Sore and painfully sober now, Clay spent the early morning hours scouring the town of Blackwood for Sultans and finding nothing. Nothing still.
He remembered the shrink had listed hypervigilance as one of the many possible symptoms of PTSD.
Had there even been bikes in town the other night, or had he imagined them?
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Was he losing it entirely?
Probably, he decided. Probably.
A month. Four whole fucking weeks until his next laser treatment. He should go do something while he waited. Maybe head elsewhere so as not to remain in one place too long. Four weeks. After that, there’d be just over five months until the trial date. Couldn’t go by fast enough.
Rather than hole back up in the hotel, peeking out from behind the curtains, or parking himself outside of the doc’s house like a messed-up guard dog, he needed distraction. Something. Anything.
A good fight would do it.
But as soon as he walked through the front door of the gym, he wondered if he hadn’t made a mistake.
Something was off. The noise, first of all, was at a volume he hadn’t experienced here before. Kids, it sounded like, and a quick glance around proved that to be the case.
He should have turned and walked out right then and there. He should have, but he didn’t actually have anywhere else to go, so he stayed. The tickly, wrong sensation only intensified when Steve approached him, big smile on his face.
“Good to see you, Mr. Andrew Blane,” the sheriff said, and on that note, Clay did turn. He didn’t wait to find out what was afoot but took four strides and almost made it to the door by the time the other man caught up to him and laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Need a favor, son.”
Clay stilled. “What?”
“Got an instructor out today. Need someone to teach the class.”
“Well, then you teach it.”
“Can’t. Got someplace I gotta be.”
“Yeah, well, me too.” He shook off the older man’s hand and walked outside.
He’d made it a few more steps when the man’s voice rang out, too loud. Too damn loud. “Just hold it right there, young man.” Clay stopped, recognizing that law enforcement tone for what it was, knowing it inside out but obeying it nonetheless. Steve drew closer and planted his body right beside him. “Told you I needed a teacher.”
“I’m not a teacher.”
“Yeah, well, give it a try.”
“No. Kids hate me.”
“You think I haven’t looked into who you are?” Steve whispered. “Read about a case last night. Some big multi-agency biker club takedown up in Maryland.”
“No, you can’t tr—”
“Shut it.” This was serious Steve now, not the jovial old man, and this guy had the kind of authority you didn’t ignore. “I’m letting you camp out here because the arrangement suits me, got it? All I need is one little sign of trouble from you, and I’ll make a couple phone calls to some folks I know up near Baltimore.”
“You’d give me up?” Clay asked, shocked.
“Hell no, dumbass. You think I want a bunch of bikers in my town? No. But it’s a threat you can’t afford to ignore, ’cause I got media friends and ATF friends who might be interested in knowing where one of their own is holed up.”
Clay shook his head, not looking at the man who’d figured him out way too fast. “What do you want from me?”
“Want you to take on a couple of classes this old man doesn’t have the energy for anymore. Not a whole lot to ask.”
“Can’t you hire another teacher?”
“That’s what I’m trying to do right here, son.”
“Blackmail? That your recruiting technique?”
“I’m an opportunist,” Steve said, smiling. “You get to be as old as me, you’ll understand.”
How the hell’d I get here? Clay wondered a half hour later. For the millionth time.
The gym was packed, and Clay hated, among other things, the scrutiny. Because, once again, he was center stage, only this time it was different. This time, he was in charge.
Of a goddamned group of school kids.
“All right,” he said, gritting his teeth. “Now follow through, Carter.”
“What?”
“When you see the guy that close to you, it’s too late. You’re not gonna have time to just slap that foot away from your nut—”
“Groin!” yelled Steve. Didn’t the old guy have someplace he needed to be? He hadn’t budged since Clay took over the class.
Clay turned to him and stage-whispered, “Who’s teaching this fu—”
A loud throat-clearing from Steve this time, and Clay thought he might just give in to the irritation. Maybe throw a little fit and go for a run or a drink or something. Nobody had checked to see how Clay felt about kids or whether this was something he wanted to waste his Saturday on.
Right, because he had so much going on.
“Look, watch. Eyes on me!” he yelled, since the whispering had started up again. “From your passive stance, let’s go again.”
“What’s pass—”
“Neutral. From neutral. You know, like your basic jiu-jitsu stance or whatever it is you kids usually do here. Only, since this is self-defense, this is like…if you and your friends were hanging out on a street corner stance. Hands down at your sides, because we don’t all walk around in a fighting stance all the dam—all the darned time. Got it?”
He glared at the kids, got a few nods, and went on. “So, first, when I come at you, you’ve got to get out of the way, right? We’re not trying to get kicked in the nu—in the groin.” A few kids snickered, and Clay threw them a look. “So, I come in slow, giving you time to sliiide to the side. Just a quick step-step. Good!” The kid finally got it.
“All right, guys. Now that you’re out of immediate harm’s way, you hit my heel.” Clay kept his leg up in a low kick, but even that hurt like a bitch. “Yes! Smack it out of the way. Now punch me with your right fist and—yes! The best part is that you use your body movement and mine. You follow through, and I follow through ’cause I can’t help it since I’m recovering from my kick—and now I’m in pain, and you can run the hell away!”
Another throat-clearing from Steve, and Clay had had about enough. “Steve’s gonna come back up and run through it with you a few times,” he said evilly.
Clay got a drink of water, just as an excuse to escape. He fully intended to leave before getting snagged again. On his way to the door, though, Steve’s voice rang out good-naturedly. “Oh, I’m not sure that’s right, Becky.” He sounded old and a little frail. “I think you’ve just gotta use your right arm for that.”
“But I’m left-handed, Master Steve.”
“Oh, well, then I guess you’ll just have to… I don’t know, maybe you could—”
“They’re interchangeable,” Clay broke in. “And didn’t you have somewhere to be, Sheriff?”
“What?” asked Steve, and right then, Clay understood just how much he was being played. Christ. The old guy was worse than the most manipulative bastards he’d dealt with in the line of duty.
But instead of getting annoyed, he just shook his head and smirked a you dick smile at the guy. With a sigh, Clay bowed himself back onto the mat. “You’ve gotta run these drills on both sides. Over and over. But there’s a closer defense, using the outside arm, where you block and punch simultaneously. It’s one I’ve—” He cut himself off. One I’ve used numerous times in real life, he’d almost said, but what the hell kind of message was that for a class of kids this age? Like, You’ll need these moves, kids. It’s a shitty world out there. He lifted his eyes and met Steve’s and saw that the other guy knew exactly what he’d been about to say.
But the kids had already turned to him with what looked a lot like anticipation, and Clay let himself get wrapped up in the moves, running through the same sidestep and into the counter. “With this one, you punch with your left arm, while the right shoves the fu—shoves away.”
Over and over, he drilled it with the kids, and by the time class was done, his stomach had lost that acid coating. The anxiety of the night before gone on a swell of…What? Accomplishment, maybe?
Which was one hell of a thing.
The parents didn’t give him the friendliest looks, of course, when they came to get their children, but their cautious, mistrustful glares brought home a fact that had, up until that very moment, escaped him—the kids hadn’t been afraid of him. They were treating him the way they’d treated Steve. Or, maybe not quite exactly, because Steve was an old guy and someone they were used to. With Clay, the kids had been curious, maybe a little bit awed, which was flattering and refreshing and entirely new.
When he left the gym that afternoon, Becky’s voice calling out a last excited good-bye behind him, Clay felt tired but almost normal.
* * *
George cut short her usual Saturday visit to the in-laws, breathing a sigh of relief as she rushed to get out, with a promise to return the next week. She’d mentioned her upcoming doctor’s appointment—the fertilization she’d be undergoing Wednesday evening—and now, as she drove to Cookie Lloyd’s place, she regretted the urge that had led her to bring it up. She’d wanted to share something with Bonnie, felt compelled to give her mother-in-law something to look forward to.
During the drive to Ms. Lloyd’s place, she ignored her nagging conscience, pondering instead what kind of diagnosis she might be facing. She knew from Uma that Ms. Lloyd was an agoraphobe. At least she wouldn’t have to worry about sun damage.
She pulled up to see Uma awaiting her on the woman’s porch steps—a porch entirely devoid of furniture.
After a quick hug, Uma turned and knocked, with a muttered, “Brace yourself.”
The door swung open.
“Well, don’t just stand there gawking—come inside,” Cookie Lloyd snapped at George and Uma, who gave George a wry glance before leading the way in.
“As promised, Cookie, I bring you…a doctor.”
The short woman squinted at George, giving her the urge to back up a step or two. Maybe walk right back out the front door and down the porch steps.
“You going to check me or just stare?”
George forced a brief professional smile. “First of all, Ms. Lloyd, would you like Uma here, or do you want her to go?”
“Oh, I’ll go. Call me if you nee—”
“You stay right here, young lady. I want you in the room. Lettin’ strangers in and then takin’ off to your man. My goodness, the fickle youth of today. Trusted confidante one moment, near stranger the next! What is this world coming to?”
“Fine. I’ll stay.” Uma moved into the living room—a claustrophobic den of doilies and dahlias that had George itching to run home and throw away every print she owned. She helped Cookie settle onto the sofa before taking an armchair and leaving George to choose her poison: armchair or sofa beside the somewhat terrifying Cookie Lloyd? George, being a masochist, perhaps, opted for the latter.
“Why don’t you tell me what’s going on first, Ms. Lloyd?”
“I got an itch, don’t I?”
“Okay. What kind of itch?”
“It’s…it’s just uncomfortable.” The eyes behind the woman’s glasses blinked, slow and strange.
“Where is this itch?”
“It’s…” The eyes flicked to Uma and back to George. She bent toward George in a waft of starchy, floral talc. “It’s on my va-jay-jay.”
“Okay. Okay, we can deal with that. I might not be the right doctor for this, but we can talk through it.”
“It’s since I started takin’ that sheriff to bed. The man. I tell you, he—”
“Whoa. Cookie!” Uma said, standing up with a gasp. “Look, you do not need me here for this. It’s—”
“Why don’t you go, Uma? I’ll stay and talk to Ms. Lloyd. We’ll figure this out. I’ll be over to see you when I’m done here,” she added and waited until her friend left before speaking again.
“Now, tell me exactly where it itches. Is it on your vulva, Ms. Lloyd?”
“No. On my thighs.”
“I don’t understand, you said vagina and—”
The woman smiled. “I like to keep Uma on her toes.”
“Ah. Make her uncomfortable, you mean?” Ms. Lloyd gave a little shrug, and George nodded. People did the strangest things for a little attention. “Okay. Is it bumpy?”
A sniff. “Yes.”
“All right. It’s probably not something you contracted from…anyone. Why don’t I take a look at it, and I’ll prescribe you something if you need it.”
Another sniff before the woman rose and pulled off a pair of dark polyester trousers circa 1978.
A quick look confirmed what she’d already assumed.
“It’s a fungal infection, Ms. Lloyd. We’ll get you set up with a cream to apply, and that should be—”
“Did I get it from him?”
“Ah…not necessarily, but it does sometimes occur. I would recommend treating both of you at once. I also would recommend more…breathable fabrics, if possible, this time of year in particular. Cotton underwear and cotton pants would be best. Would you like me to include a prescription for your, ah…partner?”
“He’ll get his own.”
“Fair enough. Is there someone who can pick it up for you?”
Ms. Lloyd gave her a duh look before answering. “Uma, of course. Don’t call it in—just give it to her, will you?”
“Certainly.”
“What do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” said George. She’d seen the state of the house outside. This wasn’t a rich woman, and there was no point charging her for what had turned out to be a pretty routine, if somewhat atypical, visit.
After taking her leave, she headed back over to Uma’s house, scrip in hand.
“Knock knock,” she called in through the front screen door.
“Come in! We’re in the back.”
George walked inside, loving this house, so similar to hers, only bigger, and in much better shape.
In the kitchen, she found Uma and Ive sitting at the table, looking at…oh, crap. A book of baby names.
“Oh, wow. Are you guys…?”
Uma smiled, bright and happy-looking. “Yes! We’re having a baby!”
“My goodness, that’s wonderful!” George said, meaning it. Really meaning it, because she couldn’t imagine a more deserving couple. A more loving pair.
“We just found out, and Ive drove all the way into C’ville to buy this book.”
“Yeah, didn’t want the Blackwood gossips spreadin’ the news.”
George smiled, hard. “Any ideas so far?”
“Oh, no. I mean. I’m only nine weeks along, so…”
“Don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl yet, but I’m hopin’ for twins,” said Ive in his slow voice, and the sweet, happy look on his face made George want to cry. With joy, she was pretty sure. With joy.
* * *
Clay hurt worse than usual—probably from all the workouts. Not something the doctors back in Baltimore had recommended.
The pain, he told himself, was why he headed over to George Hadley’s house that evening around dinnertime, clutching a sad bouquet of grocery-store flowers and an overpriced bottle of Virginia wine.
He stood on the doctor’s front porch, wearing a neat button-down shirt and jeans, as if they had an actual date, when in reality he was just busting in on her night. The woman probably did have a date. With an entirely different kind of man.
She came to the door at his knock and greeted him with a wide-eyed “oh,” which he could take as either a good omen or a bad one.
“‘Oh, what a pleasant surprise’?” he asked. “Or ‘Oh, get the hell outta here’?”
It took her a second to decide, apparently. Not the best of signs, but…hey, he’d take what he could get.
“Come in,” she said with a friendly air, if not quite the smile he’d wished for.
He followed her into the now-familiar main hall, again bypassing the front rooms and heading straight to the kitchen—the heart of the house, he surmised.
“Those for me?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah. Here.” Gracious as always, he thought. Man, aren’t I a prince?
She smiled her thanks and plunked his bouquet into a vase that far outshone the flowers themselves. A look around reminded him of all the other flowers strewn about—and behind her, through the screen porch, daylight revealed the bright, happy disarray of growing blooms the moonlight had washed out the other night. Right, no flowers next time. Chocolates. Or something.
Next time. There probably wouldn’t be a next time, judging by her expression—all closed up and professional like he’d never seen her. That was just what he deserved for running away before.
She set the wine on the counter, pulled a corkscrew from a drawer, and placed it beside it.
Instead of opening the bottle, she turned to him, arms folded across her chest, and he saw new, tight lines pulling her eyes down, puffiness beneath. Had she been crying? Shit. He hoped not.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Blane?”
Jesus, he hated that name. Hated it.
“I…” He wasn’t sure, actually. What was he doing here, again?
“I needed to see you” was all that came out. Thank God, because in his current state, Clay could see himself spewing some of the crap rotting out his brain. And no, that wouldn’t be a good thing. Not at all.
She stood there, looking…sadder? Oh hell.
“Why?” she asked, and fuck if her eyes didn’t look a little too shiny.
He swallowed, glanced out back at the woods and the raging cicadas there, and said the only thing he could think of: the truth.
“It’s better when you’re around.”
* * *
The man standing in George’s kitchen was broken. Broken and alluring and, apparently, the answer to the emptiness eating up her insides.
“What’s better, Andrew?”
“There’s all this…shit, you know? My life. Crap I’ve done and… It’s in my brain. I just want quiet.”
“But you left the other night because of the noise.”
“No, the noise drives me crazy, but that’s not why I left.” He turned away, and she was fairly sure he’d walk out again. He continued, though, and what he said…what he said slayed her. “You’re too good for me.”
“Oh.” She swallowed. “And now? What’s changed?”
“Nothing. Everything. I don’t fucking know.”
“You’re still my patient.”
“I still don’t care.” He paused. “And I’m not for another six weeks, anyway.”
“Maybe sooner,” George said, her voice embarrassingly breathy.
“How much sooner?”
“Depends.”
“On my tats.”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “Come here?”
She shook her head. “We shouldn’t do this.”
“You’re probably right. But I sure as hell want to.” He looked at her—straight on. “Do you?”
Did she want to be with this man? Physically? Because that was what they were discussing. George couldn’t lie—not after spending every waking moment—and some sleeping—thinking of him. She could only nod.
“When…” He swallowed, cleared his voice, and looked around, as if for something to do. “You think I could…” He indicated the bottle of wine.
“Oh, of course. Here, I’ll do it.” She grabbed the wine key and the bottle, pushed it in and twisted and broke the darned cork—and almost started crying. But before she could, his hands were there, over hers, carefully pulling the bottle away, inserting the metal into the mangled cork and gently, gently prying it out. He brushed away the few remaining crumbs from the surface of the green glass and set the bottle down. George couldn’t look up at him so close beside her. Too close. Unbearably close.
One ink-covered finger moved up to her face, where it lingered, knuckle-first, at her cheek, then stroked down to nudge her chin up. Her eyes, of course, followed, and she met his gaze and latched on, something swelling hard in her throat. So hard it came out on a big, fat sob, and rather than the kiss she’d anticipated, he pulled her into his arms. Tight and warm against the soft cotton of his shirt.
God, when was the last time she’d been held like this? Just held? She couldn’t remember. She didn’t want to remember those days when she’d been the one holding a husband who was too frail to hold her back.
She rubbed her face into the shirt and inhaled. The smell of him broke her. It wasn’t her husband’s smell—not even close. And how wrong was it that she wanted more of this warm, masculine scent? She wanted to suck it in and revel in this body—solid and very much alive.
George lost control. It might have been from guilt or sadness or, more likely, the hormones. Whatever it was, she fell apart in a way that should have embarrassed her.
It didn’t, though.
They wound up on the sofa in the parlor, him sitting and her cradled like a baby across his lap, in tears. Weird, so weird this reversal of roles. This man coming to her for some brand of comfort and her leaching it from him instead.
“I’m sorry,” she eventually choked out on a hiccup.
“’S okay,” he said before hunching forward to rub one rough, sandpaper cheek against hers. That, just that, brought a sound to George’s lips—a continuation of her sobbing, perhaps, but altogether different in nature—darker, warmer, and sparking deep inside.
She rubbed him back, her body taking over when her mind told her it was wrong. Her skin prickled where they touched—and not just from his five o’clock shadow. There was electricity in the air that shouldn’t have been there after she’d torn through any attraction with those sobs. Yet, it was still there, a chemical, skin-to-skin reaction that even her outburst hadn’t dampened.
“It’s okay.” The words were soft, placating, spoken as if to a child or a wayward animal. “It’s okay.”
“It isn’t okay.” She moved away, just a bit, because his pull was so darned strong. “You came here because you needed me, you needed—”
“No. I came here because I couldn’t stay away.” He sounded angry, but he kissed her anyway, good and firm so she could feel it deep in her bones, sharp like a chill, only searing hot.
It all happened fast then—no languid explorations for this man. No, he was rough and quick and pushy as hell, and George found herself rising to the challenge, taking it in stride. From his lap, she somehow wound up on her back on the sofa, stretched out with him above. And there was biting. There’d never been biting before for George, but those were distinct nips he was giving her, and instead of stopping him, she opened her mouth and did it back—nothing painful. It couldn’t have hurt, since she’d barely felt the scrape of him under her teeth, but God, there was something powerful in that scrape. Wild and animalistic and perhaps just a little uncontrollable.
I’m out of control, she thought as he dipped his pelvis against hers and she recognized how vulnerable she was in her skirt, with her legs spread and this big body opening her up, grinding. The stiff seam of his jeans rubbed her inner thighs, and she wondered if there’d be burn marks in the morning.
They shouldn’t be doing this. They shouldn’t. George pulled her mouth from Andrew’s, shocked at how out of breath she was, and, avoiding his eyes, said, “We should stop.”
He stilled and watched her, his breath fast and intimate and already so familiar against her mouth. “Okay.” He inhaled loudly—getting himself together, she thought. “You’re right. I can’t do this to you.”
It was her turn to suck in a breath and look him straight in the eye. “What do you mean? Do what to me?”
“This. Make you…do things with me.” He started to pull away, and she stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“You’re not making me do anything.” She moved her hand to his side, a place she knew was safe to touch without hurting him. “I…I just needed a second. I haven’t felt this much…” No, no, don’t talk about feelings. “I haven’t done this in forever.”
“No?” He sat back a bit on his haunches, looking down at her, at the way she writhed on the sofa beneath him, her treacherous skin nothing but a network of nerve endings, begging to be tweaked. “I don’t get that. You’re so…beautiful.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” He lifted a hand to her jaw, not quite grazing her skin. Even that almost-touch seemed proprietary, and suddenly, George wanted him to do it for real.
“Touch me there,” she whispered.
After only the briefest of hesitations, he did it, although not rough and bossy as she’d imagined, but gently—as if he were in awe—and that careful caress almost broke her.
“Do it harder,” she ordered, an edge to her voice.
His eyes met hers. “Thought you wanted to stop.”
“I should, but I don’t.”
He nodded, easily accepting her change of heart, before moving that big hand over her shoulder, to her chest. George’s body liked that. It gave its undeniable response.
“God, look at you, George. Look at this.” He reached a finger to nudge one painfully hard nipple and slipped his hand down between them, to where her flimsy skirt had flipped back, leaving her exposed, open, and wanting.
She made a noise deep in her throat.
“And what about this, George?” He pulled her soaked underwear aside and ran one finger along her. “How the hell can I stay away when you’re like this for me, huh?” he asked, and she truly, truly didn’t know. She felt the same, after all. She wasn’t just attracted to the man; she was drawn to him, inevitably, magnetized by his presence.
And he knew how turned-on she was. He had to, with her…arousal all over his hand. His fingers, for goodness sake, couldn’t even find purchase. They just slid and slid until, somehow, finally, one of them worked its way slowly inside her, and George’s throat let out a noise—an unsexy grunt that proved just how long it’d been since anything that exciting had breached her body.
“I’m sorry,” she said, because it was true. She shouldn’t be doing this with a patient, a man too messed up to know better. She should be the one to know better. “I’m not… I don’t know what to do. I want to see you too, but I can’t even—”
“Yeah?” At her nod, he leaned back again, removed his hand, leaving her cold, undid his belt, yanked down his zipper, and with a quick glance at her face, reached inside his underwear to pull himself out.
No ink, she thought with relief. He was big. Thick, veined, and somehow glorious—not a word she’d ever used before for a penis. Penises had always seemed like such utilitarian features. But this one… Too big, thought George, who’d used nothing but a crappy little AA-fueled bullet vibrator for the last decade. She wanted to touch it, feel how unyielding and stiff it was, how soft his skin, measure its weight in her palm.
Her eyes returned to his face, where the dark imprint on his lids gave him such a look of violence that she shivered, utterly certain that this was the worst mistake she’d ever make. And yet, everything in her pushed her toward this man. Everything made her yearn for this, to be with him, to taste him and touch him and remember what it felt like to be alive.
“We don’t have to do anything,” he whispered, no doubt mistaking her trembling for fear. But it wasn’t. It was something else—excitement, perhaps? Titillation? She didn’t know. How could she know?
“Oh God. I want to.” Another glance showed that body she couldn’t stop thinking of. She’d die if they didn’t do this soon. She’d burst into flames, her skin was so scorching hot.
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Yes, I want to.” She writhed against him, asking him to touch her again without words. “Do it. Make me…make me feel…” Good Lord, what was it she was going to say? Make me feel whole again? Those weren’t the right words, she knew. But she couldn’t, for the life of her, make the words come out.
Instead of talking, she let go of her doubts, sucked in a big, shaky breath, and made a decision. This was it—a letting go she hadn’t realized she was capable of. She threw worry and shame and responsibility to the wind as she reached down and grasped the hot, hard sex of this man who’d taken her life and torn it into a million beautiful, little pieces.