His to Take (38 page)

Bailey scanned the room again. “Hey, where’s—”

“Joaquin is gone,” Hunter said solemnly. “As soon as he found out you weren’t injured,
he found a ride to the airport. We don’t know where he was headed.”

Shock slithered through her. After all the times Joaquin had sworn he’d be by her
side? “He just . . . left? Without a word?”

The collective grim expression, liberally laced with pity, worn by everyone in the
room, hurt even more. Joaquin had seemingly shared more than his body with her. He’d
bared so much of his soul. They shared a bond—or so she’d thought. Had she been wrong?

Sean clasped her hand. “I was with him when he thought you’d perished in the explosion.
He lost his mind, Bailey. Completely came apart. He railed at himself for not protecting
you and said you’d be better off without him. I think he’s beating himself up in the
worst way right now. I tried to stop him from leaving. I couldn’t. I’m sorry.”

Humiliation stung, but his abandonment carved a crater in her chest and filled it
with acid pain. He’d left her, just like Viktor Aslanov, like Bob and Jane Benson.
Now she could add Joaquin to the list of people who had come into her life, altered
her in ways she could never undo, then left without a backward glance. Bailey couldn’t
pretend she didn’t know why. If he’d been so deeply impacted by losing his father
that he hadn’t cried in nearly twenty years, he certainly wasn’t going to risk heart,
soul, and sanity for a woman he’d met a few days ago. She’d been stupid to hope otherwise.

She’d been even stupider to fall in love.

Everyone stared at her like they all expected her to fall apart. In the past, she
probably would have. She still might later, when she was alone. Right now, she was
too damn shocked. And furious.

“I’m not surprised,” she managed to mutter and not sound bitter—much. “Damn him.”

“It’s a totally chickenshit move.” Kata picked up the verbal torch and ran with it.
“When I get my fingers around his neck, I’m going to squeeze hard. He’ll learn the
value of family if I have to choke it into him.”

Hunter cut a sidelong stare at his wife. “Pregnancy has made you bloodthirsty.”

“Am I wrong?” Kata asked, her voice picking up volume and emphasis.

“No, honey. But you don’t have to choke him. I’ll beat the shit out of him for you.”

Kata crossed her arms over her chest. “Thank you. Make it hurt. He’d better learn
something, damn it. I’m tired of my brother running for the exit all the time.”

“He doesn’t know how to grieve,” Bailey said. “He isn’t sure how to deal with the
pain. He doesn’t do it to hurt you. He just works so hard to preserve himself.”

“I don’t give a shit. He’s not twelve anymore. He’s a damn adult, and this is unforgiveable.”
Kata wagged a finger at her. “Don’t you dare defend him.”

“Just explaining because I understand.” Her issues of abandonment were the reason
she’d never had any close friends herself. Bailey saw that clearly now. She understood
Joaquin’s belief that pulling away would make him feel better. He had just proven
what she’d begun to suspect after meeting him: Self-isolation didn’t do anything but
create misery and loneliness. “I can’t defend it. But I can’t hate him for it, either.”

She could, however, be crushed and cry and wish with everything inside her that he’d
come back to her, offering his heart. But he wouldn’t. Instead, she would learn from
her time with him and from his desertion. The only life worth living was one in which
she opened herself, bared her soul, and was surrounded by love. Going forward, that’s
what she’d do. She would spend tonight mourning what could have been and say a prayer
that Joaquin would find life and love in the future. Then she’d let nothing stop her
from finding her own.

J
OAQUIN woke in his apartment Friday morning after three hours of broken sleep. His
hangover wasn’t a welcome friend. Neither was his past-due rent notice.

With a groan, he sat up. His head hurt. The sunlight filtering through the blinds
he hadn’t bothered to close threatened to split his head open like an overripe melon.

Grimacing, he stooped and dragged himself to the bathroom, where he yanked open the
medicine cabinet. No pain relievers.
Great.
Just like he’d gone looking for food in the fridge last night and found it empty.

Until last night, he’d never realized how little it looked as if someone lived here.
He couldn’t escape noticing it again as he shuffled back to bed. Not a single picture
on the walls or nightstand. Nothing personal around the place. No family mementoes,
no record of achievements, no gag gifts from friends or reminders of loved ones. White
walls, a generic black leather sofa, a chocolate-brown comforter, and an inch’s worth
of dust on all the garage-sale furniture surrounded him. It had never looked so fucking
sad until he’d imagined what kind of place he might have shared with Bailey, if he
were a different man.

Last night, he’d made a run to the liquor store a few miles down the road, thanking
fuck that it wasn’t Sunday so he could still get a bottle. Joaquin hadn’t cared much
what type. He’d been all kinds of eager to numb the constant tide of pain of being
without Bailey and worrying if she was all right.

Had she been released from the hospital? Did she hate him half as much as he hated
himself right now? Or had Sean been right? Knowing her, she’d understand him all too
well. She’d feel sorry for him. Jesus, that idea almost hurt worse.

This morning, Joaquin understood far too clearly that he couldn’t drink enough to
numb the torment of being without her. He’d really hoped he could pass out last night.
Instead, he’d damn near thrown up after three-quarters of a bottle of Cupcake vodka.
What the fuck had he been thinking? And what the hell was he going to do now?

Shaking his head, he flung himself back on the bed with a long, shuddering breath.
God, he felt old. He probably looked it, too. And what did he have to show for his
age? A crappy apartment he’d get evicted from if he never came home often enough to
pay his bills. And . . . not much else. Hell, he’d never even wanted the commitment
of a pet. No, might as well be honest. He hadn’t wanted to risk loving a four-legged
friend and suffering its loss well before he found his grave. He really didn’t know
how to find his mother anymore. His youngest sister was, no doubt, plenty pissed at
him right now.

What if he’d died in Iowa? What would his legacy have been? Would his father have
met him at the pearly gates, shaking his head in disappointment?

Fuck, he hated this much self-examination.

But the tough questions just wouldn’t stop rolling through his head. What had Bailey
been feeling when she’d awakened in the hospital to find him absent? Had she been
saddened, crushed, or simply resigned? More than a vague shame filled him.

With a curse, he flung himself off the bed and paced to the bathroom. As he flipped
on the light, he braced his hands on the bathroom counter and hung his head. He had
to find another job. Maybe then he could bury himself, feel nothing . . . and die
young and forgotten. Crap, wasn’t that a cheerful thought?

Or, a voice in his head whispered, he could stop having this righteous freak-out,
figure out how to put on his big-boy britches, and find Bailey. He could apologize
and figure out how to deal with the fact that death was a part of living. Maybe.

Wasn’t that heavy shit?

He looked up at himself in the mirror. Bags sagged around his eyes. Crow’s feet he
hadn’t noticed before creased his skin. He had a permanent wrinkle between his dark
brows where he frowned. Hell, he even spotted a little gray at his temples. His own
mortality didn’t bug him, just the passing of time. One day he’d look up and, if he
still roamed the earth, everyone he loved would be gone, if not literally, then figuratively.
His mother was aging. What if he wasted the years he had left with her? His sisters
had their own lives.

And Bailey . . . He couldn’t expect her to pine for him while he figured out how to
get over himself. If it took him another decade to snap out of it, she’d be married,
a mom, settled and happy—all without him.

Joaquin stood right in front of the fork in the road. He had to pick a path and take
it now. Tomorrow might be too late.

Swallowing his nerves, he flipped on the shower and stripped down. The spray felt
good, but he didn’t linger. He had a lot of thinking and driving to do. He also had
more than a few phone calls to make.

In twenty minutes, he headed out the door and drove east on Interstate 10, enjoying
the cloudless blue seventy-degree day. He didn’t relish three hours of being trapped
with his own thoughts, but he figured he needed it. Two phone calls distracted him
a bit. Stone made him laugh and gave him the information he needed. As soon as Joaquin
hung up, he was right back to realizing just how hugely he’d overreacted yesterday.
And how badly he’d screwed up.

Just before he reached his destination, he stopped at a grocery store and picked up
some flowers. He had no idea if the gesture would mean anything . . . but Joaquin
figured it would at least show that he was trying.

His GPS led him to the right house, and all too soon, he was knocking on the unfamiliar
door. Nice place. Good neighborhood. Well kept. Pretty flowers.

Shit, he was really fucking nervous.

He expected his mother to answer the door. That wasn’t who he saw.

“Caleb. Hi.” Okay, that sounded stupid. But how else was he supposed to greet his
stepfather, whom he barely knew?

“Hi.” The older man stood, bracing one beefy arm on the door frame and staring at
him as if he was as welcome as a salesman. “What do you want?”

“To talk to my mother.” Joaquin didn’t expect this to go easy, but how else could
he possibly figure out how to get past the hurdle of his father’s death if he didn’t—gulp—talk
to someone who’d been there and suffered more?

“You might have called first,” Caleb drawled.

And give Carlotta Muñoz Edgington a reason to dodge him the way he’d done her for
so many years? “Sorry. I just . . . I kind of need to see her.”

Caleb stared at him with those intense blue eyes. Now he knew where Hunter and Logan
got their macho. Joaquin resisted the urge to fidget.

“I’ll see if she’s free. But before I let you in my house, I want you to understand,
I’m doing this for her. She misses you. But after the way you’ve behaved as long as
I’ve known your mother, I’ve got no respect for that.”

Join the club.
He looked down, shuffled his tennis shoes against the brick stoop. “I want to make
it up to her. I’ve got to start somewhere.”

“You turned your back on your family and left them in the hands of a neglectful, controlling,
verbally abusive prick.”

Joaquin gnashed his teeth. “I always hated Gordon. I tried to talk
Mamá
out of marrying him. She wouldn’t listen.”

“She wanted to provide for you kids in a way she couldn’t alone.”

Joaquin had known that. Watching her ex-husband eat away at her self-confidence and
autonomy until he turned eighteen and left the house had just about killed him.

“I did everything I could to prevent their marriage and help her financially. But
if you’ve been married to my mother for more than five minutes, you know that sometimes
she can be downright stubborn.”

With a hint of a smile curling his lips, Caleb stepped back and let him into the cool
interior of the homey place. “That I can’t argue with. Carlotta definitely has her
own ideas. She just came off a shift at the hospital. I’ll see if she’s up to talking.”

That took Joaquin aback. “She’s working again?”

Caleb nodded. “Her choice. I’d be happier to have her all to myself, but this is good
for her self-confidence. She’s made new friends and gained back a lot of her self-respect.
I’m worried she works too hard, and I don’t like that she sometimes works nights,
but I’d never take it away from her.”

It hadn’t taken his new stepfather long to understand his mother and give her what
she needed. He supported her, putting his own worries aside so she could be fulfilled.
Joaquin hung his head. That’s exactly what he should have done for Bailey.

“Then I’m sure you’ve been good for her and I appreciate what you’ve done. I know
I haven’t kept up my responsibilities as a son.” He rubbed at the back of his neck.
“I’m . . . um, hoping to turn over a new leaf.”

“Have a seat.” Caleb pointed to the beige sectional.

Joaquin saw his mother everywhere in this room. The dark hardwood floors gleamed.
The area rug in cream and taupe had a pattern with some soft lines, yet the room didn’t
seem too feminine. Flowers sat in a crystal bowl on the coffee table. Accents in earth
tones blended with shiny, somehow more modern crystal. He saw the old and new mixed
here, warmth and cool sophistication coexisting.

“Thanks.” He sank down to the sofa, perched on the edge, elbows on his knees. Shit,
he really was nervous.

“I’ll find Carlotta for you.”

“Wait.” He called Caleb back. “Tell me . . . She’s happy now, right?”

“Finally. Your sisters and I are close. We share a lot of family occasions. There’s
never a frown during holidays or gatherings.”

Joaquin smiled, swallowing down the ugly realization that he’d missed so much while
he’d been busy avoiding and wallowing. “Good. That’s what her life should be like.”

“Yep,” Caleb agreed. “But I know she’d feel complete if she had all her kids here
more often.”

She wasn’t the only one who would probably feel more complete, but Joaquin couldn’t
make himself say that to Caleb. This conversation was already awkward enough, and
some stuff he had to say to
Mamá
alone.

Instead, he nodded.

Caleb departed, and Joaquin resisted the urge to fidget or pace. Was this gesture
too little too late?

The wait seemed forever before he heard the rustle of clothing at the edge of the
room. Her perfume—that something spicy and floral he’d always equated with her—hit
his senses first. He rose, turning. There stood his mother in pink scrubs. He hadn’t
laid eyes on her in damn near three years. She looked exactly the same, yet totally
different. Yes, she’d dropped a few pounds, probably trying to keep up with her very
fit husband. And her hair was a little longer, which suited her. More than anything,
she looked different because she glowed with a happiness he didn’t ever remember seeing
on her face.

Her radiance totally belied the frown she wore now. “Joaquin, why are you here?”

That wasn’t the greeting he’d expected from his mother. Then again, why should he
have expected open arms after the way he’d turned his back on her and the family?

“Because I . . . realize I’ve been a shit and I wanted to say I’m sorry.”

Her expression turned considering. “Apology accepted. I thank you for delivering your
words in person.”

“Here.” He extended the flowers to her, feeling so damn uncomfortable. “These are
for you.”

She took the flowers in hand, the plastic crinkling. Her dark eyes lit up for a moment,
then she blinked and the light was gone. “They are lovely. Thank you.”

Joaquin watched his mother walk out of the room. Frowning, he hesitated. Follow? Don’t
follow? Was she too pissed at him to say more?

Finally, he decided to see where she’d gone. When he trailed behind her and rounded
the corner, he found himself in a large kitchen with white cabinets and light marble
counters. Chrome fixtures blended well with the soft gray subway tiles and gleaming
stainless appliances. The ranch house was far too old to have a kitchen this new and
stylish without her hand.

“Wow, you’ve done a lot of work on this place.”

Carlotta reached for a vase and filled it with water. “I have. How did you know?”

“It looks like you, cozy and pretty and . . .” There he went, sounding like an idiot
again.

“Caleb helped me. We moved into this house late last year and have been renovating
since. I’m glad you like it.” She put the flowers in the vase and set them in the
middle of the rectangular island. “They look pretty. I am glad you stopped by. It
is always good to see you.”

Her tone sounded somewhere between distant and dismissive. Joaquin gritted his teeth
and reminded himself that he was only reaping what he’d sown.

“
Mamá
, I came to talk to you, if you can spare a few minutes. Please. I know I’ve been
a lousy son—”

“Let us be clear. A good man . . . but not the best son.”

The mother he’d last known would never have stated her feelings so bluntly. Joaquin
supposed he had Caleb to thank for that. “I’m not even sure I’ve been a good man.
I met this woman . . .”

“So I heard.” Her voice turned cold again.

And Caleb had undoubtedly struck on that front, too. “Your husband told you about
Bailey?”

“He did.”

His mother wasn’t going to make this easy for him. He shouldn’t have expected that
she would. “I’d like to talk to you about her. You understand women . . . and you
understand me.”

“What is it you wish to know? Do you need me to tell you that you have behaved like
an ass? Because I will. The girl has been through a great deal.”

“She has.” He couldn’t disagree.

“And you put her through more still, leaving her when she needed you.”

Joaquin hung his head. “I know. I realized this morning that I’m afraid to, you know . . .
care about people.”

“Your father’s death came at a difficult time in your life. You worshipped him. I
always believed that you struggled to recover from the shock and sorrow.”

Yep, his mother understood. “I didn’t recover at all.”