WITH THE SOUND-DEADENING headphones blocking out the commotion in the street, Chris felt strangely peaceful. Like she was underwater, or suspended in another dimension where no one could reach her and no problems could touch her.
Secluded in the bubble, it was easier not to think about Kota, about the plans she’d begun to make. Not big plans, not forever plans. But plans nonetheless.
And it was easier not to fume at Ray. She’d obviously spilled her guts for money and revenge. The resulting media blitz had plugged up Chris’s narrow road so completely that the cops had given up trying to disperse the crowd and begun diverting traffic.
But safe in the bubble, she could remind herself that it was only temporary. Kota wouldn’t feed the media frenzy. Neither would she. With a freezer full of frozen pizza, she wouldn’t have to open her door for a month.
By then, the press would have moved on to the next big scandal.
And she’d move on too, out of Cali-fucking-fornia. Maybe to Maine. Yes, Maine should be far enough away.
She’d find a nice place for Emma out in the countryside and buy a dilapidated farmhouse nearby. Once she restored it, she’d fill it with animals no one else wanted. The rejects. The halt and the lame.
And she’d live in peace and tranquility, with no chance of bumping into Kota at a traffic light.
Until then, she was stuck. She needed something to do besides nurse her broken heart. Something absorbing. Something meaningful.
Opening her laptop, she faced the document already up on her screen: Reporting Live from the War Zone, This Is Emma Case.
She deleted it.
Then she flinched, waiting for guilt to crush her like an anvil. Her finger hovered over Undo.
But seconds passed, and . . . no guilt. In fact, she felt lighter. As if a weight she’d borne for years had floated off her shoulders.
She closed her eyes, releasing the breath she’d held pinched in her lungs.
Someone else would write Emma’s story, someone more objective. Maybe Reed. He’d loved her—he still did—but he was a journalist to the marrow. He’d be evenhanded, analytical, while Chris could be neither where her mother was concerned.
She drew a deep, steady breath and opened her eyes. The screen before her was blank. Hers to fill with whatever moved her.
For a long, pregnant moment, she stared at the blinking cursor.
Then she began to type.
CHRISTY’S STREET WAS a scene from Kota’s own personal nightmare. News crews, spotlights, TV trucks with satellite dishes poking up like periscopes.
He paused in the shadow of a palm tree, taking in the chaos, and his blood ran cold. Charlie had lived just a few streets away, and Kota had seen his house surrounded just like this.
The memory turned his stomach.
Charlie was dead by then, beyond Kota’s help, but the press was stalking his aunt, who’d come from Vermont to pack up his things. She’d forgiven Charlie years before, the only family member who had, and for her kindness and grace, she’d been hounded by the press.
He’d seen the stark fear on her face that day, and fury had lit a fire in his breast that still burned bright.
He’d shouldered through the idiots and hustled her out of the house, driven her to the airport, and watched her leave L.A. in tears. Then he’d cleaned out Charlie’s house himself, a lonely, heartrending task. Penance for his own arrogance, and for the foolish pride that had set off the fatal chain of events.
Sure, he’d taken a stand against haters who wanted to divide the world into straights and gays, but he should have considered that others might pay the price for his actions.
Now Christy was paying for his latest blunder. Pinned down, probably scared shitless, she needed rescuing too.
So Kota did the one thing he never imagined he’d willingly do.
He stepped into the center ring of a full-blown media circus.
Sweat beaded his hairline and prickled his armpits. But his muscles responded to stress as they always did, going loose and limber, primed to react as required, to lift or carry or punch anybody who asked for it.
He’d rather not hit anyone tonight. It would only fuel the flame. But if that’s what it took to get to Christy, somebody was going down.
He arrowed straight for her house, and at first, no one noticed him. He was just another body in motion.
Then someone shouted, “Dakota!” Others took up the call. Every head swung his way, and the whole horde surged toward him.
This was no red-carpet event, where the media was leashed and fenced. It was a bloodthirsty battle for ratings and revenue, a full-on feeding frenzy.
They were the sharks; he was the meat.
But he wasn’t in it alone. As they closed in, waving their mics in his face, he said, “Smile,” and Cy smiled. “Bark,” and Cy barked.
Miraculously, a path opened before them, and Kota marched to the door unimpeded.
CHRIS FELT, MORE than heard, the fist pounding her door. It rattled the china like a minor earthquake, 3.1 on the Richter scale.
Tri blasted off the couch like he was shot from a cannon, barking insanely, scratching at the door. Chris pulled off her headphones.
It couldn’t be.
“Christy, open up!”
It was.
She tiptoed to the kitchen window, as if Kota could hear her sock feet over the pandemonium outside. She peeped through the curtain. Reporters formed a semicircle ten feet from her front door, shouting questions at Kota where he stood with Cy on the stoop.
One daring soul stepped forward. Kota said, “Bark,” and Cy barked. Chris smothered a laugh as the woman leaped back into line.
Then bam bam bam. “Christy, open the door!”
She opened it, but before he could steamroll her, she stepped outside and closed it behind her.
“Hello, Kota.” It felt like she was pushing her voice over gravel. Like she hadn’t spoken in a week.
He locked onto her eyes, dropped his voice ten decibels, from a roar to a murmur. “Let’s take this inside.”
Sweat dampened her neck under the mass of her hair, but she crossed her arms and said coolly, “I’m good right here.” If he had something to say, let him say it in front of the cameras. That would keep it short and sweet.
He glowered down at her, all squints and hard angles. Lesser mortals would pee themselves.
But Chris was unmoved. “Did you want something, Kota? Or were you just out walking Cy?”
“We need to talk,” he muttered for her ears alone.
“I have nothing to say to you,” she said loud and clear. “But if you’re compelled to unburden yourself, I’m all ears.” She propped her shoulders against the door as if she had all night.
His jaw ticked. Flattening one palm beside her head, he dropped his voice even lower. “I’m sorry—”
“You’re sorry?” she repeated loudly. “For what?”
His eyes seared her. “You’re gonna make me do this out here?”
“You mean out here in front of the cameras? So TMZ can run the clip backwards and forwards, with their pithy asides?” She cocked her head. “Yeah, that’s what I mean.”
Color climbed his neck, then his face, all the way to his hairline.
That was a good start, but it was far from enough.
“I thought . . .” He paused and threw a glance over his shoulder at the mob. As one, they leaned forward, hanging on every word. He turned back to her, visibly girding his loins. “You know what I thought. I was wrong. And stupid, and cruel.”
She waited, not nearly satisfied.
“I’m sorry I left you. And I’m sorry about your purse. I didn’t know it would . . .” He did an exploding fist.
She waited.
He pushed his fingers through his hair. The torment on his face plucked at her heartstrings.
She ignored their sad song.
“Ma tore me a new one,” he went on. “Even Pops got into it. Sasha too. And Maddie.” He winced. “She’s got a tongue like a buzz saw.”
Chris smirked, recalling their conversation on the plane. “Still think you can have her whenever you want?”
He went redder, probably picturing Adam’s reaction when he heard that on TV. “The point is,” he said quickly, “I know I was an asshole, and I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again.”
She waited.
“Forgive me?” He tried to sell it with a charming smile.
She wasn’t buying. “Forgive you for ditching me? Or for doubting me?”
“For ditching you. I’m not apologizing for doubting you. It’s not like I don’t have reason.”
Her heart sank. “Then I guess we’re done here.” She put her hand on the knob.
He covered it with his. “Not so fast.” His eyes glinted. “You wanted to do this out here. Let’s do it. Let’s talk about trust. Let’s talk about lies.”
She faced him. “I paid the price. I apologized. You forgave me.”
“No, I fucked you.”
She gasped. Heat swept her skin like a blowtorch. She tried to flee inside, but he held the knob fast.
“I fucked you because I couldn’t help myself.” He crowded her, invading her space. “I couldn’t help myself because I love you.”
She gasped again.
“Is that what you want?” he said. “A public declaration? You’ve got it. I love you.” He said it loud and clear.
Words failed her.
But he was suddenly loquacious. “I love you, but I’m having a hard time trusting you. Part of that’s on me. I’ve got trust issues, and I’m working on them.”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “This is on me too. Which is why I’m standing here making a fool of myself. But baby, you gotta meet me in the middle.”
The middle? Where was the middle? The line kept moving.
He waited.
She gazed up at him, helplessly. “What do you want me to say?”
He smiled again, gorgeously. “Say you love me.”
“I love you.”
He turned, spreading his arms to the cameras. “Did you get that?” he called. “I love her. She loves me. We’re getting married.”