by K. C. Ale
“You want to back off, Carlson.” The words were low but no less threatening. I won’t have this shit from anyone. Not even from him. “Right the fuck now.”
A powerless look is tossed my way above Gemma’s head, the top of which doesn’t reach his shoulders.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks weakly, bulging arms fully extended out with Gemma glued to his chest.
I can feel my bubbling blood pressure skyrocketing. “Gemma. Release Carlson this instant.”
The insolent woman actually tightens her arms around the other man and buries her face on his chest. “Make him go away, Carlson,” she pleas against his shirt.
That’s when I lose it.
Family or not, I bulldoze Carlson back with one arm and yank Gemma away with the other. She gasps and nearly falls on her ass, but I’ve got an iron grip on her and use the momentum to steer her to the car. She must be in shock because she’s not even attempting to resist when I angrily jerk open the door and all but toss her inside.
Raging air singe my nostrils. Carlson is grim-faced, wordless. His meaty fingers curl and stretch like he’s readying to pulverize something. Or someone.
Bring it.
It wouldn’t be the first time. We were much younger then, pummeling each other over some stupid shit that I can’t even recall.
This isn’t some stupid shit. This is me drawing the line. “You don’t put your hands on her, you hear me? Ever.”
“You need to have your fucking eyes checked, Hawkes. I didn’t have my hands on her. She had hers on me.”
I take a menacing step, my jaw so painfully tight teeth might crack. “You sniffing around what’s mine?”
He barks out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. “I’ve never known you to be an idiot, but you are one now if you think that’s your problem.”
“Don’t imagine you know what my problem is. You have no idea.”
“You are an idiot.” He snorts out a breath. “That girl in there?” A nod at the car. “She won’t be rooted down, but you want to tie her to you so bad you’re slowly losing it. The sad part is you won’t admit it, not to her and certainly not to yourself.”
“You think you know Gemma? Driving her around here and there makes you an expert somehow?” I’m in his face before I realize I moved. “You don’t want to go there, Carlson.”
“Your irrational preoccupation with her has blinded you, bro. You’re not capable of seeing what’s right in front of you.”
“What I see is her running to you,” I spit out, my fist aching to land on his face. “Every fucking time. You think you know her so well? Then why don’t you tell me why the fuck that is?”
He half turns, chuckling sourly to himself as though he can’t believe he’s having this conversation. That makes two of us.
Heatedly, he slashes back to me. “You’re deliberately keeping who you are from your girl, and you’re wondering why she doesn’t exactly trust you? She’s right. You are clueless.”
Thirty-one
Gemma
We’re in a private jet. The leather is creamy and lush, the dark wood rich and gleaming. The carpet is thick and luxurious beneath my ballet flats. HC’s logo is proudly displayed near the cockpit. As soon as we boarded we took off. No one batted an eye at the flawlessly dressed boss and his shabby t-shirt and denim shorts companion. Within minutes a flight attendant came with drinks, his practiced smile strained after one look at Brad stewing across from me.
The tension is so dense I can grab a fistful and knock it over Brad Hawkes’s lunatic head.
Carlson was left behind, assigned the tedious task of driving my car back. I know Brad had some harsh words with him after he deposited me in the passenger seat, but I couldn’t make out more than a few words here and there. Whatever was exchanged, it was severe enough to cut metal. One look at the two roaring lions swiping at each other over territory, and I quickly decided to stay in the car.
Brad hasn’t said a word to me since we took the rented sedan back to my motel room to retrieve my things. Fine with me. I don’t exactly want to braid his hair and share my deepest secret with him either.
I lied to him. I’m not moving to Sedona. It was the heat of the argument, but some truths couldn’t be denied. Like I don’t need him. I don’t. Not his half-finished estate. Definitely not this sleek jet. Certainly not his personal driver or a job with his thriving company.
I just want him.
Even now, sulking in the ridiculously lavish seat, pointedly giving me the silent treatment that he’s not trying to be subtle about. His hair is mussed, having raked irritated fingers through it about a hundred times. Those soft lips that I have very fond memories of are firm. Brad doesn’t really indulge, but by the stern and ruthless expression on his face, I’m sure he wishes he has a stiff drink instead of the club soda near his elbow.
There’s something about Brad Hawkes. Something that keeps drawing me back to him. Time and time again, no matter how far I end up in mind or in body.
Like he’s my home.
Only that can’t be.
“How did you know where I was?” I ask over the drone of the engine. I’m not looking to fight anymore. I just want to know.
He takes his time, his gaze hard and slow as it journeys to me. “Got a call.”
That wasn’t what I unexpected. “From?”
This time he lifts his glass, spending a solid minute tasting his drink before carefully setting it down. “Hope Sanctuary.”
Of course. Silly of me to think he wouldn’t be contacted. He was the one who footed the bill, after all. They were probably strictly instructed to immediately inform him of all visitors. No wonder they seemed to have taken their sweet time checking me in, then left me waiting for a crazy long period for my dad.
“Why did you come?”
Clear green eyes stay steady on me. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know.” I bob a shoulder, reaching for the orange juice the flight attendant left for me. “You got a company to run. Can’t be jetting off at every minor thing at the drop of a hat.” The quiet fixed gaze has me turning to the window instead. “Besides, we both know you’re not exactly tolerant of people disappearing. What, you wanted to fire me in person?”
“You’re not an employee.”
“You’re right about that. Someone beat you to it.”
“Todd Jansky is no longer with HC.” There’s a notable pause. Then, “You should’ve told me, Gemma.”
Maybe I should have, if only to let him know he had a predator on payroll. “You were busy.” Murky clouds obscure the view outside the small window, but I don’t look away. “You weren’t there,” I murmur to the thick glass. You’re never there.
“You’re never there! Why do you leave, Lee? Why don’t you hang out with me anymore?”
“Why would I want to hang out with a dumb kid? I got people to see. And you’re not one of them,” he scoffed, his lips curling in a sneer. “Now get out of here and run home to daddy.”
“But I want to go with you.”
He thrust me out of the way. “Get lost, Gemmy. I haven’t got time for little girls.”
My heart clutched with excruciation at his casual dismissal. “Fine! I wouldn’t want to hang out with a jerk anyway!”
I blink, wetness tracing down one cheek. I barely feel it. My muscles and my mind are suddenly numb, desperately trying to shove back the throbbing pain.
His father was upset with him. Drinking more and getting angrier by the day. Then Lee was taken away. He died a week later.
Probably beaten to death by some drugged out hoodlum.
That beautiful person. Gone forever.
And took a big chunk of me with him. Buried with him.
My lids slam close, but my limbs tremble uncontrollably. Distantly, I know this from the ice cubes rattling noisily in the tumbler. The loss of Lee is a physical grief, one I’ve been fighting most of my life.
A million violent pins stab at the comfort bubb
le I use to surround myself. Those I feel. I feel to the bone. Threatening to burst and drown me in raw anguish. My eyes fly open, desperately hoping that would make it stop.
Slowly, cautiously, I set the tumbler down. It clanks forcefully on the polish wood anyway.
Pale, shaking fingers – are those mine? – reach for the buckle at my waist.
“Gemma?”
Three attempts before it releases smoothly. Gingerly, I push to my wobbly legs. They’re odd. Frozen yet melted at the same time.
There’s a voice. Male. Talking to me. I don’t know what he’s saying.
“Gone,” I struggle through deadened lips.
Why did I say that?
Because he’s gone. Dead. I never saw him again. Never hopped on the trampoline with him to leap to the other side. Never ate his ham and cheese sandwiches. Never giggled or argued with him just for the thrill of it.
Stable hands grip my arms.
Never got a chance to tell him I loved him with all that I knew. Will never stop loving him.
“Oh God.” I clutch at the piercing pressure racking my stomach. The brutal pins are winning, sharp and merciless.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
I’m being rocked. Gently. Back and forth. On a man’s lap. How did I get here?
It’s most convenient, because I’m viciously sobbing into his neck.
*****
A monstrosity of blooms exploded in the kitchen. It’s ginormous. I didn’t figure pretty flowers can be tragic, but these are. About three dozen of them. It’s like an overzealous clown head dissolved all over a gorgeous crystal vase, complete with a giant, gaudy bow.
Excited beyond himself, Bull dances around my legs, tongue lolling out. I automatically lean down to give him a rubbing.
“You like them?” Brad asks eagerly from behind me after setting my things aside. “They’re for you.”
Straightening, I tilt my head in a determined attempt to find a better angle.
Nope. It doesn’t exist.
“Did Carlson arrange this?” That must be it, because no self-respecting florist would release that beast.
“Actually, I did.” Pride radiates from his voice. “I didn’t know what you liked, so I had Linda get me a bunch of different flowers. Then I decided it wasn’t good enough and got some more. Put it together myself.”
“Hm…” We might get arrested for bloom abuse.
“You don’t like them,” he guesses, dejected.
“Well…” I take a step back. Add another. Maybe all the way back would help. “They’re very… vibrant.” Yeah, that’s a good word.
“Vibrant good or vibrant bad?”
I gesture at it, desperate to come up with a description that wouldn’t hurt his fragile male ego. “It’s lively. Uplifting.” I turn with an appeasing smile, because the poor clueless thing tried. “It’s perfect.”
He eyes me with skepticism before brushing his lips on mine. “Are you sure?”
I was only gone for a day, but I missed those lips. “Perfect,” I vow against his mouth without hesitation. “What was the occasion?”
“I needed an occasion to bring you flowers?”
“Not necessarily, but I have a feeling there was a reason.” I tap a playful finger on that delicious mouth. “Call it a hunch.”
His head turns, grazing his lips across my palm. “You were mad at me.”
“Ah.” I nod. “That. Thanks for the reminder. I suppose it turned out for the best, since it gave me an opportunity to find my dad.”
We haven’t discussed what happened on the plane. After weeping for what felt like the entire flight, I’d excused myself to go to the restroom, doing my best to clean the mess that was my face. By the time I was done, we were preparing to descend. It might have taken more effort than before, but I was able to compartmentalize once again. Bury any thoughts of Lee way down deep.
“How did you know where to find your father?”
“I went through your office,” I reveal offhandedly. “It didn’t take long, but you were gone most of the night anyway, so I had plenty of time.”
Light eyes narrow on me.
“Hey, if you really didn’t want me to know, you should’ve hidden it better,” I continue when he doesn’t say anything. “Speaking of my father.” Suddenly needing distance, I ease away to lean back against the counter. “He told me Hope Sanctuary offered him a job.” At that I falter. Inhaling deeply, I push on. “He’s staying in Arizona for the foreseeable future.”
Brad is quiet for a moment, outwardly taking it in. “That might be good for him. To be surrounded by others in recovery, to find a purpose and help those who are in the same shoes.”
“He’s going to be a groundskeeper. How’s that helping others in need?”
“Sometimes it’s the little things that make a difference.”
I keep my gaze on him. “Is that why you had the arrangements made? Because you think it’s good for him?”
He doesn’t so much as flinch but candidly meets my probing eyes. “I had nothing to do with it,” he declares calmly. “But I won’t dispute that this is a good move for him. And for you.” A palm goes up. “Before you decide to start a fight, I just need to make one thing perfectly clear.”
Folding my arms on my chest, I arch a haughty brow at him. “Go on.”
“You’re not moving to Sedona or anywhere else.”
“Oh?” Funny enough, it’s not annoyance that leaps into my blood. It’s morbid curiosity. “How do you plan to stop me?”
“No planning needed. You’re just not going anywhere.”
“Just like that?”
A shrug. “Can’t argue with fact.”
Not wanting him to see my amusement, I half turn to gently draw a long-stem rose from the floral eruption. The bud is just starting to open, velvet petals tinge in pumping red. Its natural perfume wafts as I twirl it in my fingers, and I take an approving whiff.
Closing the distance between us, Brad pulls me to him, scenting me like I was sniffing the single bloom. “I didn’t actually think you’d comply.”
I toss back my hair and give him a look. “I’m mentally preparing my counter.” Those amazing green eyes are on nothing but me. It’s hard to focus when he’s looking at me like this. “You know, I don’t need your permission to go anywhere. Arizona or anywhere else. I think I proved that yesterday.”
An arrogant smirk. “And I proved today I’ll find you and bring you home. Arizona or anywhere else. But that’s not the reason why you’re not moving.”
“You mean there’s actually a reason other than your cockiness?” I skim the soft petals along his stubbled jaw, enjoying the contrast. “I can’t wait to hear.”
“It’s really quite simple.” He takes the rose and brushes it against my bottom lip, his lazy gaze tracking its leisure motion. “You’d miss me too much.”
“I would?”
“You told me yourself you’d missed me.” Sluggishly, the silky petals trail down my chin to my neck. Tormenting. Lower still, to the skin exposed by my scoop neck t-shirt top.
His lips replace the bud, softer than any petal and much, much warmer, pressed inches above the pounding in my chest. I can’t tame the tremble when his bristled jaw scrapes at my tender skin.
“When…” I have to unswallow my tongue, my lids drifting close. “When did I tell you that?”
“That first night.” His lips stretch against me. “You couldn’t get enough of me.”
The first night?
Why would I tell him I missed him? I search my mind, hard to do when all it wants is to shut down and enjoy.
My lids leap up.
Lee. That first night. For a forgotten moment, I thought he was Lee.
Thirty-two
Brad
What the hell happened?
One minute her heart was hammering against my mouth, her hurried breath ruffling the hair at the top of my head, the next she was urgently pushing me away.
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She was tired, she claimed, and needed to take a nap.
A nap?
Okay. Sure. I’ll take a “nap” with her. I figured it was a polite euphemism for getting naked upstairs.
Then she took off and locked herself in her old room. Even Bull was staring after the trail of smoke she left behind in her heedless rush before he raced up after her.
A minute later there was an alerting bark from upstairs. I could just make out Gemma cooing her apology to Bull, no doubt cuddling the shit out of the delighted dog.
Do I need to stand outside her bedroom door and woof to get some sweet loving? I can use a tummy rub. Or a rub lower.
I should really make an appearance at the office. I had Linda reschedule all my meetings today, but there are always things that need to be done. Reports, business development, status updates, staff needs. Whatever the case, taking an impromptu day off isn’t my usual routine.
Only I don’t. Instead, I change into jeans and an old t-shirt so I can study the wall of old, peeling wallpaper.
Gone.
The word ricochets in my head, uttered in Gemma’s torn voice. Like she was slowly dying inside. Like she’s been in deep mourning all her life.
Was she thinking about her father? No, that wouldn’t make sense.
With a spray and a putty knife, I scrap at the sodden, frayed corner, wishing the whole thing would just flay off.
Was she thinking about me?
No, not me. Lee.
The devastation, the unspeakable pain. Peter never mentioned it. Downright played it down. It was Peter’s idea to allow Gemma to believe I was dead. Help her move on, he’d advised. I went along with it because I was convinced it was what she needed at the time. After what happened, it was better for her to forget about me. He swore to me she was okay, that after a few months Lee was practically never was. Kids were resilient, he maintained, and Gemma was no different.
She was different, though. I knew that. Had always known it.
I had hope. Perhaps once she saw me, she’d somehow put two and two together and miraculously know Lee wasn’t dead after all, that I’d been here all along. Maybe a part of me didn’t want to admit she was fine with believing I was gone.