Every Wound We Mend

by J. E. Parker

  After wiping away the scorching tears that stained my bronzed cheeks, I smoothed out my dress and straightened my spine, conjuring forth every ounce of stubbornness I'd inherited from Mamá.

  I'm coming for you, Guapo.

  Then, despite the potent mixture of sorrow and fear thrumming in my veins, poisoning my weeping soul with each pulse of my heart, I raised my chin like the proud beauty queen I'd once been and went after the man who, even as hot-tempered and pissed off as he was, I intended to reclaim as my own.

  One way or another.

  11

  James

  My Pixie is alive…

  The thought echoed through my head as I stormed through my front door, nearly tearing it off the wooden frame, and stomped toward the empty kitchen.

  A combination of mad as fuck and a whole lot betrayed, the urge to jump in my truck and drive to the nearest bar burned my narrowed throat, the mounting temptation to drink myself into oblivion and mute the thoughts battering my skull nearly unbearable.

  But getting tanked wasn't an option.

  Not when flushing fourteen years' worth of sobriety down the toilet would destroy Hendrix and Shelby both, along with each of my grandkids. All of whom I loved a hell of a lot more than the numbing effects of whatever bottle of top-shelf whiskey my demons demanded I drown myself in.

  Only, no matter how badly seeing Carmen hurt, I wouldn't do anything to compromise the family I'd fought tooth and nail to have.

  I'd caused my boy enough pain in the past.

  And I'd been an absentee father to my girl.

  I wouldn't be repeating my past mistakes.

  Booted feet stopping next to the cast-iron sink, I curled my hands around the edges and bowed my head, eyes wrenched shut.

  Cracking heart strumming manically, I gritted my back teeth, almost grinding them to dust, as images of the woman I'd just left behind in a fit of rage and disgust flashed in the forefront of my mind.

  I'd called her a coldhearted bitch.

  Though the caustic bite of betrayal still ate away at my flesh like acid, I regretted the harsh words I'd spoken. No matter the circumstances, she hadn't deserved such hostility. Even as pissed as I was, the sane part of me realized that.

  But fuck, after seeing her standing in my adopted granddaughter's living room, her breathtaking face a haunting reminder of the never-ending grief that had shadowed me day in and day out for over half a decade, I'd reacted on pure emotion and without thinking.

  It was a mistake.

  "Son of a bitch!" I bellowed, knuckles white as my mind raced, working overtime to piece together how she was alive years after she'd supposedly died.

  "How the hell is this even possible?" My words reverberated around the room I'd thought was empty, bouncing off the pale yellow, drawing-covered walls, courtesy of my grandkids. "And why the fuck didn't she come and find—"

  "Well, Guapo," a sultry but pissed-off voice, one I thought I'd only ever hear in my dreams again, said, interrupting the question I was about to ask myself. "If you hadn't been such an estúpido hijo de puta and stormed out like an overgrown bebé before giving me the chance to speak, then I could've explained a thing or two to you."

  Sweat-slicked spine snapping iron-rod straight, I released the death grip I had on the sink and spun, coming face to face with a ghost from my past and one of the biggest regrets I had.

  Damn, she was beautiful.

  She always had been. But right then, even as I stared at her through the haze of red clouding my vision, the sight of her stole the breath right out of my lungs.

  Despite the hard life she'd lived before her bullshit death, she didn't look a day older than the forty-one that she was.

  How that was possible, I didn't have a clue.

  Most in her position would've looked ragged, tired. But my woman? Not even close. And Christ, if I had questions about whether or not she was clean, one glance at her dress-covered body answered each of them.

  No longer scrawny, my Pixie had curves.

  A whole hell of a lot of them.

  From her rounded hips to her soft belly and thick, tanned thighs, my mouth watered to both touch and taste every inch of her traitorous body. No matter how vexed and aggrieved I was at the situation I knew had only begun to unfold.

  Just as my fingers itched to clench her tawny locks in my fists and hold her captive while my mouth took possession of her plump lips, devouring her essence in a way I never thought would be possible again.

  Shoving my trembling hands deep into my pockets to keep from reaching out and pulling her to me, I cracked my jaw as my temper rose. The more I looked at her gorgeous face, the angrier I became.

  Seven years.

  Seven long, misery-filled years.

  After all the promises we'd made to one another, and the love I'd thought we shared, how could she have done this to me? To us? We had plans, a future. But she'd pissed it all away by letting me believe she was dead, even when she wasn't.

  I wondered if Faye was in on the ruse.

  I didn't want to believe that she was, not after all the help I'd given her ever since the night Tuck drove her and Amelia to the Greyhound station and loaded them on a bus headed for Virginia.

  Hell, the woman still sent me a Christmas card every year. But obviously, shit wasn't always as it seemed. Carmen standing in my kitchen was living proof of that.

  Seeing her alive was my biggest blessing and one I'd prayed for. But with all the unanswered questions that lingered, not to mention the sharp betrayal slicing at my insides, I was teetering on the edge of losing my godforsaken mind.

  Having reached my limit for not knowing what was going on, I glared at the smart-mouthed woman standing before me, who, at that very moment, I both loved and loathed in equal measures.

  "Talk, Carmen," I all but growled. "Or else get out." The latter part of my demand was laughable. If my brain thought for a second that my heart would ever let her leave again, then it had another think coming.

  Her cinnamon-colored eyes blazed with rage as she crossed her arms over her ample chest and shot daggers my way, more than ready to pick up the gauntlet I'd just thrown down.

  Some things never changed.

  "I don't know who you think you're speaking to, cabrón," she fired back, all sass and attitude. "But it better not be me, or else I will cram your rude words right back down your throat and make you choke on them, si?"

  My right eye twitched.

  When I didn't reply straight away, she looked me up and down, then huffed out a pent-up breath, wrongly thinking she'd gained the upper hand. "That's what I thought."

  Pulling her attention from me, she slid her hands into her thick hair and secured the top half into a messy bun with a simple black band she'd slipped from her wrist, putting her slender neck on full display.

  My gaze found her pulse point.

  Anger morphing to stroke-inducing rage, I seethed as her tantalizing skin fluttered in time with her pounding heart, one I’d believed had ceased to beat.

  Thinking of the lies I'd been told and the falsehoods I was fed, I ran out of the sliver of patience I'd still clung to real damned fast.

  "What the hell are you doing here?" I barked, spiraling headfirst into madness. "Are you looking for another wallet to steal? How about a kidney? I hear those go for a good amount on the black market."

  Voice lined with the same fury that stained my face crimson, the cutting and uncalled for words I spoke were jumbled, but she understood my venom fine.

  That was clear when she took a predatory step forward, seconds away from murdering me with her bare hands.

  And rightfully so. I was being an unjust asshole. Someone needed to beat some sense into me.

  Maybe I should find the Crazy Old Biddy.

  She'll gladly whoop me with her swatter.

  Maybe even run me over with her Caddy.

  Hands landing on her soft hips, Carmen raised her chin, not the least bit intimidated by the agitation rolling off m
e. "Not that it's any of your business what I'm doing in Kissler, pendejo, but I'm here stitching my family back together."

  Her eyes flashed with sadness before the blazing inferno returned, burning away all traces of whatever hurt she was trying to hide. "One tattered piece at a time."

  Her family?

  I wasn't buying whatever she was selling.

  Gaze narrowing, I crossed my arms over my chest like she'd done a minute before, drawing her unblinking stare to my forearms. I almost smirked at the way she gawked at me. "What family? Last I checked, ghosts didn't have those."

  Her brows drew together, and she tipped her head to the side, her expression one of genuine confusion. "Ghosts?"

  I'd had enough. "Yes, fucking ghosts," I snapped, my temples throbbing. "You know, the things people become when they die."

  More than ready to get the answers I intended to receive, I stomped forward, erasing the remaining emptiness that existed between us before sinking my hand into the silky hair at her nape.

  Harnessing every ounce of waning control I could muster up, I tilted her head back, forcing her wide eyes to lock with mine before dipping my face toward hers.

  A mere inch separated her parted lips from my pinched ones as her sunshine and wildflowers scent assailed me, working to melt the tundra surrounding my heart.

  I watched her face, searching her features for any trace of fear, but what I saw was something else entirely.

  Desire.

  Cock coming to life, my jeans got tight real quick, but I swallowed down my feelings, ignoring the way my traitorous body responded to hers.

  "The memory of you, along with everything I lost the day I was told you were murdered, has haunted me for over seven years."

  Vision blurred from the wetness forming over my gold-flecked irises, shards of white-hot pain detonated inside me, threatening to tear my shrieking soul in half.

  "Now, here you are. Alive and even more stunning than I remember. And I don't know whether to ring your pretty little neck or kiss you so damned hard and long that neither of us can breathe, and we both suffocate."

  Once again, part of the words I'd just spoken were complete fiction. A far cry from the abusive bastard I used to be, I would never lay my hands on any woman, much less the one standing before me, who, I might add, would beat me half to death with one of my kitchen chairs if I ever tried.

  But when pissed off, like now, and my stupid mouth started running, the damned thing wouldn't stop. It was a real nasty habit, and one my kids had come by honestly.

  "What I know, though, is that if you don't start giving me some answers, then I'm going to throw you over my shoulder and carry your betraying little ass out my front door and—"

  My words died a quick death when she jerked back, and her palm met my cheek in a hard slap, sending a high-pitched cracking sound resounding through the room.

  Teeth rattling and stunned by the unexpected hit, I remained silent, gawking at her with surprise-filled eyes as she tore free of my hold and stumbled in the opposite direction, tears streaming down her now pale face.

  The sight of them was like an ax strike to the torso. And if possible, my mood plummeted further. Knowing I'd hurt her again broke something in me.

  Her bottom lip trembled, and it took everything in me not to reach forward and pull her back to me a second time.

  But knowing if I tried, she'd knee me in the nuts and shove my balls so high into my stomach that I'd be singing soprano next to Grandmama at church come Sunday, I refrained.

  "Don't you dare spew any more of your filth on me!" A volatile combination of downright pissed off and wounded, she pointed a shaking finger in my direction. "I deserve your anger, James Cole, I truly do, but I will not stand here and allow you to call me names! Not when I've already spent far more than my fair share of years drowning in verbal abuse!"

  My shoulders tensed. Abuse? Is that what I'm doing? The unspoken question sickened me. What is the matter with me?

  Pissed or not, I wasn't that man anymore.

  "You want answers? Fine, si, I'll give them to you," she continued, not slowing long enough to blink, much less breathe. "But first, you will start by telling me why you thought I was dead!"

  Fighting to stifle my lividness, I took a minute before answering. But even though I'd hesitated while trying to get my shit under control, I still exploded, more so than before, allowing years’ worth of self-hate, constant misery, and enough anguish to blacken even the most innocent souls, to pour out of me in an endless stream of vitriol.

  "Because I was told you were!"

  She opened her mouth to speak, undoubtedly to ask who'd told me that, but I gave her no chance to utter even a single syllable.

  Head still stuck three feet up my ass, I wasn't done being a spiteful dick. Not even when I knew I needed to close my trap before I broke something that couldn't be fixed.

  "For seven years," I repeated, intending to drive my point home, "I've believed that your pimp killed both you and the girls the night you were supposed to meet me at the shelter after escaping him."

  Every day, I regretted not hunting him down. But after promising Faye I wouldn't put my family at risk by finding out who the sorry fuck was and going after him, I'd laid awake more nights than I could count, dreaming of his death and all the ways I could bring it forth.

  Vengeance would've been sweet.

  Too bad it wasn't mine to have.

  "And even after all the good I've tried to do, and the bonds I've fought tooth and nail to build with my kids and grandkids, I've hated myself every second that I've been forced to live without you."

  "James—"

  Needing to get the words out before I lost it and stormed out of my own house, something I was close to doing, I didn't stop hollering my truths.

  "I thought I'd failed you! Thought I'd failed the family we were supposed to make together!" Disdain bubbled in my stomach, pushing me to the verge of puking. "But as it turns out, my only mistake was giving my heart, as rotten as it may be, to a woman who never loved me the way I loved her, because if she had, she wouldn't have left me!"

  With the poison I'd spoken tattooed on her soul for what I expected would be forever, she hung her head, her shoulders slumping in defeat.

  Body shaking from head to toe, her hands flew to her mouth. Her palms then covered her lips, hiding them from my view as she sobbed, sending ice-like needles deep into my chest, where they pierced my twisting, infuriated heart.

  "You don't understand," she cried, her infamous fight vanishing as she crumbled, shattering bit by bit. "If I could've come back to you, I would have."

  Watching her fall apart hurt.

  And knowing it was me, the man who'd sworn to always love and protect her, and that she’d once called her salvation, that had broken her down with just a few cruel lashes of his runaway tongue, along with the toxic bite of his treacherous words, increased my self-hatred tenfold.

  Like Tuck always said, I was an idiot.

  I had to fix the damage I'd done.

  "Carmen—"

  I shut right up when she shook her head and looked up at me, her face lined with so much hurt that if I could've beat my own ass, I would've.

  A dozen times over.

  And with a ball-peen hammer.

  "You want to know why I broke my promise?" She sucked in one gulp of air after another, trying to get her shuddering cries under control. "You want to know why I never came back to you?"

  Trepidation nipped my spine, and I knew the words she spoke next would knock me for a loop, sending me mentally tumbling head over heels.

  I was right.

  "Well," she snapped, her fight returning as she stood taller, her voice stronger than seconds before, and squared her elegant shoulders, ready to take me and my shitty attitude head-on.

  There was my girl—my fighter.

  Gripping the skirt of her dress just like she’d done back at Ashley Jo’s, she bunched the soft cotton in her shaking hands. "Part o
f the reason is because of everything that happened the night I was supposed to meet you." She jutted her chin, silently daring me to speak. "The night that Little One and I almost died."

  Her words struck me center mass, knocking me breathless and damned near stupid. "Little One," I echoed, swaying in place, feet unsteady. "Is she—"

  "She's alive." She nodded once. "And it was because of her, Hendrix, Maddie, Shelby, and everyone else you love that I never came back after making it free of the swamp where my hijo de perra pimp had ordered our bloodied bodies to be dumped once he'd shot her and tried to gut me."

  Neck cording, my muscles and veins strained against my skin as the urge to shove my fisted hand into the nearest wall, or down onto the wooden tabletop until it collapsed beneath my rage-fueled assault, rode me hard.

  The motherfucker had shot Little One.

  And stabbed my woman.

  To hell with the promise I'd made Faye.

  He was going to die.

  "James, he thought we were dead!" Her tears fell even quicker as her voice rose. "And if we came back, or if I would've called you and he was watching, we would have all died the moment you raced to be by our sides because he wouldn't have just stopped once he learned we were still alive! Don't you understand that?"

  Shaking her head, she gripped her dress tighter, turning her knuckles white, much like mine had been minutes before. "And that was not a risk I was willing to take. Not when I thought I'd already lost Chiquita."

  Thought she'd lost Chiquita?

  I was missing what I suspected was a hell of a lot, but thanks to my misfiring brain cells, I couldn't figure out exactly what.

  "Even though it was the last thing I wanted, I stayed in Charleston where we'd been taken after a bleeding Little One crawled out of the swamp and flagged down a passerby who then called for help."

  One hour. That's all that had separated us.

  All these years…

  "Carmen," I started. "You could've—"

  "I remembered, Guapo."

  Brows pulling together, the vice grip surrounding my heart cranked down, and I swallowed. "Remembered what?"