by Shannyn Leah
“Hold still.” Hawks fingers gripped the side of his face, tilting his head as he cleaned up a wound on his jaw.
“I’ve never been so disappointed,” his father huffed, wearing out the length of the floor with his pacing. “I’m not even sure what to categorize what I saw tonight. This is not what I watched you train for.”
Hawk gripped his face tighter. “Do you want to bleed out?”
Stone glared at him through his damp eyelashes. “It’s a scrape.”
Hawk ignored him, focused on his task of patching up Stone’s wounds. The brash bastard was an entirely different person while he worked on a job.
His dad’s lecture continued. Stone was too tired to protest, so he zoned him out instead. What he couldn’t zone out was the haunted look Bowie cast at Hawk as he cleaned his wounds. Huddled quietly in the corner, she hadn’t said anything and he worried she was reliving the night of Oscar’s death. That was on him. For loathing the woman he’d spent a ridiculous amount of time caring about.
He needed to crash in bed, or get drunk. Or both, but not in that order.
When Hawk finished with his cuts, Stone stood. His father met him almost chest-to-chest, finally pausing on his speech. His nostrils flared with his deep inhales and his chest rose and dropped. He poked Stone in the chest. “First thing in the morning, you meet me in Bowie’s basement so I can teach you to fight.”
“I know how to fight.”
“Not from what I watched today.”
“I won, didn’t I?”
“You keep this rate up and you’ll be in the ground.”
He heard Bowie’s small, surprised intake and his father’s recklessness of mouth around her angered Stone.
“He’s right.” Hawk came up beside his father. “You can’t not have a concussion after the beating you took to the head. You need a CT scan.”
“I’m fine. You asked me your questions and I answered. I can handle it.”
“I’ve been hearing a lot of ‘I got this’, ‘I can handle it’ bullshit from you this week and what I saw didn’t add up to your convictions.”
“It’s two more goddamn fights. I don’t need your training. In case you didn’t notice, I’ve done fine without you.” Stone pressed his fingers into his father’s chest—not surprised it was almost as hard as his. “And don’t just think I’m talking about fighting.” He lowered his voice, his head pounding behind his eyes. Now wasn’t the time, but when was? “I was the man of the house when you weren’t there. I took care of Mom before she hit her limit and took off. I made her laugh when tears overtook her because you were out partying with a different woman each night instead of being home with your family. I cleaned up the mess you left. You could never be more disappointed in me than I am in you.”
His dad’s jaw tightened and Stone wondered if his old man would hit him. A normal person might’ve stopped at that point, but not Stone.
“I would have gone with Mom if she’d asked and I would’ve done your job taking care of her because the only person you can take care of is yourself. And you’re not very good at that.”
Stone stepped back and put his hand out. “Let’s go Bowie.” Surprisingly, her hand slipped into his. He felt the vibrations of her shaking around her hand. “You two take a taxi back to Bowie’s. Or home, I don’t give a shit either way.”
He led Bowie out of the room. They were escorted out a back door to Duke waiting beside her limousine. “Shit, Stone. What the hell happened?”
“Nothing whiskey can’t fix.”
Duke grunted. “You’re ready for the after party?”
“Take us home.” Bowie let go of Stone’s hand and climbed into the limousine.
“Did you at least win?”
“Knocked him out cold.”
Duke grinned. “Thata’ guy.” He slapped Stone’s shoulder and apologized when he winced.
Inside the limo, his strained body collapsed into the seat and his eyes fell closed. He could feel himself drifting into sleep almost immediately. Hawk had mentioned a concussion and he didn’t doubt he had one. He’d have to make sure Bowie woke him up throughout the night.
“What was that?” Bowie sat beside him, but far enough away he couldn’t even feel her warmth or dip on the seat.
“Fighting.” He kept his eyes closed, ready to let sleep take him.
“Bullshit. I didn’t ask you to fight if I’d thought you were going to be stupid about it.”
“You asked me here to win and that’s what I did.”
“You’re supposed to have your shit together. I had my PI look into you before I even considered you an option. Your life looked solid.”
“It is solid. Can you lower your voice?”
“You haven’t even hashed it out with your dad and you bring him along!?” His head practically exploded with her shout. “What is going on with you? I refuse to watch another person I love—” She cut her sentence short as if saying too much.
His eyes landed on her and he watched her battle wanting to say more, yelling at him, or bursting into tears.
“Bowie, not now.” Moving with the little effort he could relish, he reached across the seat and pulled her shoulder until she pressed against his side. “I’m okay,” he whispered against her head before resting it back against the seat. “I’m not going to die.”
“Said every fighter ever.” He heard the tears of her voice.
“I’m sorry.”
Chapter Nineteen
THE NEXT MORNING Stone didn’t sleep in. As much as his aching body objected, he opened his eyes before dawn. His head banged a tune of pain worse than any hangover.
He felt Bowie asleep against his side before he glanced at her. She’d kept him alive, he’d give her that. Her hair sprinkled across his bare chest. In the darkness, he couldn’t make out colors, but he’d bet an ugly pattern of purple and blue highlighted his tanned skin. He’d pay for the pressure her body pushed against his, but for a moment, he pretended he was lying in the future he’d once dreamed of. He lifted his hand and gently moved her hair away from her face to get a better look at her. He tilted his head so the small stream from the bathroom light fell upon her face. She hadn’t washed off her makeup, but she’d changed into a T-shirt and pajama bottoms. He’d always liked the natural side of Bowie, one she hadn’t shown the world but opened up to him. The side where oversized T-shirts and baggy pants weren’t cool, but she loved the feel and didn’t care.
They’d planned on getting a dog together. Before kids. She’d always teased him that a dog would soften him before they had a baby—and they’d name the dog Bridge. He still, to this day, stopped in front of Willow Valley’s local pet store and peered through the window at the dogs for sale. He’d never gone inside. He’d never planned on buying a dog, but instead he’d needed a reminder of the pain she’d caused him to relieve the anxiety of emotions whenever he thought about her.
Now, he laid here, in her bed, a familiar bed, and he was still lost with her. He could blame his pounding headache and hazy morning exhaustion, but he was lost whenever she was near him.
He was a damn fool, just like Dax had said, but had he ever been anything different?
Sleep beckoned him and drifting back into dream world where he hadn’t been an ass the night before, threatening Hawk, exploding at his dad, allowing Blazer to whoop him, welcomed him. He even contemplated ignoring the whole night, blaming his high, or the win, and pretending none of it had happened. Maybe he’d done that ten years ago, but not today.
Today, he had somewhere to be. Slowly, he slipped from beneath her as not to wake her and every joint screamed bloody murder inside him.
Back in his room, he took a long shower, letting the water massage his bruises and swelling before rubbing his muscles with heat cream rub. He dressed in jogging pants that he let hang low and lose, and an oversized T-shirt, to keep pressure from his healing joints. Sitting on his dresser were painkillers—he couldn’t ask for a more efficient EMT than Hawk. He gratefull
y swallowed them with water. He couldn’t blame Hawk for getting along with his dad. Hawk was basically the younger, less famous version of his dad. The word man-whore came to mind.
After a walk through the house, Stone found his dad pummeling a punching bag in the basement. He could leave, turn around, run, and not face the shit between them—they were both good at that. But he didn’t.
He walked—which seemed to take him forever—across the room, grabbed each side of the bag and held it as his dad put a few more rounds into it. Silence had always been their conversation. Ignoring their past, pretending the present was real, and not expecting much for the future.
“Did you take some painkillers?” Slate continued punching the bag.
“Yeah.”
“And rubbed in your muscles?”
Stone nodded.
Slate grabbed the bag and stared at his son. “You get one swing. One swing for whatever anger you have pent up inside you. Make it count.”
“Dad, I’m not fighting you.”
“You’ve been fighting me your whole damn life.”
“I thought I was past it.”
“Did you?”
Stone shook his head. “No. But I thought I could let it stay in the past.”
“You mean sit back there, in the back of your head”—he tapped his son’s forehead with a strong finger—“and fester into last night?”
“I got worked up last night. Back in the ring, I remembered why I’d started in the first place. Resentment and anger at you. Missing Mom and needing an outlet that totally pissed you off.” He sighed. “But I’m in my thirties for Christ’s sake, I should be over this.”
“Can a child ever be entirely over losing a parent?”
“Hell if I know. I thought I was over Bowie too and look how that ended up.”
“No you didn’t. You just discovered that you could live on without her.” He couldn’t argue there. “But it’s way too early for that subject.”
Stone agreed. It was way too early to get into this conversation, but he’d known his dad would be waiting here for him.
Slate pressed his fingers into his closed eyes. “Your mom was one of those girls. A one night stand that I knocked up.”
“I know.”
“I never planned on settling down, and I sure as hell didn’t want a kid. But man up, they said. Marry her, they said. Take responsibility and it will come to you. So I did.”
Stone bit back from saying he’d never seen his dad “man up” to the responsibilities he’d had.
“But I sure as hell wasn’t cut out for married life. I wasn’t that guy. I was living my dream, what I’d worked my life for, and a ring on my finger didn’t change me. Call me a bastard or a selfish prick, but I can’t change it now. But I’m sorry I drove your mom away from you and I’m sorry she wasn’t the type of woman to take you with her.” He took a deep breath. “I love you, son, and I wouldn’t want to lose you, but if you’d have been happier with her, I goddamn wish she had taken you with her.”
If an apology had been what Stone was fishing for, he found it lacking. He’d known his father’s regrets for a long time, but he’d chosen to hold onto his anger and keep his distance when his dad asked him to grab a bite at the local bar or head down to the race track. He’d thought the distance would be good, but now he saw the wasted years between them.
“I would’ve been happier if you hadn’t slept with my eighth-grade teacher.” He half smiled to lighten the mood and Slate nodded his silent acknowledgement.
“We can’t change the past, boy.”
“Or my ninth-grade teacher.”
“I learned after that.”
“You would think.”
His father grinned. “I don’t want to talk about Mrs. Haney.”
“You’re such a womanizer.”
His father rubbed his hand on the back of his neck with a guilty grin. “It wasn’t hard back in the day. Now all the ladies look at me like I’m a dirty old man.”
“Dad, they look at you like the hero they did or didn’t get their chance with.”
His dad shrugged
“You hungry?” Stone asked.
“You’re not going to practice?”
Stone laughed, but it cut short when pain vibrated in his ribs. “No. I’m too old for this shit. My body is punishing me for last night.”
“That wasn’t age.” Slate slapped his shoulder and Stone grimaced at what felt like shards of glass under his skin. “That was stupidity.”
“Noted.”
His dad wrapped his arm around Stone’s shoulder and squeezed. “Dad, you’re killing me here.”
His deep laugh split the quietness. “Wait until tomorrow’s wrath.”
Stone groaned.
“It will be nothing compared to this girl. Fighting won’t be the death of you, son, this spark of a woman you’ve never gotten over will be. She’s one firecracker, isn’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve never had the pleasure to get to know her. You kept her away before and she steers clear of us now, but from what I saw last night, I like her.”
“Do not hit on her.”
“I’m not the Patino she has her eyes set on.”
Stone shook his head. “Too early. I need coffee, food, and a hot tub.”
BOWIE DIPPED THE BRUSH into the acrylic paint on the pallet that was filled with over a hundred dried colors she’d mixed and never washed away. She combined two blues now, creating a thick highlighting royal blue color which she stroked and blotted along the river her mind pictured from Willow Valley. She’d spent last week painting multiple canvases of the area, each one like the page of a storybook—her life’s storybook. Only her painting style wasn’t as traditional as the common storybook. The bright and bold acrylics on the canvas told a tale with an abstract touch. The image before her had been the hardest to start. All week, she’d stood in front of the blank canvas wanting to capture the moment when Stone had dived into the water to pull her out.
Heroic, loving, beautiful. The valour of which such art was created around.
But she’d been unable to envision it—to see him. Not physically of course, no one missed Stone’s massively impressive and handsome physique. To feel the scene through her fingers she needed to know what his intent and emotions had been in those moments.
Had he saved her from obligation? His kind heart? Or his love for her?
The differences changed how she viewed the memory, how it affected her, which in turn, directed the brush in her hand.
This morning she’d awaken with the answer she’d craved all week and had headed straight to her art studio, a large space with skylights and framed windows. After spending the night with him, waking him every hour only to have him comfort her, and then remembering the protective and loving way he’d led her from the ring, and held her in the limo, she’d felt the answer.
She rested her elbow in the palm of her other hand which and rubbed her free hand over her chin, examining what she’d begun. The bold shades of green popped in the background and contrasted against the multi-colored brown dock along the width of the bottom. The scenery didn’t catch her attention. She zeroed in on the main focus: Stone.
Within moments of stepping into her studio, she had lost herself in her work anticipating this exact moment. She could stay here for hours and forget about the outside world, her brother, Susan, and even Stone. The piece in front of her didn’t portray their broken relationship or their struggles, but rather the raw representation of his bravery and the difficult love he’d carried for her all these years. She’d begun with the intention of painting him diving into the water, but she’d ended up with him carrying her limp body out of the water. The deeper she stared into his anguished eyes, the longer she lost herself. His shamrock-colored green eyes touched her like they would no other.
She eyed her work, ran her fingers along the hard lines of Stone’s face, so close to the paint she almost touched it. As close as she should ever
come to the man himself.
A movement caught her attention and she glanced around the easel. Stone’s back faced her.
Rarely since Reed’s accident did anyone interrupt her painting time. She hadn’t heard the door open.
How long had he been standing there? Had he stopped to study all the canvases before the one he stood in front of now?
He wore a new, fresh T-shirt that was missing the bloodspot stains. Hopefully Hawk wasn’t so offended that he’d continue to re-bandage them for him. She would offer, but space, as they’d originally discussed was best for them. Whatever they were doing was a dangerous game.
When he glanced over his shoulder and make eye contact, she wiped away her thoughts and tried to smile. A relaxed look greeted her, one she hadn’t seen since his return. She noticed his cheek stubble. Morning, afternoon or night, that stubble did things to her insides she’d never admit.
“These are incredible.”
She felt her cheeks grow hot. Bowie Blake blushing at a simple compliment. Foolish girl.
“Thank you.” She swallowed down the praise as concern consumed her. “How are you feeling?”
He shrugged and she saw him try to hide the flinch of pain it caused. “When did you take up painting?”
She set her brush down and stepped away from the easel, rubbing her hands on the front of her jeans, smearing colors from these paintings she would treasure forever.
His eyes followed her hands. “By the looks of it, quite a while.”
“I’ve always painted.”
“Always as in a piece here or there during school?”
A small smile found her lips. “Always as in, yes, while we were dating.”
“Like this? You’ve never shown me these.”
“And you didn’t introduce me to your dad.” There had always been a world of obstacles between them.
He turned back to her paintings. “Two entirely different subjects.”
The canvases sitting on random easels in her studio exhibited the parts of his hometown she’d experienced. She wondered if he would recognize the areas when her focus of each canvas was on one single subject. Would he know a flower pot hanging on a street light was the one at the corner of Willow Valley’s main street? Or would he distinguish the bridge in the forest? She knew the one he stood in front of now was obvious. The cement wall edge with his father’s championship poster was a replica of his dad’s gym.