Ride the Fire (8 page)

Sean let himself be steered through the doors, where his friend quickly got caught up in finding the perfect design. What the hell, he might as well get one, too. Something rad, like a screaming eagle on his shoulder. Or some sort of symbol, like a Celtic knot.

After what seemed like hours, his friend showed him a picture of a single rose on a thorny stem.

“Why a rose, man? They’ve got all sorts of cool designs. Celtic, dragons, whatever.”

“Besides my name? So my enemies will remember that if they touch me, I’ll make them bleed.”

Sean had fucked her through the mattress, and it was fabulous.

Braving the early-morning sunlight, she opened her eyes and rolled to her side. Blinked at the empty spot next to her. Trepidation curled through her stomach, and she was about to call his name when she smelled the coffee. A faint clink came from the kitchen and she sat up, relieved that she hadn’t been abandoned. Now that her brain was becoming clear, though, morning-after jitters were plucking her nerves like wound-up fiddle strings. Which she told herself was silly.

Men don’t stay and make coffee if they’re planning to run for the hills. Right?

Pushing out of bed, she went in search of something to cover her nakedness. That was probably like shutting the gate after the cows got out, but the tiny bit of uncertainty over her reception was enough to curtail any attempt to seduce, at least for the moment. A search of a dresser drawer produced an oversized T-shirt and she pulled it over her head, satisfied that it shielded the essentials.

And if all went well? It could easily come right back off.

Cheered by the idea, she padded the short distance down the hall, through the small living area, and into the kitchen. Sean was leaning with his rear against the counter, fully dressed, mug in hand, raising it to his lips. He spotted her and stopped in midmotion, giving her a half smile. But it wasn’t a “Good morning, sexy” or even a “Let’s have a repeat of last night” sort of smile.

No, this one telegraphed “This is so awkward, I don’t know what to say to you” and was underscored by the fact that it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Hey, you’re up,” he said, his tone neutral. “Can I pour you a cup?”

Eve’s gut cramped in disappointment. That was about as flat and impersonal a greeting as a girl could get, in her experience. “No, I’m good.” The brew would sour right now if she even tried. “How did you sleep?”

“Fine. You?”

Not
fabulous
, not
wonderful to be in your arms
. Just
fine
.

“I slept like a baby.” Going out on a limb, she beamed at him, letting him know in no uncertain terms where her feelings stood. “Last night was fantastic . . . and so were you.”

His expression closed a bit. “Yeah, um . . . about that. We have to talk.”

Never a good conversation starter after your boss has screwed your brains out.

Her smile faded and she crossed her arms over her chest. She could already feel her own walls going up fast, brick by brick. “So, talk.”

“Why don’t we go into the living room and sit down?”

“Sure.”

She left him to follow her and lowered herself to the sofa, trying for a relaxed position. Leaning back, she rested her hands in her lap, willing them not to shake as he sat beside her and placed his mug on the coffee table. Schooling her face into what she hoped appeared to be nothing but curiosity, she waited.

He cleared his throat. “You’re a hell of a woman, Eve.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” she said, playfully patting his leg.

“We’re friends, right?”

“Of course. I’d hope last night didn’t change that except to make our friendship stronger.”

He nodded. “I’m glad you feel that way, because I let things get out of hand. We both know what part of me I was relying on to do my thinking, and I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t apologize. I was more than willing and I enjoyed what we did,” she said earnestly. She paused, taking a deep breath, and blurted, “I want to be with you again.”

Regret shadowed his eyes as he shook his head. “There are half a dozen reasons why it was a bad idea, and those haven’t gone away,” he replied gently. “I made a mistake and it won’t happen again, Eve. It can’t.”

Oh, God, it hurt. So fucking bad.

She laughed and covered her mouth with her hand, tears springing to her eyes in spite of her effort to stop them. “So I’m the rebound screw after all.”

“What? No, it’s not like that!” He grabbed her hands, clasped them in his rough ones. “I’m not on the rebound, not after two years of being alone. You’re special to me, and because you are, I can’t drag you through the pile of crap that doubles as my life while I’m still trying to work through it myself.”

She stared down at their hands, saying nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“And then there’s the department to worry about. I don’t want to jeopardize our careers over a station house affair. And let’s face it, you’d take the brunt of the fallout and most likely be the one transferred.”

“You have a valid point except for one detail— we’ve already crossed the line! Do you honestly think no one will notice?”

“They won’t if it’s a onetime thing and we keep it to ourselves.” He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. The anguish in his eyes was palpable. “You’re my friend. I think you’re terrific and I respect you a great deal. But that’s all there can be.”

She would not cry. Not in front of him.

“Are you all right?”

The soft question, full of genuine concern, was nearly her undoing. But she gave him a bright, fake smile to mask the pain of a shattered heart. “Why wouldn’t I be? We’re two adults who scratched an itch, right? No hard feelings.”

He frowned and studied her face intently for a long moment. Finally, he leaned over, cupped her cheek, and kissed her on the temple. Then he stood and retrieved his mug, taking it into the kitchen. Eve heard the water running as he rinsed it out. In a minute he was back, keys in hand, obviously ready to make tracks. She rose and saw him to the door.

On the threshold he turned, and his voice was hesitant. “I’m really sorry.”

“Think nothing more of it.”
Please, just go!

“Okay. I’ll see you.”

She hoped he might pin down a day, but he made his escape, hurried down the walk with the brisk strides of a man running from the scene of a figurative crime. Moving inside, she closed the door, not wanting to see him speed off like the devil was in hot pursuit.

Slowly, she made her way to the sofa, curled up in one corner. Just folded in on herself, one arm wrapped around her aching stomach. She was no stranger to loneliness; not one of her attempts at a serious relationship had ever worked out, and she’d been sad before.

But she’d never felt more rejected, more ugly and undesirable, than she did now.

Her shoulders began to shake and she let the tears fall. God, she needed to talk to somebody. Not just anybody, but her best friend. He’d know something was wrong anyway, first thing tomorrow morning. Reaching out to the coffee table, she grabbed her purse, dug out her cell phone, and hit speed dial.

Zack’s upbeat voice rang in her ear. “What’s up?”

“Can I c-come over?”

“Evie? What’s wrong?” he asked, worried.

“I n-need to t-talk to you.” She got out between sobs. “If I’m n-not imposing—”

“You could never impose, honey. It’s not your mom, is it?”

“No, no, Mom’s fine.”
Thank God, it’s not Mom. Calm down. It could always be worse.

“Okay, that’s good. Do you need me to come get you?”

“N-no, I can drive. I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay, but drive careful. Give me a clue what this is about?”

“When I get there.” Breaths hitching, she wiped her face and struggled to get control. “I fucked up, big-time.”

“I don’t know, but I have a damned good idea.” He paused, then said meaningfully, “She showed up at the Waterin’ Hole last night with Sean. And left with him, too.”

The fork clattered to her plate. “With Sean?
With
, as in . . .” Her eyes widened for emphasis.

“Sure looked like it to me, the way he kept her in his sights the whole night. I’d hoped I was wrong, but this”—he waved a hand at the phone—“does not bode well.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah. And I’ll tell you something. . . . If he’s hurt her, I’ll kill the asshole myself and put him out of everyone’s misery.”

And this morning, anguish quickly masked when he’d pulled the rug out from under her. Proved himself to be a selfish bastard.

Every reason he’d given her this morning of why there could be no repeat performance of their tryst was the truth. Technically. Still, those reasons sounded like lame excuses.

Like a man running scared.

Didn’t he have a right to be afraid? The answer was yes—as long as he didn’t hurt anyone in the process. And he had.

Cursing himself, he pulled into his drive and almost missed the brown-wrapped package sitting on the ground next to his mailbox. The postman usually brought oversized packages to the door, but it wasn’t a big deal. He braked, put the truck in park, and went to the box. He hadn’t checked his mail yesterday, focused as he’d been on Eve. There were a few bills and the typical junk. He bent, gathered the package from the ground, and carried all the mail to his truck, placing it on the seat.

As he let himself into the house through the garage, he glanced down at the package. No return address. That wasn’t what caught his attention, though. He set it on the kitchen counter, laid the regular envelopes to the side.

No postmark. Curious, he lifted the box, inspected the plain wrapping from every angle. Sort of heavy, but not too much. Maybe whoever sent it was planning to mail it, and found himself out this way, dropped it off instead. Perfectly reasonable. Leaving it, he started a pot of coffee, using the Starbucks blend Howard had gotten him hooked on. He watched the brown liquid stream into the pot, inhaling the aroma like a hit of weed.

Coffee first. The mess of his life later.

After pulling the pot-mug switcheroo, he returned to the package, trying to recall if he’d ordered anything online. Even if he had, wouldn’t it have some sort of label from the company? Perhaps his aunt and uncle had sent something.

Setting down the mug, he angled one end of the box toward him and started to work on the tape. The paper ripped easily and he got it off, letting the wrap flutter to the floor. It was just a regular cardboard box, taped closed at the top. Picking off one end, he stripped off the tape, balled it up, and let it join the paper. Then he opened the flaps and peered inside.

Bubble Wrap. Lots of it protecting the object within, and a shard stabbed his lungs as he recalled how Mia used to squeal, “Let me pop it!” She’d loved the crinkly stuff. And he recalled how he’d finally snap at her to stop, and take it away because the noise was getting on his last nerve.

Breathe, right through the agony. You can do it, even with that gaping hole in your chest.

It was the memories of the everyday things that hit the hardest. Always would.

Reaching inside, he lifted out the object and began to unwrap it. Before he even got the stuff all the way off, he realized what he held, and his stomach clenched in dread. He banged it heavily onto the counter and stood staring, shock warring with anger.

“Fucking Jack Daniel’s?”

A big-assed bottle of Tennessee’s finest whiskey. Enough to drown his sorrows all the way to next weekend. Who would’ve sent this? None of his friends, for sure. They all knew he was recovering, and that he planned to stay that way. Christ, he had to get rid of it. Give it to Clay or Jules, today. He’d call one of them.

First, he peered into the box again, looking for a note or some sort of clue as to who’d sent the damned thing. Carefully, he moved around some of the Bubble Wrap left in the box . . . and saw an envelope in the bottom. Fishing it out, he held it up and turned it over, inspecting both sides. Just a plain, yellow greeting card envelope. Strange. No name on the outside. Didn’t most people automatically write a person’s name on one, even when it wasn’t necessary?

Wary, he tore into the paper, lifted the flap. At a glance, he could tell the sole contents consisted of a single photograph, and he removed it. An amateur nighttime shot of a fire? Yeah, with people in the perimeter of the picture, a couple of firefighters with hoses. Taken on a hill or rise, from quite a distance, so far you almost couldn’t tell—wait.

From out of the inferno, on the right-hand side, the nose of a vehicle could be seen. And part of a cab. They belonged to an eighteen-wheeler. Hands suddenly clammy, he scanned to the left. In the flames, the faint outline of a car. Bred to the back end.

He knew the scene all too well. He saw it in his nightmares, both sleeping and awake.

“Oh, God,” he moaned, knees almost buckling. He staggered to a chair in the breakfast nook, fell into it. His hands were empty—he’d dropped the photo onto the pile of wrapping paper.

“Why? Why would anyone do this to me?”

And who?

A wisp of an idea seeped into his mind like black smoke, stifling. Deadly. But no, it had been too many years. A lifetime.

Did you ever ask yourself . . . what if it wasn’t an accident?

The call. The photo.

Someone had known about his family’s wreck. Had somehow known enough to stand on a hill in the darkness, undetected, and snap a tangible memory of hell. The hell that had begun his slide into the depths of alcoholism.

The booze. They knew about that, too.

The room spun, and he buried his face in his hands. He needed to do something, but he didn’t know what. Couldn’t think.

So he just sat, frozen.

Blown apart, all over again.