yet as she recalled the memory it felt as if only days had passed. “On my eleventh birthday, they took me to a go-cart place—Timmy’s Golf and Go. My grammy didn’t want me to drive, but Poppy convinced her I’d be fine. And I totally would have been if Barry Fisher hadn’t been in the car behind me, screaming for me to go faster. That little fucker had the nerve to call me a bitch.” Old embarrassment circled in her adult stomach—the way Barry’s words had made her feel, the outcome of her actions. “I turned around to tell him off but never took my foot off the gas. Smashed that go-cart right into the cinderblock wall.

  “I learned a few things that day. First—never ever take your eyes off the road; second—Barry Fisher was an asshole, evidenced by the way he passed my smashed-up car and laughed as I sat there and cried; third—Timmy’s Golf and Go hadn’t passed inspection and was operating without a business license. Regardless of my accident, that was to be Timmy’s last week of business, but because of the accident, it closed that day. I had three broken ribs and a sprained wrist. Never saw Poppy so pissed. He had Barry dangling by the collar of his shirt. The only reason he didn’t beat that kid was because the ambulance arrived and Poppy demanded to come with me. Rumor had it, my grandmother threatened to show my entire school the video she took of Barry crying like a baby and peeing his pants when Pop cornered him if he ever so much as whispered my name again.”

  “Jesus Christ. That’s some crazy story.”

  Gage’s relaxed body language helped Lyla breathe easier. She had never shared that story, not even with Janie. For some reason, being around Gage unearthed memories that had never seen light. A past more painful than the one that housed the monsters because that place held… no. She couldn’t go there yet. One day, maybe, just not yet.

  Gage turned down a residential street. “What ever happened to that little shit?”

  “Who, Barry Fisher?” Lyla asked, her mind already miles away from the story she’d shared.

  “Yeah, that little punk. What happened to him?” Was it her imagination or were Gage’s nostrils flaring? The man looked pissed on her eleven-year-old self’s behalf.

  “You know what? I have no idea.” She shrugged. Her indifference amazed her since, at the time, the incident had seemed life-altering. “He ignored me the rest of the year. The following year we all went to the junior high school, and I moved away after that. Never saw or heard from him again.”

  “Where did you guys move?” At the top of a long driveway, Gage threw the truck into park and turned off the engine.

  “Oh my God, is this the house you grew up in? Gage, it’s beautiful. Was that building ever a working barn?” She unbuckled her seat belt, jumped down from the truck, and closed the door behind her, hopefully closing the discussion on her past.

  ***

  LYLA’S STORY WASN’T lost on Sebastian. She had given him a piece of her past, something he knew most people weren’t privy to, and he had a feeling those tucked away memories were a selfless gift she’d shared because she felt his fear. He hadn’t meant to clam up on her, but since his grandfather’s death, his grandmother’s illness had been a weight he’d carried alone.

  Weaving his fingers through hers, he quickly walked her to the front door of the house that, by most standards, looked like a grand farmhouse; to him, it had always been home. Heart in his throat, he pounded once on the door and entered. With no idea what he would he would find, dread seeped through his bones.

  “Sebastian, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have opened the door… I didn’t expect her… I—” Wendy’s eyes watered as she twisted her hands in knots.

  “She okay? She in her room? What the hell happened?” Rapid-fire questions flew through the air as Gage ran down the hallway toward his grandmother’s bedroom.

  “Don’t yell at her, young man.” Florence’s weak voice came from her dimly lit room. “You know Wendy would never let a thing happen to me on purpose. It was my fault, Bastian, not hers.”

  A fist tightened around Sebastian’s gut. Between the fragility in Florence’s voice and the darkness cloaking a room perpetually in light, he knew whatever happened was bad but whatever had caused it was worse.

  Stalking to the window, he opened the curtains, drew in a deep breath, exhaled, then turned to face his gram. Her right eye was swelled shut and already bruising, and her cheek and bottom lip were split. When he saw the evidence of blood under the first aid ointment, Gage couldn’t contain himself.

  “Fuck,” he snapped. “Fuck. Fuck, what happened, Gram? Tell me.” He found himself over her bed, summoning the restraint to gently touch her face. Seeing her up close, he pressed his lips on top of her thinning hair. Not until sniffles came from the doorway did he remember Wendy’s presence. “Lyla!”

  “I’m right here,” she said from the hallway.

  “Bastian, please stop bellowing and take a seat.” Florence’s command was clear even through a whisper. “You feel like the damn Grim Reaper with all your looming. Wendy a-and Lyla, please join us as well.”

  Sebastian moved chairs around so everyone could sit comfortably around the bed, then he took a seat between his grandmother and Lyla. “Someone needs to explain.”

  “Arnie went to the hardware store to get replacement light bulbs for the front porch,” Wendy said. “And Mary needed an ingredient for dinner preparation, so she ran to the food store.”

  Florence looked at Lyla. “Mary is our cook and Arnie, our jack-of-all-trades.”

  “When the doorbell rang, Florence asked me to see who it was.” Shame rolled off Wendy in waves. “Had I known Carla was going to start problems, I never would have answered the door. You know that, right?”

  “Of course, dear.” When Florence took Wendy’s hand, Sebastian saw the bandages wrapped around her wrists.

  “What the fuck was Carla doing here?” he asked too quietly.

  “She demanded to speak to Florence. Of course I refused. She tried to push her way inside the house, screeching about how she wouldn’t leave until she saw ‘the old woman.’ That’s when we heard a noise and Florence screamed. Carla turned tail and left, saying she’d come back another time. I ran back here and Florence was on the floor. I’m so, so sorry, Flor.”

  “She what?” Sebastian bellowed, making the three women surrounding him startle. “That bitch had the audacity to show up at this house, hear Florence crying for help, and leave without offering assistance?”

  Rage pumped through his body, fueling anger Gage hadn’t felt in years. Uncertain as to how he would be able to temper the heat without exploding into pieces and taking his years of hard work—trillions of deep fucking breaths, thousands of hours of meditation, and plain old forgiveness—with it.

  A small hand rested over his, infusing warmth where frost had instantly formed, compassion where his mother had left mercilessness, and support at a time when he felt alone. Rotating his wrist, he twined his fingers through Lyla’s and breathed. In through his nose, out through his mouth. Deep and long until the rage in his veins simmered to anger and his mind could work again.

  “Mrs. Gage”�
�Lyla seemed hesitant—“I’m Lyla Dalton, a-a friend of Gage’s. I’m sorry we’re meeting like this, but I’m happy to be meeting you all the same. I have a question… in all the confusion, I don’t believe I heard how exactly it is that you fell.”

  “Oh.” His grandmother’s unbruised eye glittered with mischief as color returned to her pale cheeks. “When I heard that bitch’s voice, I got a wild hair up my butt. Wanted to finally tell her what I thought of her. Guess I forgot that my body was a whole lot weaker than my mind. Barely made it three steps, dammit. I certainly didn’t mean to cause such a commotion.”

  “As long as you’re okay, Gram, don’t worry about anything else.”

  Sebastian led Wendy out to the hallway so he could get the truth on Florence’s injuries while Lyla stayed next to the bed, chatting quietly with the old dynamo. Seeing the two of them together made Sebastian smile—well, grin. He was still too pissed to smile.

  After Wendy assured him that the bruises were superficial and the doctor was making a house call, Sebastian apologized for his earlier outburst, thanked her for everything she’d done to help, and insisted she take a break for a couple of hours. He then returned his attention to the women in the master bedroom.

  “I really am glad you’re feeling better, Mrs. Gage.”

  “Tell me, honey, does it look that bad?”

  “I don’t know you, ma’am. Do you want polite or honest?”

  Florence patted Lyla’s hand. “Young lady, you are gorgeous—stunning, really—but by the looks of your hair, you haven’t washed it in a couple of days. Dry shampoo works wonders, you know.”

  Appalled by his grandmother’s behavior, Sebastian walked into the room ready to demand an apology. Then Lyla giggled.

  “Honest it is,” she deadpanned. “You look like shit, Mrs. Gage. I thought your grandson was going to have an aneurism when we got here. I’m not sure who Carla is or what she did, but I know that Gage loves you. So think about him the next time you get a wild hair up your ass.”

  What the hell? Were the two women he cared for most about to have a cat fight? The thought had him chuckling silently. However, instead of claws, both women started laughing.

  “I like you, Lyla. You’ve got spunk.”

  “You’re pretty cool yourself, Mrs. Gage.”

  “Enough with the Mrs. Gage shit. I only make people I don’t like call me that. Hell, I never had Carla call me by my first name.” Her eyes met Sebastian’s. “Not ever.”

  “Who the hell is Carla?” Lyla asked.

  “My mother,” Sebastian said.

  Lyla swung around in her chair, surprise evident on her face. “Your mother?” Her lip curled up as if it tasted rancid on her tongue. “But…”

  The last thing Sebastian wanted to do was spend more time discussing his mother. And thanks to Florence, he didn’t have to.

  “She’s a nasty, evil woman not worth the saliva it would take to tell you about her. How about we save that topic for another day?” Florence suggested. “Perhaps one where there’s tequila.”

  Lyla laughed. “For you, I’ll tolerate tequila. So, Florence, Gage really has told me all about you and his grandfather, Peter.”

  Florence’s good eye shifted to Sebastian before returning to Lyla. “Gage did, did he? What else has Gage told you?”

  His gram never had understood why everyone called him by his last name, nor did she ever abide by such “lunacy.” Fact was, he had wanted Lyla to call him by his given name for quite a while, but she insisted they were just friends. The thought of his name wrapped around her tongue gave way to images of her lips wrapped around his cock… damn, she kept claiming friendship. They were so much more and she knew it. A little more pushing was in order.

  For over an hour, the three of them chatted. Florence shared stories about little Bastian—yep, that was how she referred to him even in front of Lyla. She explained how tough he and Max thought they were in middle school when there wasn’t an ounce of muscle between them. And she spoke of the amazing man he’d turned out to be and how proud she was to have him as a grandson.

  Through it all, Lyla looked interested, invested. She asked questions and listened intently to the answers, and when Florence got tired, Lyla promised to return on another day. It was late afternoon by the time Sebastian and Lyla walked from the house to his truck. He opened the passenger door and assisted Lyla with getting into her seat.

  “Thank you, Gage.”

  “You’re welcome, friend.”

  She visibly cringed. Closing her door, he hid his smile behind his long black hair. Apparently she hated that word. Good.

  He slid into the truck, turned on the engine, and pumped up the heat. She looked ready to freeze her sexy ass off.

  Turning to him, she licked her lip. “Will you please stop calling me friend?”

  “Will you stop calling me Gage?”

  Her brow arched. “But your name is Gage.”

  “That’s what my friends call me.”

  “Well, what the hell am I?”

  “Why do you want me to stop calling you friend?”

  “Why the fuck do you answer all of my questions with questions?”

  Christ, this interaction was foreplay at its finest. “Answer that one and I’ll answer you, promise. Why do you want me to stop calling you friend?”

  The tip of her tongue swiped at her bottom lip again before her eyes found his. “‘Cause it feels…”

  When her gaze traveled to his lips, a pregnant pause gave him the opening he needed.

  ***

  “EXACTLY.” HE CARESSED her cheek, and his calloused palm sent chills skittering through her body, lighting up her cells. His whiskey-rough whisper shot right to her core, steaming her insides more than the heater ever could. “How about you call me Sebastian, and I’ll call you any damn thing you want.”

  She offered a wordless nod before he tipped up her chin between his finger and thumb. The glimmer in his eyes erased any coherent thoughts she may have had.

  “I’m taking you to dinner. The Sombrero sound good to you?”

  Still words eluded her.

  “Good.” He broke their connection and shifted the truck into reverse.

  “It sounds great, Sebastian.”

  The sharp intake of his breath melted her just a little bit more.

  TUCKED AWAY IN a corner at the crowded Mexican restaurant, Lyla forced herself not to gape at her dinner companion. Would it ever get easier? Raw masculine beauty, strength in his huge muscular frame, and after what she witnessed today, so much love and affection for a woman who clearly meant the world to him. She had always found him ridiculously attractive. Now she’d need new adjectives to describe him. “Damn.”

  “What’s up?”

  Realizing she’d thought out loud again, Lyla reached for the most benign of her thoughts. “Florence is pretty amazing. I know you’re worried about her, but from the little I saw, that is one tough woman.”

  “Ha, that she is.” His lips formed a tight line before he spoke again. “I’m upset that she got hurt. I’m furious that Carla caused my grandmother one more second of pain.”

  “Do you want to talk about your mother?”

  “No.” His clipped tone left no room for interpretation.

  “Sebastian?” Had she known his face would soften every time she used his name, she would have done it sooner… no, she wouldn’t have. Distance was important. Although at the moment, her reasons were beginning to blur.

  “The story you told me today about your grandparents—they sound pretty great too. What about the rest of your family? Your parents? What’s their story?” he pressed.

  All of the places that had thawed during the course of the day froze in an instant, leaving Lyla chilled to the bone and exposed. “My mother died when I was seven.” She infused her voice with the breeziness she’d perfected over her life. “The rest, as they say, is history.”

  “What about—”

  “History, Sebastian,” Lyla
announced, ending that discussion. “Now, what should we order?”

  “I’ll let you have that play,” Sebastian muttered as he eyed the menu.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. What does the rest of your week look like? You busy tomorrow?”

  That was so not what he’d said and Lyla knew it. She also knew he wasn’t stupid. He’d let her off the hook because she had done the same for him.

  “I’m working on a new book, so I’ll be busy all week.” It wasn’t a complete lie. She would be writing when she wasn’t doing the one thing she’d avoided for the past sixteen years. “Although, I was wondering, since you took me to the track today, you know, showed me a slice of your haven… I thought maybe I could let you into mine. Tomorrow, if you want.”

  With wide eyes, a confident grin spread across Sebastian’s face. But no words left his mouth.

  “If you’re not too busy,” Lyla added. “I know you have hordes of women tripping all over you and stuff.” Lyla winked to lighten the mood, though her heart pounded with fear of his rejection.

  “Take me to your haven, sweetheart.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tasmanian Devil

  AT SIX SHARP, Lyla’s doorbell rang, unleashing butterflies, dragonflies, and every other kind of winged insect loose in her belly. Making dinner for the “family” was one thing, but cooking for Gage—err, Sebastian—was something else entirely. What the hell had she been thinking—inviting him over to cook with her? The only person she ever cooked with was Janie. It was their thing, the way they connected, the way words came freely without thought or expectation.

  She hadn’t been lying when she told him it was a haven to her. Using her hands to make food wasn’t just a passion. It allowed her to turn off her brain and sink into a task that, in the end, produced beauty and yumminess. For the first time, she was going to share that process with a man. Not just any man, but one that made her want things, ache for things, wish for things. Panic bubbled in her brain. This was a mistake.

  A second chime of the doorbell forced her to push down her nerves, yank up her big girl panties, and head for the door. “Coming!”