The door slammed shut and part of her wanted to tear off after him.
The wiser part remained in control. Barely.
But she almost shattered after she pulled the tissue paper from the bag and peered inside.
Tears all but blinded her as she reached inside and pulled the purse out.
“You bastard.”
It wasn’t red.
Trust Tate not to just grab what he’d seen her eyeing.
He went and did one better, finding a rich, vibrant shade of blue that she absolutely adored.
The buttery leather was even softer than she’d imagined it would be and she stroked a hand down it, trying not to sniffle.
A Coach purse.
The bastard.
Tate had given her presents, and more than once. Up in her room she had one of his art pieces—it was small, almost elegant, standing on the nightstand where she could see it first thing in the morning, and last thing at night.
It was also worth a good five hundred, easy.
As uncomfortable as she was accepting the presents, each time he’d given her one, there was a look in his eyes, a weird sort of light that made her accept it, something hopeful and wishful and yearning.
But this.
It wasn’t even the cost.
Tate earned more in a week than she did in a month, something most people didn’t realize. He was a top-notch mechanic, but he mostly did that to fill up the days and make sure he could keep buying the materials for the sculptures he created. Some part of him didn’t think he’d be able to make it solely on his art, although she suspected he could make far more if he’d just focus on that.
His art, the twisted works of metal, sold for a lot—some of the prices had left her jaw hanging and she knew he could afford the pretty purse in front of her.
It wasn’t the money.
It was the fact that he’d noticed.
He’d seen her staring at this purse, then he’d gone out and found it. He had the heart to notice, and he’d taken the time to find it.
He wouldn’t let them have a chance at a future.
Pulling it to her chest, she sank to the floor, her back pressed to the cabinets, while she stared up at the ceiling, willing herself not to cry.
The warm, luxurious scent of leather surrounded her.
Unable to hold the tears back another moment, she started to sob.
* * *
Gritty-eyed from lack of sleep, Tate slumped in the chair and stared up at the ceiling.
It had been less than twelve hours since Ali had tossed him out of her life.
His heart felt like it had withered up and turned into nothing but a ball of dust. Dry and useless.
Sleep had evaded him and because he had been going mad inside the four walls of his empty little house, he’d escaped.
There was no place left for him to really escape to, though, so he’d found himself here, with one of the few friends he had.
Sadly, that friend was a deputy with the county sheriff’s department, and he was also currently on duty. Guy watched him over the rim of his coffee cup, his gray eyes shrewd.
“You look like hell.”
“Gee, thanks.” He eyed the coffee Guy had gotten him with resignation. Well, if he was going to die, he might as well get it over with. Poison was relatively fast, right? He took a sip, grimaced as something akin to motor oil rolled over his tongue. “Shit. That stuff is awful.”
“Well, you don’t come here for my coffee.” Guy shrugged. Then he leaned forward, eyeing the monitor in front of him for a moment before sighing. “Tate, I don’t have anything new for you. You know that. If I did, I’d let you know … you wouldn’t have to come to me.”
Guy and Tate had either hated each other’s guts or been best friends for most of their lives. For the past ten years they’d been best friends, except when Tate started thinking too much about how Guy looked at Tate’s little sister, Chrissie.
Then he wanted to hate the bastard again.
He made peace with it by yanking the guy’s chain whenever possible, and by using the man’s law enforcement connections. Rarely more than a few months went by without Tate asking Guy to poke around in his mother’s file.
Today, he wasn’t here to yank Guy’s chain, though. He needed to fill his mind and he needed to stop thinking about Ali. Ali. Fuck. She was done with him. Unaware he was even doing so, he reached up to rub at his chest, the ache all but ready to end him.
Yeah. She was done with him. Why wouldn’t she be?
Aware of the curious look in Guy’s eyes, Tate pushed all of that aside and focused on why he’d come. His mom. Almost fifteen years. To the day. That date was drawing down on them, closer and closer. Sometimes Tate thought it was like a dragon, breathing fire down his back, but instead of heat, this dragon’s flame was made of ice. Ice and death.
“Nothing new? How do you know? Have you thought about reopening her case?” He dared another sip of the deadly coffee. It hadn’t killed him yet. He knew, because the misery was still eating him alive.
Guy sighed and gave him a level stare. “Tate. It’s been fifteen years. You have me doing this, all too often. I can tell you, Jensen doesn’t go more than a couple of months without poking around. Anytime we hear anything that might be remotely connected, she’s already on top of it. None of us have forgotten Nichole. There’s just nothing for us to find.”
Tate opened his mouth. Then, without saying a word, he shut it. Giving up on the coffee, he slumped forward and braced his elbows on his knees, staring at the dingy gray carpet and reaching for something, anything, to say.
It didn’t even have to be related to this at all. He just needed something to occupy his mind. Anything to keep him from thinking about Ali.
It’s over, he thought dully.
It was really over.
What was he going to do without her? When he needed somebody to talk to? How did he get by without spending some time with her kids? He adored Joey and Nolan.
He loved her. So much, he felt hollow inside thinking about the days and nights stretching out in front of him. Days and nights that wouldn’t have her in them.
“Have you questioned…” He swallowed and forced the words out. “My father?”
“I asked him if he remembered anything new,” Guy said quietly.
“Like he’ll tell you.” Tate closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose while the memories tormented him. They were getting worse, those memories.
The anniversary of his mom’s disappearance was just a few weeks away now, and he’d be alone—
“You selfish bitch.”
Memories of that long-ago night rose up, grabbing him.
Him hugging the girls once he’d crowded them into his room after he’d realized the fight was just getting worse and worse. Chrissie’s thin arms wrapped around his neck, Jensen shivering against his side, him a mess of frustration and fear and confusion—he should have stopped him. He’d sat in his room with his sisters, like a pussy, instead of going out there and telling the man to shut the fuck up.
Instead, he’d just sat in there with the girls and tried to figure out what in the hell was going on. His parents just didn’t fight. They might argue back and forth, but they didn’t fight like that.
“Doug, just stop. We’re not doing this in front of them.”
“The hell we’re not. You started it, so let’s finish it. I was never good enough for you, was I?”
“You know, living in the past is a damn sure way to drive yourself crazy,” Guy said, shattering the awful spell that had held Tate captive for a few minutes.
Turning his head, he looked over at the other man. “I can’t help it.”
“Sure you can. You just need to decide you’re going to move on.” Guy shrugged. “You think I don’t have bad memories of my folks?”
“Your dad didn’t kill your mother and get away with it.” Tate stared at the brick wall in front of him, but he wasn’t seeing anything. He was seeing that night. Hiding in the room with his sisters after his mom had left. The way his dad had slammed the door, locking himself in his room.
Then a little while later, Doug had left, returning hours later.
Fourteen years old, he’d tried to convince his sisters everything would be fine.
But nothing was ever fine again. His dad woke up. They asked where Mom was. He didn’t know. They waited. They all waited.
Fifteen years later, they continued to wait.
“No, he just beat her to death in front of me, and when I tried to stop him, he put me in the hospital.” Guy straightened in his chair, staring out at nothing.
Tate closed his eyes, swore under his breath. “Fuck. I’m sorry. That was—.”
“Don’t. It’s okay. Neither of us were the picture for normalcy. My dad beat my mother to death and went to prison. Your mom…” Guy sighed, and then shifted his attention back to Tate. “Look, there is no proof that Doug killed your mom. None.”
He shot Guy a dark look. “Who else would have done it? My mom didn’t get into a fight with some other husband that night. Nobody else reported seeing anything. There’s shit for evidence. Besides my dad, who else was angry with her that night?”
“Sometimes, there isn’t a point.” Guy stood from behind his desk and moved around to stand in front of it. “Look, I’ll poke around, see what I can find. But there’s not much hope here. We don’t have a body. We don’t have any witnesses. There is nothing to go on. She just…”
“Disappeared.” Tate closed his eyes. He knew all of this. It was the same shit he’d lived with all this time.
“Let it go, man.” Guy rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Go chase Ali down, make her marry you. Just let all of this go. That’s what your mom would have wanted, you know. All of you happy.”
“Chase Ali down.” He looked up at Guy. “I think Ali is tired of waiting around for me. Besides…”
He paused, struggling to keep the words trapped inside him. But the misery over Ali and everything suddenly came spilling out and, for the first time, he gave voice to the fear that had lived inside him all of his life. “Something in him snapped that night, Guy. Just snapped. How do I know I won’t do the same thing?”
For a second, Guy just stared at him, and then he swore.
Turning away, he moved to the window and stared outside. After long, tense moments, he turned back to him, watching Tate with burning eyes. “You’re a fucking moron. Do you really believe that? Is that why you keep pretending there’s nothing between you two even though the whole damn town knows you’re crazy about her? You think you’re going to go crazy and hurt her?”
“My dad never would have thought he’d hurt my mother, but he sure as hell did it.” He glared at Guy.
Guy closed his eyes, blowing out a breath. Then he opened them and pinned Tate with a direct stare. “Okay, Tate. We need to have a talk—we should have had it a long time ago.”
* * *
The river unfurled under the sun, a long, glinting ribbon of blue and gold, stretching between the wooded shores of Kentucky and Indiana. It was the dead of summer and there wasn’t even a breeze coming off the water. But that didn’t seem to bother the boaters out there. Some sailboats, more than a few people out fishing—although it was possible they were just out there drinking and the poles were just for looks.
Tate walked alongside Guy, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he waited. It had been nearly thirty minutes since they’d left the sheriff’s department but Guy hadn’t said much of anything.
“You know, if I’d known you were in the mood for a nice, romantic walk along the river, we could have set up a date in the evening when it’s cooler,” he finally pointed out.
“Why? So you could say no?” Guy sneered. “Then again, you might say yes … after all, you aren’t in love with me. You’re in love with Ali, but you won’t take her on a nice long walk along the river, will you?”
“Shove it, Guy.” He shot Guy a dark look. Then he smirked. “Besides, you’re not my type.”
“Ali is. You push her away. All the damn time.”
“My relationship with Ali is—” Over. He swallowed the bitterness that rose up inside him. Stopping along the walkway, he turned and looked out over the river. A breeze blew up and he closed his eyes, lifted his face to it. “It’s none of your business, Guy.”
“Maybe not. But you, being a friend, are my business. If you’re avoiding trying to reach for anything real with her because you think you’re going to turn into your dad…” Guy stopped and blew out a breath, then he crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes, gray as the storm clouds piling up overhead, met Tate’s. “I don’t talk about this with you. I’ve tried before and you never listen. You never want to listen, but dammit, this time you are going to, even if I have to chase you down and sit on you. Tate, your dad isn’t a killer.”
“Oh, don’t start—”
“I fucking will start and for the first time in your life, you’ll listen to me,” Guy said, his voice flat. “I know bad guys. I know scum. I know guilty men and I know men who could kill and not feel a damn thing. I came from that. I saw it, every time I looked at my father. I know killers. I also know the weak-ass bastards who snap and do awful things and regret it. I know that is who you think Doug is, but you’re wrong. If I had to stake my badge on this, I’d be willing to do it. I don’t think your dad killed your mom—I know that man and if you’d stop being pissed off at him, for just a little while, long enough to look at him, you’d see it, too.”
Tate glared at him. “You weren’t there,” he snarled, leaning in, nose to nose. “You didn’t hear them.”
“No.” Guy shook his head. “But I was there, day in and day out, when my dad threatened to kill my mom. I walked in when he was doing it … when he was beating the shit out of her and when I tried to stop it.…”
Guy looked away.
Tate jerked out of his grasp and put distance between them.
Back in high school, their senior year, there had been a morning when all the teachers had been … off.
Guy’s seat was empty. They’d shared almost all their classes and come lunch, Tate finally heard.
Guy was in the hospital. His mom was dead.
Guy’s father had been sentenced to twenty years for her murder. He’d been released on parole a few years ago, but hadn’t even gone nine months before it was revoked. So he was back in jail.
Tate rather wished the fucker would rot there.
He looked down, staring at the battered leather of his boots. “Guy, our parents were different people. Your dad was always…”
“A monster?” He turned his head and met Tate’s gaze. “Yeah. He is. He was always a monster. He beat me. He beat my mom. He beat that mean-ass pit bull of ours and threatened to kill anybody who stepped foot on our property or looked at him sideways. He’s a monster. I know monsters. Your father isn’t a monster, Tate. I’ve spent too many nights talking to him. I cannot believe that man is the kind of man who’d kill the woman he loved. I don’t believe it.” He closed the distance between them and leaned against the railing, staring out over the town while Tate continued to stare at the river. “But even if I didn’t know your father, I know you. You would cut off your arm before you harmed a woman, man. It’s just not in you. Stop thinking that you’re some fucked-up kind of fruit from the poison tree. You’ve got a woman who’d make you happy. She’s got two kids who love you and you adore them. But instead of reaching for a life where you could finally be happy, you run from it. Out of fear? Shit, Tate. Fuck that. Think about it. Would your mom really want this kind of life for you?”
Then Guy shoved off the railing and walked away.
Tate stood there, staring at nothing.
* * *
“Instead of reaching for a life where you could finally be happy, you run from it.”
Those words haunted him. Whether or not Guy had intended that, Tate didn’t know.
But as he bent over the twisting metal, watching the image in his head take form, he couldn’t block them out. There was no escaping the truth of what Guy had said.
The truth of what Ali had said.
He was in love with her.
Had been for … hell.
Forever, maybe.
Sometimes, it seemed like he’d just been waiting for the right moment to take his spot in her life. It hadn’t been a sudden thing. He could remember seeing her with that fuckwit, Scott, back in school and thinking how much better she could do. He remembered seeing her push little Joey around in his stroller, and the kick he felt in his heart, seeing the two of them.
Forever. Yeah, that seemed about right.
Once again, memories rocked him, but this time, they weren’t the brutal ugly memories of his past.
He thought about nights spent in her backyard, her behind the old, brick grill he’d helped her repair, while she wielded a spatula and threatened to beat him if he came near her while she was cooking. The boys laughing as he pretended to cower away.
He thought of Nolan, the way he’d laugh when Tate threw him up in the air and vague memories of his own father doing the same tried to creep in.
Then there were bittersweet, beautiful memories of nights spent in her bed. Her arms, soft and strong, wrapped around him as he moved over her, her voice a hungry little whisper in his ear.
He’d felt so … right.
With her.
It was the closest to real he’d ever felt.
He was letting it slip away.
He did run.
“Fuck.” He glared at the sculpture in front of him, the blowtorch feeling too heavy, awkward in his hands.
Swearing, he stepped back and lowered the tool.
If he kept this up, he was going to ruin the damn thing or put himself in the hospital.
He stowed his gear and moved away, staring out the grimy windows, but seeing nothing.
Except Ali. He saw her everywhere, felt her even when she wasn’t there.
The need to be with her, to tell her everything he had inside him was choking him.
He wanted to be the man she deserved.
The thought of seeing her in town one day, with some other guy was enough to gut him.
It would happen. Madison was about the size of a postage stamp.
He couldn’t stand the thought of her being with somebody else, but could he be what she wanted?
“Instead of reaching for a life where you could finally be happy, you run from it.”
Reach for a life.
Dropping his head, he rubbed the muscles along the nape of his neck while the storm built inside him. How in the hell did he reach for a life anyway? He’d never had one. It had all stopped one hot summer night fifteen years ago.
Reach for her, he thought.
That was how he started.
If he was going to do that, though, he had to face things, figure out the mess that was his life, his past.
All of it.
* * *
There used to be a car shop there.
Tate stood at the corner, eyeing the empty building. The sign wasn’t readable anymore.
For the longest time, even after his dad had stopped trying to make it work, he could make out the words Bell’s Auto Care. A few others had tried to make a go with the place, set up a business, but nothing had lasted.
When Doug Bell had owned it, it had done okay. More than okay, actually, although Doug had worked long hours. For a few months, right up until Mom had disappeared, Tate had been working there, too, and that had helped some.
Tate tried not to think about that time of his life. Tried not to think about how his mom would tease his father, making the somber man laugh, even when he didn’t know what to make of her sometimes.
Nichole had been silly. Strict and silly. Absolutely wonderful.
So many of those arguments had happened because their dad thought she was too strict.
Half the fights, though, Tate didn’t even understand what they were about. The last one …
Something crunched behind him.
Slowly, he turned, although he already knew who he was going to find behind him.
His father stood there, wearing the overalls he had to wear at the mechanic shop where he’d worked the past ten years. The words Assistant Manager were embroidered under his name. He’d been an assistant for ten years. At sixty years old, he probably wasn’t going to go any higher.
“The old shop looks like hell,” Doug said softly, looking past him to glance at the place he’d once taken so much pride in.
There were so many things Tate could have said.
So many things he’d already said. Questions he could have asked, maybe questions he should have asked.
He found himself thinking of what Guy had said … and Ali. Maybe it was just desperate hope that forced him to look at his father. Really look.
Tired eyes. So much more tired than Tate had ever seen them.
Tired but kind.
He’d been angry that night and Tate wanted him to suffer for what he’d said. But people did things, said things in anger. How many ugly words had he forced back inside? How many times had he leashed his anger, afraid of letting it out?
“Did you kill my mother?” The words ripped out of him, full of desperation, and a son’s need to believe.
Doug slanted a look at him. Then he sighed, his stooped shoulders rising and falling. “Tate—”
He closed the distance between them, hands clenched into fists as he glared down at his father. This man, whom he had loved so much, whom he’d looked up to, admired.
“Trailer trash.”
“Go on. Get out!”
“You called her trash,” he said, his voice shaking as years’ worth of rage and grief came spilling out. “You made her cry and you called her trash and you told her to get out. Did you kill her?”
“No.” Then Doug met his eyes. “But I might as well have. If I hadn’t been so cruel to her, she wouldn’t have left that night. Whatever happened…”
Tate barely heard the rest of it.
The word no echoed through him and he spun away, sucking in oxygen. He couldn’t get enough. Couldn’t breathe deeply enough and his heart knocked hard against his ribs.
“Tate, I’m sorry.”
Blood roared in his ears and it was forever before he realized his father had moved to stand next to him.
“It was a fight,” Doug said, his voice level. “I said awful, ugly things that I never should have said and I said things that I know hurt her. I’ll never be able to apologize to her and I’ve accepted that. But I also hurt you all. Saying what I said was wrong. I was wrong and whatever happened to her that night wouldn’t have happened if I’d just shut my fool mouth. Because I couldn’t, because I let anger get the best of me, she left … and you kids had to grow up without your mom. You all lost her because of me.”
“No. We lost her because somebody took her from us.” Tate closed his eyes, struggled to keep his voice level. “That lies with that bastard, not you. It’s my fault I’ve been blaming you all this time.”
Then he took off.
He didn’t look back.
There was too much crashing inside his head just then, too much noise, too much confusion.
Underneath all of it, though, he realized something painful.
He believed him.
For the first time ever, Tate really believed that his father hadn’t killed their mother.
But all that did was leave him with more questions.
If Doug Bell hadn’t killed Nichole … who had?
* * *
The storm came blowing in not long after her parents whisked the boys off.
Her dad hugged her tight, folding her in his arms and asking, “Do I need to beat somebody up?”
She tried not to sniffle against his chest. They’d had their rough spots, but there were times like this when he proved to be … well, just wonderful. “Won’t help, but thanks for caring.”
That had been nearly thirty minutes ago and not long after they’d left, the storm had started. The hard, heavy downpour hadn’t let up since.
Sitting on the porch swing, staring out into the night, she watched as the lightning lit up the sky over the river and she tried not to cry. It was easy to push it all aside when the kids were here. When they were here, she had to be a mom, first and foremost. Sometimes it sucked because as a single mom, she rarely had a free moment just to herself. But in moments like this, it was a blessing in disguise because she didn’t want moments to herself, moments to brood, moments to hurt.
Moments to think about everything that was never going to happen.
Sniffling, she focused on the raindrops, told herself they weren’t blurring before her eyes.
I’m not going to cry because it’s over.
I’m not going to cry because it’s over.
I’m not going to cry—
She hiccupped as a sob broke free.
Bringing her knees to her chest, she buried her face against them.
Lost in the hurt, she didn’t hear his footsteps. It wasn’t until he closed his hands around her ankles that she even realized she wasn’t alone.
Jerking her head up, she stared into Tate’s gaze. His eyes, so dark they were nearly black, bore into hers.
“Tate…”
He tugged her legs down and she curled her hands around the edge of the porch swing, her heart slamming against her ribs. He went to lean in and she lifted a hand, pressed it to his chest.
“Don’t.” Her voice cracked. “I’m not … we can’t do this anymore. I can’t do this anymore.”
He didn’t seem to realize she’d even spoken as he reached up and closed one hand around her wrist, his thumb stroking against her inner wrist as she continued to press against his chest. “Ali…”
His heart slammed against her palm and his shirt, soaked by the rain, was no barrier between them. She felt the scalding heat of his skin. Drops of rain clung to his hair and as she stared into his eyes, one of the drops fell, caught on his cheekbone, and rolled down. It hit her wrist and she was surprised it didn’t sizzle, as hot as she suddenly felt.
It was a heat that echoed deep inside her, down low in her belly and every beat of her heart sent that heat pulsing through her until she thought she might explode.
The seconds drew out and she took a slow, deep breath. His gaze dropped to her mouth and she had to bite back a moan.
“Tate, stop,” she whispered, forcing the words out. That hunger continued to pang inside her, making her skin feel tight, hot. She had to curl her fingers into a fist to keep from reaching for him. “I’m tired of only having part of you. I told you. It’s all or nothing and you won’t give me everything—”
He lifted her hand to his mouth, pressed a kiss to her inner wrist. That gentle caress sent shivers racing through her. Blood started to roar in her ears, so loud it took her a minute to realize he had started to speak.
“All my life, even from the time I was a kid,” he murmured, his voice slow, smooth as silk. He let go of her wrist, placing both hands on her knees as he continued to speak. “Everybody told me how much I was like my father. His parents, before they died. My mom. Even my sisters saw it.”
Her heart stuttered.
Tate rarely spoke of his father, but when he did, there was always a burn of rage in his voice. That wasn’t there now.
There was only sadness.
“After Mom disappeared, part of me wanted to believe he hadn’t done it.” He flicked a glance at her. “I really did want to believe it, you know. But I understood that gut-wrenching rage. Because there were things he’d said that made me so angry that I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to go after him and beat the shit out of him. I didn’t. Because of my sisters. When they were fighting, out in the living room, I was trying to keep Chrissie calm.” His voice skipped, almost broke and he looked down. “She was nine, scared. Confused. Upset. Clinging to me like a monkey. She … hell. You remember how she was? The teachers thought she might be kind of slow, how much trouble she had with school and everything. She did just fine as long as Mom was there. Mom could always calm her down, get her focused and everything. But…” He blew out a breath. “But she didn’t have Mom to calm her down that night. It was just me. We’d been out there, at first, when they started fighting. I don’t even remember what started it, not really. We were watching a movie. Mom got on me about something … and then … bam. It was like a nuclear explosion. They started fighting and I ended up picking up Chrissie, dragging Jensen along with me into my room.”
Memories clouded his eyes and his voice was soft, almost too soft to hear over the rain. He still had his hands on her knees and he rubbed them up and down, slowly, like he needed the touch, that light, physical contact to stay grounded.
“Chrissie was shivering, shaking so bad. Every time I went to put her down and go out there, tell them to shut up or chill out, she just squeezed me tighter. I figured I’d let them fight it out. Chrissie needed me and they wouldn’t listen to me anyway. So while my dad was being ugly as hell, I just stayed in the room with the girls and listened. He said the worst things. I’d never heard him talk like that. I hated it.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but she didn’t know what.
Tate reached up to brush her hair back. “He didn’t touch her. Dad never lifted a hand to any of us, not even to spank us. Well, except Chrissie. She got her butt swatted more than once. But she was Chrissie. Mom was more likely to do it than Dad, though. With all of us. He always said she was too strict, yelled too much, demanded too much…” He lowered his head, shoulders slumped.
Unable to stay still, she reached up and pushed her hand through his wet hair. Tate caught her wrist and turned his face into her hand. Her skin shivered as he pressed a soft, gentle kiss to her palm.
He never stopped speaking.
It was like the words had been trapped inside, behind a flood wall. That wall had broken and they were spilling out of him now.
“She yelled. But she loved us. A lot. Dad only yelled when things were really bad.” A scowl twisted his face as he looked away. “If Dad started to yell, we were ready to run for cover. Dad was always the scariest when he was mad. That night…” He stopped, his throat working.
She could see him fighting with the words.
“Tate, you don’t have to tell me this,” she said gently.
“You wanted everything. You wanted all of me. This…” He paused, shifted his gaze to hers, and she saw the hell that lay within. “This is me. All of it.”
He slid his hands up her thighs, absently kneading her hips. “That fight was a bad one, but I wasn’t really worried, exactly. Not about Mom, not even when she left. She was … tough. If that makes sense. She could look at a person and make them back down. Even that old bastard Theo Miller wouldn’t mouth off long when she told him to shove it. I wasn’t worried when she left. Not at first. But I was pissed at Dad because he made her feel like that. Made her feel so bad she had to leave, even for a while. What he’d said. How he’d said it. He was so fucking ugly and every time I saw him, I wanted to punch him. Chrissie couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get her some warm milk—it always helped when Mom gave it to her, so I figured I’d try. I saw him in the living room. He was getting his keys and I just wanted to hit him. Hurt him for saying the shit he’d said. He wouldn’t even look at me. Just left. Didn’t say a word. He came back a little later. Mom hadn’t come home.”
He closed his eyes and dropped his head to her knee. She reached up and pushed her fingers through his hair.
“Hours go by. She’s not home. I realize something is wrong. I’m scared, and I’m mad, and getting madder. I could almost understand, then, the things he’d said, how ugly he’d gotten, because I wanted to do the same thing, only to him. I wanted to hurt my father, Ali.”
She tangled her fingers in his hair. “You were mad, Tate. He’d been unkind to a woman you loved. That’s just how you are.”
“That’s part of the problem. That’s how I am.” Slowly, he lifted his head and the look in his eyes made her heart skitter in her chest. Burning, full of an intensity that all but stole her breath. “I’m thinking, all this time, that he killed her. Not on purpose maybe. He just caught up with her, or ran into her somewhere. He lost his temper … he was angry, like I was. I’ve always believed that he killed her.”
His dark eyes bored into hers and he covered her cheek with his hand. “Ali, I’m just like my father. I’ve always worried … if he could do that…”
Confusion danced across her face and then abruptly, comprehension dawned.
“Tate.”
She cupped his face in her hands and leaned in, pressing her lips to his. That soft, light kiss somehow was a balm to the bleeding, gaping hole that was his heart.
“You stupid, stupid man,” she murmured against his mouth. Then she sighed and pressed her brow to his, slipping from the porch swing to kneel in front of him.
He curved his arms around her waist. The feel of her was both comfort and torment. Turning his face into her hair, he breathed in the scent of her. Let me fix this …
“You honestly think that you could hurt me. Is that why you try so hard to keep a distance?”
Why did he feel so foolish about this now? Foolish, and oddly relieved, as he felt her heart beat against his own. A weight had been lifted off him some time in the past few hours. A weight he’d been carrying around for too long. Maybe even for fifteen years.
He kept his face buried against her neck. “Intentionally, no. I don’t think I ever would … but a huge part of me…”
She eased back and covered his cheek with her hand. “Tate. Don’t take this wrong. Because I love you, dearly. But you’re an idiot.” Temper flashed in her eyes and she surged upward so suddenly, she knocked him off balance. He ended up sitting on his ass while she started to pace.
He shifted around to keep her in his sight as she moved.
“All this time.” She glared at him as she reached the end of the porch and wheeled around. “For three years, we played friends, all because you’re afraid you’re going to pull some weird Jekyll and Hyde bit?”
“Jekyll and Hyde?” He climbed to his feet, staring at her while his temper started to kick up inside. Okay, he could take feeling like an idiot, but he’d held back because he wouldn’t risk hurting somebody—hurting her. “You know, this might sound like a fucking joke to you, and maybe I’m being stupid, but I lost my mother. She was our world. Our dad was our rock. And for the longest time, I looked at him and saw only the man who I thought killed her. I saw a man who is just like me.”
“Did it ever occur to you that you were wrong?” she shouted. “About any of it?”
“Yes!” He spun away and sucked in a breath, closing his eyes. He moved to the edge of the porch and leaned against it, his weight braced on his hands. Heedless of the pouring rain and the wind, he closed his eyes. “But … shit. I didn’t let myself think about it. Until today.”
He hadn’t let anger get a foothold in his life, not since he’d lost his mom. He’d blamed her death on anger, after all. When he felt too angry, or too close to slipping there, he funneled all those frustrations into his art, into a hard, driving run … or sometimes, into sex.
Right then, though, he was caught, hovering between anger, self-disgust, and other emotions he couldn’t name. When Ali came near, he caught her arm and she crashed into his chest, glaring up at him.
This. He closed his eyes, let himself revel in the feel of her pressed against him.
Just … this.
He hadn’t felt whole since she’d walked away.
And even when they’d been together, he’d held back. Always.
This was probably the closest to whole he’d ever been. Slowly, he twined her hair around his fist, holding her gaze with his. “I know it might not make sense,” he said gruffly. “I didn’t let myself think it, because I couldn’t. Even if I was wrong, at least it was an answer. Can you understand that? Do you understand what it’s like … living with that? Not having any answer?”
Something flickered in her eyes and the tension that had held her rigid drained away. The hands that had been pushing him away curled into the fabric of his shirt and she sighed, gazing up at him. “Yeah. I think I do. You lost your mom—the answer, right or wrong, was something you needed. I get that. But you spent fifteen years blaming the wrong man. You spent fifteen years putting yourself in a box, only letting bits and pieces of yourself out because you were afraid you’d be just like him. You are like him, Tate. He isn’t a killer. He’s just a stubborn, headstrong man.”
“But that’s part of the problem.” He pressed his brow to hers. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to be the kind of man who’d say things that sent a woman running out in the middle of the night. I don’t…”
“Tate.” A soft sigh escaped her, ghosting over his lips. “You can have some traits without being him made over. You decide the kind of man you’re going to be. You’re more likely to hurt me by closing me out than by anything you say.”
Stroking his thumb across her temple, he closed his eyes.
She smoothed her hands down his shirt and then turned her face into his neck. “You’ve had a rough day. Why don’t you come inside for a while? You can dry off and wait until the storm passes.”
He lifted his head and looked into her eyes.
“Then go home?” he murmured.
Go home …
Those words set her heart to racing. No. She didn’t want him going home, not at all.
But she wasn’t throwing herself back out there again unless she knew he was going to be with her.
“I think you need to look at all of this, and make sure you know what you want,” she said haltingly, staring at the column of his throat. Much safer territory than his eyes. She felt lost every time she did that and if she looked there now and saw the heat and the hunger and the confusion and the love …
“I know what I want.” He tugged her head back and dipped his own, pressed his brow to hers. His free hand fisted the back of her shirt and it left her feeling surrounded by him. “I want you. I’m scared to death and you’ll have to kick my ass along the way, but I want you, and everything that comes with it.”
Oh. Well. Hell.
Now she was really lost.
For a long, long moment, he stared at her and then, slowly, he slanted his mouth over hers. He pressed her back against the wall of the house, the strength of his body pinning her to it as her muscles went lax. His tongue toyed, tangled with hers. Her heart slammed against her ribs as he slid his hands up her sides, danced the tips of his fingers along her neck before plunging them into her hair to arch her face to his.
“Ali-girl.” He rubbed his lips against hers before pressing a hot, burning line of kisses down her neck. “My girl.”
She twisted her hands in his shirt, sucking in a desperate breath. He shifted against her and her pussy clenched when she felt the hard, heavy ridge of his cock. Hunger and need ripped through her.
Lost … yes. She was lost. She didn’t care.
* * *
He barely had the brainpower to realize they were on the porch.
Her lit porch.
Groaning, he managed to stumble inside and kick the door shut and that was where his control ended.
Spinning around, he put her against the door and leaned back, grabbing the hem of her shirt. It was wet now, thanks to his own sodden clothes and he ran his fingers down the transparent cloth. Through it, he could see the outline of her bra, the soft swell of her breasts, the elegant line of her torso. He wanted to go to his knees before her and worship her, wanted to press his lips to every damn inch of her. Slowly, he lifted his gaze up to meet hers. “I got you all wet.”
“So you did.” She licked her lips.
“Should I do something about it?” He made himself hold back. He’d been so fucking unfair to her, holding back from everything they both wanted, both needed. He needed this … now. With her. She wanted it. But if he’d pushed her so far away that she wasn’t ready for this …
A slow smiled curled her lips. “Well, you’re a big boy, Tate. It’s time you start taking more responsibility for things,” she teased. “You got me all wet. Now take care of it.”
As she spoke, she curled her legs around his hips and arched against him.
The contact was a jolt, straight down his spine, hitting him square in the balls. “Yes, I should absolutely take care of that.”
Reaching for the hem of her shirt, he slowly peeled it up, watching as he bared each inch. Goose bumps broke out along her skin and once the shirt had cleared her head, he dropped it to the ground and leaned forward, pressed his mouth to the delicate line of her collarbone.
She shivered and he looked up, stared into her eyes. “Are you cold?”
“Umm.”
“I can’t tell if that’s a yes or no.” He nibbled his way along her shoulder, felt another shiver race through her. “I’ll take it as a yes. I should warm you up. Get rid of these wet clothes.”
He kissed his way up her throat and reached behind him to unhook her feet, guiding her legs down so he could deal with her jeans. “These should go, too, right?”
“Yeah.” She smiled against his lips as he went to take her mouth. Her kisses—he could gorge on them. Every day for the rest of his life and never be satisfied. That was what he wanted. What he’d wanted for a long, long time; maybe he’d even let himself think about having it. “I think everything should go.”
“Good idea.” He undid her bra, slipped the straps slowly down, watching as her breasts swung free. The deep rose of her nipples begged for him and he paused to catch one in his mouth, plumping her breasts together as he did so. “So soft. So sweet.”
She arched against him, a movement guaranteed to distract him. He wasn’t about to get distracted, though, and he straightened, focusing his attention on the thin cotton yoga pants. They were gone in seconds and he boosted her back up, pressed her back to the door.
A random thought fired—we can go to her room—but he didn’t want to be away from her, didn’t want to try and navigate the house when he could be inside her.
She hissed, shivering. “You’re getting me wet all over again.”
“That’s the idea.” He slid a hand down between them, pushed a finger inside her and yes, she was very, very wet.
She gasped as he stroked her, her muscles clenching around him. Then she reached for him, yanking at his shirt. “Take this off.”
He leaned back just enough, gripping the firm curve of her ass. “You take it off instead.”
Their gazes locked and held as she dragged the shirt up. It caught around his shoulders and he let go just enough to finish stripping the wet mess off as she clutched at his hips with her knees.
It was absolutely insane that his hands were shaking.
He’d made love to Ali a hundred times. More.
Yet each time was a new experience.
This time, I don’t have to hide—
He stilled, slowly lifting his eyes to stare at her.
“Tate?”
His heart thudded in his chest and he tried to breathe around the massive ache centered there but it was almost impossible.
An uncertain look crossed her features.
“No more holding back?”
A breath shuddered out of her. “Please don’t.”
Gazing at her, he eased the zipper of his jeans down, his cock pulsating, the need inside him swelling, rippling through him. His blood burned. Nerve endings seemed to sizzle and scream inside.
She reached down and stroked one finger along his length and he caught her wrist, stretched it up over her head and pressed it to the door, still watching her. He caught her other wrist as well, holding them both pinned in one hand, high over her head.
It arched her back, lifted her breasts, a position that seared itself on the back of his mind.
With his free arm, he caught one leg, drew it up. “There. Stay right there,” he muttered, right there as he pressed it to his hip, opening her. Her lips parted as she stared at him, soft, broken little pants coming from her. Then he reached between them and grabbed his cock, grimacing as even that touch sent a jolt racing through him. He was ready to come, right there. The heated kiss of her wet pussy against his head was a damn near brutal sensation.
Ali gasped as he pressed against her. Slowly, oh, so slowly, she yielded. Her breasts rose and fell against his chest in a rapid rhythm, her gaze all but blind as she stared at him.
She was burning him. Burning him alive.
“Burn for me,” he whispered against her mouth. “I want to feel you burn for me.”
The silken, tight grasp of her pussy closed around him, the tissues clinging to him as he withdrew and then surged back in. Her head fell back, throat arched, the line, delicate, exposed. He skimmed it with his lips. “I love you.”
A soft, broken cry escaped her lips.
Why did this feel different?
Bewildered, Ali stared into his eyes but even as she tried to understand everything shaking and rolling through her, he surged against her again. His swollen flesh rasped over sensitized tissues and he retreated, slowly, almost too slowly, so that she was painfully aware of the void he left behind. His gaze caught hers, held hers as he poised there, right there at her entrance.
Then he started it all over again, a slow, deep possession, until she was full with him, stretched tight around him. The pleasure battered at her and she whimpered, twisted in his arms in a desperate attempt to get closer.
“Burn for me,” he whispered against her mouth again, releasing her wrists and sliding his hand down to cup her cheek.
She clutched at his shoulders, her nails biting into his flesh as she clenched down around him, already feeling the orgasm gathering deep inside her. So easily. He had her so easily.
He worked a hand between them and she keened out his name as he flicked his thumb over her clitoris. There …
She caught her breath but then he changed his rhythm, going to shallow, teasing thrusts as he toyed with the hard little nub of flesh. “Not so fast, Ali-girl.”
She glared at him.
He stared back at her. The naked need, the hunger, the love she saw in his eyes left her breathless.
Desperate, she reached for him and he came to her, his mouth slanting over hers. Sinking her teeth into his lower lip, stroking her tongue against his mouth until he opened for her, she tried to gorge on him, feast. Lose herself.
His rhythm turned hard again, hard, heavy, driving. She arched to meet each thrust, gasping out his name and then he tensed against her.
“Tate!”
Abruptly, he moved—harder, faster, working one arm around her to hold her steady as he drove into her like he was trying to imprint himself on her very flesh. She loved it.
A shriek ripped from her as the climax slammed into her. Ali hadn’t even caught her breath before his cock jerked and she felt him start to come. Moaning, she quivered around him, shaking at each rhythmic jerk of his heated length.
“Ali…”
Her name was a dazed, raspy murmur on his lips.
Because she could actually say it this time without him tensing up, she turned her face into his neck. “I love you.”