Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (33 page)

The Thursday Eric was supposed to come back she packed her stuff and tidied up traces of her presence from his place before heading to class. He’d be home that evening. Beyond the excitement of his return, she couldn’t wait to tell him the good news. In person.

Lead dancer at the Paris’s new show, including three solo songs. It was a dream come true—another step toward making sure Vegas didn’t eat her alive. She’d done it on her own.

That was for later. She sat in her midday design class, so distracted. Time dragged, which was hardly ever the case. Her mama had called three times in the past week, apparently ready to resume communications on her own terms. Trish should probably answer someday, but the voicemails had been filled with digs and emotional blackmail. She wanted her life more settled, with more potent ammunition to defend her choices.

She pressed her temples against a gathering headache.

After class adjourned, she packed her portfolio and tried to figure out how to kill the hours before nightfall.

“Miss Monroe? A moment, please?”

Professor Granger stood behind his desk in the front corner of the classroom, which was packed with desks built for laptops and easel benches for creating hand-drawn sketches. The combination of smells, from warm computer wiring to spray fixative, was the other half of her. No perfume and hairspray here.

She wondered if her inattention had shown. “Sir?”

“I have a letter here from the head of the design college.” He was so typically the artsy theater type, a strange mix of hipster cool and computer geek. And he was always interested. In her. Right then, however, he was shining with something different. “They sent me a copy too. You want the gist of it, or to read it yourself?”

“Gist.”

“You’ve been offered a full-time scholarship to cover the rest of your degree. That includes an internship in design with Caesar’s.”

Trish went numb. Like…completely, icy, dead-limbed numb. She sank onto the nearest bench. “Holy hell.”

Professor Granger laughed. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Sorry!”

He waved a hand. “Nothing to worry about. You’ve earned it, Trish. But read the letter for yourself. I think you’ll be particularly impressed with the word
gifted
.”

Gifted? Trish shook her head as if to clear away the ringing aftermath of loud music.

“I know it’s a lot to take in,” he said. “We’re all proud of you here.
I’m
proud of you. I hope you have someone to share the good news with.”

She was too muddled to recognize whether that was a come-on. Instead she decided to take it at face value. A smile that actually hurt burst across her cheeks. “I do. I mean—I will. Tonight.”

Suddenly the numbness was gone. All energy. All giddy,
amazing
energy. She jumped up from the bench and shook his hand vigorously. “Thank you.” She said it a few too many times, but then she needed to be gone.

Eric.

She snagged her portfolio and backpack, and dashed out to his Camaro. Popped the top. Gunned the engine. Only then did she freeze.

Trish grabbed the letter Professor Granger had given her.

Going to school full-time. An internship.

And the show at the Paris.

A rock fell into her stomach.

She drove to Eric’s house in a half-haze. Waited there. Waited until night fell and she gave up on returning to the hotel. He was supposed to call when he reached base, so she could go get him. She had his car, after all. Not like he could have gotten far.

She curled onto his bed. The knowledge she’d need to choose between two dreams stooped her shoulders, as did a shard of disappointment. She’d been so looking forward to sharing the glut of good news with Eric.

But mostly… Mostly she was worried sick.

She moved like a zombie traipsing through a graveyard to grab a tumbler of something. Scotch? Whiskey? She drank it without caring.

Night gave way to dawn. She awoke a little disoriented. Her mouth was sticky, and her head tingled with dehydration. Heart pounding, she checked her messages. Nothing. It was half past ten.

Christ, she didn’t know what to think. Panic held sway over everything else. No one would know to contact her if something had happened. Not even Eric’s friends had her cell number. They’d all treated the Red Flag so matter-of-factly. No big deal.

It was anything but.

On a flash of inspiration she opened her phone’s browser and looked up Sunita Christiansen. Sunny was a lawyer. She might have a listed number. Bingo.

After three rings came a crisply professional voice. “Sunny Christiansen.”

“Sunny! Oh, thank God. I’m so glad you picked up.”

“Who…?”

“Oh, sorry. It’s Trish Monroe. With Eric?”

“Trish.” Sunny’s voice perked up. “Sorry about that. I wasn’t expecting you.”

“It’s okay. Sorry. Only…I’m concerned for Eric. He was supposed to be home yesterday evening. Has something happened? I’m kinda worried and didn’t know if anyone would think to call me.”

“Let me put you on hold. I’ll call Liam.”

The line went silent. Muted. Trish picked at a cuticle, which she never did. It was that or throw things. Only when Sunny returned to the line did she force herself to stop.

“Trish, I don’t know what to tell you. Liam says he’s fine. As soon as the squad got back yesterday, Eric flew to Detroit.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Fall in Vegas meant forgetting there was such a thing as weather. Getting off the plane in Detroit was always an unpleasant reminder of the old days. Gray, dreary clouds hovered over the city. He’d never been claustrophobic, but those blanketing clouds made each breath more of a strain. The cold barely managed to knock away the sharp scent of city rot—a bit of trash combined with the sickly sweet of homeless piss.

Gee was it great to be home.

A taxi took him to the rehab center. If he hadn’t been sending money to the address for more than three months, he might’ve thought he was in the wrong place. Someone had taken a row of peaked-roof homes and refurbished them all. The only hint that they were intended for rehabilitation, rather than a row of solidly middle-class housing, was the fact that a waist-high metal fence encircled the whole block.

Eric stood on the sidewalk for a long time, his hands shoved deep in the pocket of his flight jacket. The leather held off the chill, but it didn’t hold off his dread.

Eighteen days early.

Carey was leaving eighteen days early. There would be no official graduation.

Eric had gotten the call while still in Alaska—a voicemail, because he’d been flying at the time. He hadn’t been able to get Carey or any of the support staff on the phone.

He’d hit the ground running, grabbing an evening flight out of Vegas. He didn’t want to think how much that ticket had cost. He’d take the price out of Carey’s ass if given the chance.

Eventually he made his feet move up the walkway. Individual bricks were painted with colors that looked like they’d appeal to children. Names and dates. Handprints. Animal shapes.

When he reached the front porch and glanced back, he saw the real artistry. Each brick had been carefully shaded and placed so that, as a whole, they became a sunset over a horizon, complete with an appealing path within the path. Genius.

After being buzzed in the front door, he waited in a comfortable reception area that resembled a living room with soft couches and low tables. Only the desk with a blood pressure machine gave the place away. The receptionist-slash-nurse greeted him warmly then made some phone calls.

She smiled up at him as she put the phone back in its cradle. “You can relax, Mr. Donaghue. Everything’s fine.”

“But he’s being kicked out?”

Her gaze flicked past him to the open archway. “I’ll let Mattie explain that. But really, it
is
fine.”

Weirdest thing in the world—his first thoughts were of Trish. Not relief that Carey was okay, but regret that he hadn’t called Trish after all. He’d been too rocked with worry, too locked down. Calling her would have meant talking, and talking would have meant expressing his fears that his brother had screwed the pooch yet again. Eric had risked his entire goddamn career for someone who wouldn’t appreciate it. What if he stuck himself out there and made himself vulnerable to Trish, only to be disregarded the same way?

When he turned around, he saw a fresh-faced Carey. Skinny as hell. Purple-gray shadows clung under dark blue eyes, but those same eyes were clear. His mouth—an unscarred version of Eric’s own—was turned up in a smile.

Eric’s throat clenched. “Bro.”

“As chatty as ever,” Carey said. His voice was rough with tears. “I like knowing some things never change.”

Their hug felt good. Backslaps even better. Then another hug.

Only when they pulled back to arm’s length did Eric notice the brunette standing next to them. “I’m Mattie Winchester, your brother’s primary counselor. Why don’t you two come into my office? We’ll discuss everything there.”

After a few minutes, they were settled with coffee in a miniature office. Carey perched on the edge of his chair, both hands wrapped around his mug. His toes bounced over and over in a rapid tattoo. Once it might have been because of drugs. Eric hoped it was nerves.

“So.” Eric rested on a stack of textbooks for lack of a better place. He glanced down at his boots and what looked to be a hand-tied rug of bright colors. He didn’t want this to sound accusatory, yet he didn’t know any other way to start. “What happened?”

“What you really mean is, ‘What did you do wrong, Carey?’”

Mattie held out a hand. All she said was Carey’s name, using a quiet tone.

Carey’s dark hair was shaggy, drifting into his eyes as he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

Eric shifted in his chair. He felt like he’d slammed his foot in his mouth but didn’t know why. “Just explain.”

Damn, he wanted Trish there. She’d have been able to interpret all this better. Hell, maybe speak for him or hold his hand because apparently he’d completely lost his balls. He hardly wanted to be there and didn’t trust that she’d want to be either.

“I’ve got a hundred and two days. Leaving early is a…preventative measure. But I’m going straight to a halfway house. It’s already been arranged.” Carey was finally talking, but his eyes roved around the office. “It’s a precaution, to be safe.”

“I don’t understand how quitting early is safe.”

“It’s not quitting,” he spat.

Damn.
Eric winced. “I’m not getting it.”

Mattie’s bland features took on a conciliatory look. “It’s considered a bad idea to enter into a relationship within a year of recovery.”

“A relationship?”

“Her name is Lila,” Carey said. “She’s here too. We’ve… Let’s say we want to be more than friends. But it’s too soon for either of us. She’s only at seventy days and needs more time. Focus on herself, you know? Not us.” He exhaled a tense breath, but he was smiling. “Because I’m much farther along, we decided it was for the best if I went to the halfway house. They have a bed open for me.”

Eric wet his lips. “I thought maybe you could come to Vegas. Someone I know works in a gallery. Get your work in front of people.”

“I’m grateful…” His Adam’s apple was more prominent because of his thin neck. “I’m grateful for what you’ve done, hanging in there for me. But I need to do the steps. More than that, I need to do it on my own. We’ve talked about this before. I’m asking you to listen this time. Really listen. You feel guilty for making a life for yourself, and that’s the last thing I need. Let’s leave it. Let it go. Start fresh, okay?”

Those words echoed what he’d hoped to hear from Liam for over a year.
Forget it, man. It is what it is.
That guilt Liam lugged around had done Eric more harm than good. He’d never really believed his own guilt could be weighing as heavily on Carey.

Eric crossed his arms. “So…gravity, huh?”

Relaxing for the first time, Carey smiled. “Except the kind that won’t kill you. The great kind. Some rules just
are
, and you work within them. I
want
to be here.” He paused and his face lit up. “You should meet her, Eric. She’s worth waiting for.”

The choice was responsible, though it was also made out of emotion. Better than that was the steadiness in his brother’s eyes—a steadiness Eric hadn’t seen since leaving for college.

Warmth unfurled in his chest. Of all the scenarios he could’ve envisioned, this hadn’t been one of them. Carey trashing his studio, some kind of fight, stealing, sneaking out. All of those had filtered through his head because they’d happened before.

Instead his brother was serious about a girl, and they were both serious about making new starts. It was too much to sort. Too new. Too bright.

All through this…

He’d forgotten how to hope. He’d been determined and he’d done what had to be done. He’d mistaken that determination for hope, but it was more like barreling through a field of barbed wire. Don’t stop, feel pain, get caught—and don’t think about the finish because it was always too far away.

None of that was the same as hope.