Bare Knuckle: Vegas Top Guns, Book 5 (37 page)

She took a chance and touched his forearm. Eric flinched, then gripped the cards tighter and closer to his chest, as if protecting them. She couldn’t breathe. Nothing worked right. Her hearing was cloudy and she couldn’t stop blinking away a sheen of potent emotion. Yet these tears were bubbling up from a deep, deep wellspring of possibility. She’d always had the strength to continue because of it.

“You can go on if you need to,” she whispered. “But I’d like to touch you while you do. Is that all right?”

A soft shudder worked up his back. He faced the ceiling. His Adam’s apple lifted and lowered. He nodded. But before he returned to the note cards, he brushed his nose against her temple. Whether intentional or not, they both inhaled sharply.

She deepened the touch by sliding her hands around his middle and tucking her brow against his tense upper arm. Another shudder shook from his body into hers.

“I doubted Carey. I doubted you and the faith and hope you held out to me like gifts. But it was a smokescreen. I was a broken-down coward who feared I’d never fly again. I feared always walking into a room and bearing the stares and whispers of everyone who turned to look. Who would want to stick by a man so filled with fear? I doubted myself, and I took it out on you.”

The cards toppled from his hands. They scattered over the laminate floor. Eric bundled her into his embrace with his arms crisscrossed around her back.

“Christ, Trish,” he rasped. The tears she’d barely held back let loose as he kissed her head, her brow, her cheeks. “I should’ve called. At least kept you from worrying. Fuck, what was I thinking? Should’ve asked you to come with me. Missed you bad. Wanted you there.
Needed
you.”

Despite how overwhelmed she was, Trish choked on a laugh where she nuzzled his chest. Without the cards, he was back to being Eric. Blunt little sentences. The emotion was so raw, so real, that she only held on tighter.

“My brother
was
the only person. He believed in me. But for a while, I had two. Two people who thought I could do anything.” He stroked a hand up her back. Shivers started there and wouldn’t quit. “Trish, please.”

She gathered her courage and stacked it around everything she knew she was worth. She wasn’t settling, not even for Eric.

With quick swipes, she smeared the tears off her cheeks. “Please, what?”

“I…”

He looked down and to the side. The thick muscle along his jaw worked. He was fighting for it, fighting for the right to win her back, and she was silently cheering him on. She’d never wanted anything more than for Eric Donaghue to be the man she deserved.

“In the hotel, you said…love.”

She touched his chin and urged him to look at her, full in the face. “I did,” she whispered.

He inhaled. “Could you forgive me? Still love me?”

It was Trish’s turn to be at a loss for words. She was too busy trying to keep her heart in her chest. Trying to hold back happy tears was a lost cause.

Eric bowed his forehead to hers, in much the same pose as when he’d read from his meticulous note cards. “Because I love you, Patricia. It’s all in me. Want. Hope. Trust. You did that. You made me dig deep. I’m a better man for it, no matter…” Blunt fingertips cinched at her waist. “Tell me it’s not too late. Please. Let it be you and me.”

Dizzy and weightless, she clung to his hard, unyielding body as if her next breath would send her flying away. She didn’t want to go. She wanted to be right there, in his arms.

Up on tiptoes, she whispered her answer against his warm skin. “You and me.”

Eric held her tight and lifted her as he tucked his face low against her throat. Whatever speech he’d managed was gone now. A slight trembling spoke for him as he held her, kissed her neck, breathed with shallow gusts.

Only when he returned her to the floor did Trish lean back. She needed to see him and to offer an apology of her own. With an inch or two between their noses, she looked at his rough face, cupped it between her hands. Beneath one palm was smooth masculine skin, freshly shaved. Beneath the other was the damage that said so much about who he was.

A survivor.

“I didn’t mean what I said about your scars.” She forced the words past a thick lump of regret. “They’re part of who you are. Part of the man I love. I was hurting and I lashed out. I’m sorry, Eric.”

He nodded. His brow was a twisted mass of emotion. “Thank you. But…you were right.”

From in his jeans pocket he pulled out a business card. Trish wiped her eyes and took it from him.

Matthew Polanski, MD.

Specialist in reconstructive surgery.

An appointment for later that month was written on the back.

“I’m ready to let it go,” he said quietly. “Will you help me?”

“Yes.” She held him tighter, and then she was kissing him. Over and over, lips and jaw and every place she could reach. “Yes, sugar. Anything. But none of it will change what I feel. You hear?”

“I hear.” A tentative smile peeked out from the dark clouds. “Say it again?”

“Which part?”

“God, Trish, all of it.”

“Nah,” she said with a grin. It started out as wobbly as her limbs but soon gathered fire. “I don’t want to keep crying all day. It sucks, even if it’s good this time.”

He smoothed away one last tear. “I’ll do my best by you, showgirl.”

“Good. Because I’m gonna need your help too.”

“You got it. Whatever it is.”

Practically bouncing now, she twined her fingers with his. “See, I have a teensy dilemma.”

“Oh?”

“Lead in a show at the Paris, or a full scholarship to finish my design degree. Whatcha think?”

He blinked. “Holy shit.”

“I know, right? Feast or famine.”

“Both?”

“Yup. I learned on Thursday when you were supposed to get back. I think that’s part of why I was so pissed. I’d gotten used to having you with me. You don’t say much, sugar, but you help me sort it out.”

“And I wasn’t there. Damn.”

She ducked to meet his lowered eyes. “Hey.”

“Hey, what?”

“Quit it. If you want me, stud, you gotta man up.” Hands bolder now, no more shaking, no more fear, she grabbed his belt loops. Dragged him closer. “The past is past, remember?”

“Well. At least the bad shit.”

His grin was back. She felt like a magician at having made it reappear.

“Uh-huh,” she said with a smile of her own. “So…that means no more shitbox motel. I’m moving in with you. Pronto.”

Strong hands spread along her waist, waiting but protecting. “Yes, you are.”

“And you’ll help me figure my way out of this embarrassment of riches. School versus another show.”

“I will.”

“And we’ll each keep one souvenir as we let all that bad shit go.”

“Huh?”

Trish met his mouth with hers. She poured all of her love and excitement into her kiss. Eric enfolded her with a hunger that was almost shocking. Almost. After all, she’d felt it every time he responded to her. She only needed to hold on and soak up his robust power. Her body responded as quickly. The pain sloughed off, leaving nothing but the wide-open potential of a future.

“Yup, one souvenir each,” she said against his mouth, breathless now. “I’m gonna grab these note cards, and you’re gonna grab that hard drive.”

“You’re serious? The note cards?”

“I could always erase those files,” she said, mock threatening.

He chuckled softly. “Nope. Fair trade. But, Trish? They’re only pictures. It’s you I really need.”

The words were spoken without fanfare, so confidently that she released the last of her doubts. He meant it. He was there with her, body and soul, in ways she hadn’t dared believe. And yet…she
had
believed. A quiet hope had always flickered inside her. About her future. About a future with Eric.

Now it was theirs to claim.

She slid her hands down low on his back. “They’re
really good
pictures, though.”

“Yes. Yes, they are.” His grin turned downright wicked as he licked her lower lip. “But give us an evening and we could top them all.”

“Not just one evening, sugar. As many as we can imagine.”

Epilogue

The lights dimmed, warning theatergoers that the show would start in two minutes. Eric shifted in his seat and rubbed the velveteen arm. Nerves on Trish’s behalf spiked his blood. His respiration had jacked. This was it. Her big show. The debut she’d been working toward for seven months.

He wasn’t worried, though. She was going to nail it. She knew what she was doing inside and out.

The fact she’d let him be there…

Her forgiveness had become one of the most important turning points in his life.

He squeezed Trish’s hand. “Excited?”

Her smile would have lit the entire theater had she been onstage. Instead she was seated beside him. The black dress clinging to her body would’ve been sedate on any other woman. On Trish, it was a work of art. “I’m more excited than I thought I ever could be. I might pop.”

“No popping.” He tucked a lock of her hair behind one delicate ear. She’d been growing it out. The honey-blonde strands brushed her jaw. When they made love, it wound up sticking out in all directions. He loved it, knowing it meant he’d roughed her up. “You’ve been working so hard for this.”

It was late May, and the evening was intended to showcase the talents of the UNLV theater program’s star students, from costumes to the orchestra to every performer onstage—the stage Trish had helped design.

Satisfaction lifted her chest as she sat back in her chair. “I know this never, ever would have happened without the internship. But I don’t care. I’ll take any advantage I can get.”

“Bullshit.” He laced his fingers through hers and pulled her hand into his lap. “This is all you.”

“Me and six other interns, but you bet I’m awesome.”

“Yes you are.”

Eric could hardly believe how lucky he was. Friends and family occupied seats farther back in the theater. Mike and Leah were there, as were Liam and Sunny. But best of all, Carey and Lila had flown down from Detroit for the long Memorial Day weekend. The attendee to make Trish happiest was her mom, who’d bullied some poor agent into taking her on as his secretary and was paying for the trailer on her own.

On her own…except for the fifty bucks or so that Eric slipped her on occasion.

It was a start, at least—one he knew had lifted an invisible burden from Trish’s heart.

They’d meet everyone else after the show, for Trish’s triumphant dinner at a restaurant Tin Tin had recommended. But this moment was for him and Trish.

He’d paid for front-and-center tickets, an upgrade from the mezzanine seats Trish had been comped. He wanted her to have the best. Always. The last time he’d sat in such a seat he’d watched Trish dance—her long legs carrying her through complicated steps, her voice like a Southern-born angel.

“Do you miss it? Wanna be up there tonight?”

“No. Not really. I’m still sucking up the love for my talents instead of my tits.” She slanted him a look. “The only person I want to perform for is you.”

Eric kissed her neck as the lights dimmed for real. The theater filled with the quiet rustling and humming of a thousand people settling in. Programs shuffled. Voices quieted to whispers.

The curtain lifted. The timing of the first number meant the stage was bare for only a few moments. Trish and her team had done wonders. Eric knew nothing about colors. He knew even less how to shape a stage. But he knew she’d slaved over every detail. Colors and risers and the cloth hangings halfway up the stage. He knew the work she’d put into it, and how she’d spun herself inside out to get it right.

He sure as hell heard the happy hums and gasps that echoed around him. The impact of the curtain revealing the stage was almost as dramatic as the swell of the music and the appearance of the dancers.

Trish seemed torn between grinning maniacally and sneaking peeks at the patrons. He’d rarely seen her happier.

That joy lasted through the entire first act. She lit up with each song as if she’d sung them herself, and her toes tapped in time. But her attention centered on the design elements she’d contributed—that mixture of awe and scrutiny that always came with assessing one’s work.

She glowed with the satisfaction he felt when he was back in the air. Crashing had messed him up a lot harder and a lot longer than he’d wanted to admit, but the accident hadn’t been as destructive as the shell of isolation he’d wrapped around himself in the aftermath.

He had his friends back. He had scars that were healing—literally.

And he had Trish.

Although the transition had hurt like hell, he wouldn’t take his old life back for the world.

The lights came up for intermission. A few people slipped by to stretch their legs or get drinks. Trish stayed where she was, breathing in the moment.

Make or break time.

He shifted out of his seat and knelt before her. With shaking hands, he found the ring box that had been burning a hole in his pocket for hours—and in the back of his brain since he’d bought it two weeks before.