In Ruins (35 page)

“Tuck!” Carl screeches.

“Get her out of here,” I order Cap.

He hesitates, but moves toward Carl, ready to guide her outside. She's been through enough trauma; she doesn't need to see this shit.

But as Cap wraps a supportive arm around her shoulder, she wrenches defiantly from his hold. “No! I'm not going anywhere, Cap. Tuck, you're
bleeding
. We need to take you to a hospital. Like
now
. And we need to call the police.”

But I don't respond. Because Zayne isn't going to jail, he's going to the fucking
morgue
.

Carl's fingers close around my uninjured biceps and I turn to face her. “Tuck, I know what you're thinking. But you can't. Okay?”

Fuck
. I shouldn't have met her eyes. They affect me far too much—they always have. And as I gaze into my beautiful emerald sea, all I see is her concern for me. My caring, thoughtful, loyal, selfless girl. And I once thought her none of those things. I destroyed us because of it. And, I realize, as much as I despise Zayne for what he's done, it's me I hate most. But him—
him
I can punish.

I cup Carl's jaw, letting the pad of my thumb trace the angelic line of her cheek, grazing over the swell and blush from where he hit her. “He hurt you,” I breathe, and I mean far more than just the blow to her face.

“You're better than this, Tucker,” she says pleadingly.

I shake my head. It's so like her to think so, but she's so very wrong. “No, Princess.
You're
better than this. I'm actually
not
.” I brush my lips tenderly over hers. Because I'm not. At least not when it comes to Carl. There's no line I wouldn't cross for her. “He violated you, Princess. And there's just no way I'm going to let a man take that from you and live to see another fucking day.”

Her eyes go wide, and suddenly she shakes her head. “No. No, he didn't.”

What
? Is she seriously trying to lie to me to save the life of this piece of garbage?

“He fucking broadcasted it to my phone, remember?”

Another adamant head shake. “He wanted you to think he did. He wanted you to know he was serious. So you'd get him the money. But—”

I drop my hand, not wanting to have it on her as I succumb to my anger. “He sent me a fucking photo, Carl! Of
you
, with his…his…” My throat closes, refusing to finish the sentence.

Carl's eyes close, and her shame strikes me right in the chest. She swallows audibly and lifts her face, but she can't quite meet my eyes. “He climbed on top of me, and…he used his hand…on himself.”

It's repugnant in its own right, but as soon as she says it, every cell in my body wants so desperately to believe it's true.

I grip her chin and demand her gaze. Strangely, the room spins. “You swear to me he didn't rape you?”

She nods.

I know better than to doubt her honesty. I've already learned that lesson. The fucking hard way.

A weight that would have burdened the remainder of my lifetime lifts from my shoulders. But what he did was still disgusting and most definitely assault. “He still hurt you, baby.”

“Yeah, Tuck, he did,” she admits. “But I'm really okay. He could have gone through with it, you know.”

“You're defending him?” I growl.

“No. I'm not. I'm just saying that if he wanted to do it, he would have done it, instead of come up with a convoluted plan to convince you he did while sparing me the trauma.”

I swing my gaze over to Zayne's still body, and the quick glance makes me stagger. I'm fucking dizzy.

“I don't know that it's going to matter in a few minutes,” Cap murmurs. He's staring at what was once a puddle of blood beneath Zayne, but is quickly beginning to resemble a small pond.

But my vision dances uneasily, and, frankly, Carl's revelation that the worst didn't happen—it makes me feel almost elated. Or it would, if my arm wasn't throbbing with brutal pain.

I grit my teeth and use my good arm to reach for my girl. I pull her into my chest and roughly press my lips to her forehead. “You crazy, stubborn, beautiful fucking girl,” I rasp.

She shakes her head, unapologetic. “I couldn't leave you.”

I swallow down the emotion threatening to make me look like even more of a pussy. “I know.”

Vaguely I'm aware of Cap in the background, on the phone with the police, and suddenly it feels really fucking cold. It's because my arm is soaking wet, I realize.

“Cap,” Carl calls. “Cap! He's bleeding too much.”

Finally I look down. My arm has been tattooed with a crimson tide.

Shit
.

I look ridiculous, and vaguely I know it isn't good, but it's Carl's distress that worries me most, and I'd do anything to fix it for her. “Looks like my arm is PMS-ing.”

She shakes her head and rolls her eyes at me.

“Sit down, man,” Cap says, guiding me to sit on the one step that leads to the small kitchen.

Carl stands beside me, her thighs at my eye level, and I stick my tongue out for a lick. She scolds me, but I just smirk and pull her down onto my lap. She shoves her hand in my pocket and pulls out my knife. She uses it to cut fabric from my shirt, and then ties it around my biceps, making a tourniquet.

“Look at you—my sexy little nurse, trying to rip my clothes off,” I tease. She really is so fucking hot.

“My hero.” She smiles, but it's forced, and I double down on my efforts to cheer her up.

“That's right, baby, I'm Prince fucking Charming,” I grin down at her.

But instead of another smile, her brows pinch together, all dramatic. “Cap, help me get this tighter.” She tugs desperately on the material around my wound, until Cap takes over, tying it so tight his grip turns white with the effort. “Why won't it stop bleeding?” Carl asks tremulously.

“It must have hit the brachial artery,” Cap says.

“Really working that A you got in anatomy and physiology,” I joke. But I took that class with him junior year, and I remember enough to know that isn't good, either. That it's a major fucking artery. But nothing feels real right now—nothing except my girl's ass perched on my lap, and I belt my good arm around her waist, binding her to me where she belongs.

“I hear the sirens!” Carl announces with palpable relief, and Cap gets up to go meet them.

When I look back at Carl, she's staring at me with unfathomable emotion, and it strikes me in the chest.

“You took a bullet for me,” she says softly.

I'd take a hundred more.

I stare meaningfully down at her. “When you love a girl more than your own life, you don't let her go—not for anything, not even a motherfucking bullet.”

She stops breathing, and I swipe at the tear that trickles down her cheek with my thumb.

“I thought you let me go a long time ago,” she breathes.

“I tried, Princess. I really fucking did,” I admit. “But it was never going to happen. I think a part of me always knew it.”

“You hated me so much.”

“I loved you. I hated what I thought you did. It broke my heart.”

“What you thought I did?”

I swallow down my nerves. There's no time like the present, and in the back of my mind I know that the dizziness and the way my vision is starting to blur—it could mean there might not be a future. “I thought…you knew,” I choke out.

“I did know.” Her voice is so small. Or maybe it's the low thrum of white noise muffling the world around me.

“No. About my dad. Thought you knew everything.”

Her eyes go wide, stunned. “You thought I knew your dad was my dad's client? And that it was why he—” She slams her mouth shut, staring at me with aggrieved indignation. And I've earned every bit of it. She deserved more from me, and I will always regret my lack of faith in her.

“I'm so sorry.” Do I really sound that hoarse?

“How do you know I didn't?”

“Heard your mom. And you. In the hospital—after Billy's accident.” I sound drunk. I
feel
drunk.

Carl suddenly shakes her head. “It's…it's okay, Tuck. Just take it easy. The EMTs are coming in.”

“'S'not okay. I'm an asshole. Love you. So much, Princess. Always.”

Her eyes water as she stares at me with the aftermath of the betrayal of my distrust, but also with forgiveness and boundless love. Because that is who she is. Like her father said—she is everything that is good in this world, despite who her parents are, despite who I am—the man who's supposed to love her. Despite all those who have tried to hurt her. And even as I feel myself about to slip from consciousness, I can do so without regret, knowing she knows the truth—that she was never to blame for leaving us in ruins. That it was all me. That I do love her more than my own life, and if that means losing mine for the sake of hers, then I am absolutely fine with that.

Six Months Later

“We're meeting them there,” I murmur to Billy, who sits between Beth Caplan and me in the backseat.

Cap is driving, his arm stretched over the center console to hold Rory's shaky hand. She lost someone close to her once, and cemeteries make her anxious as a result.

The bright, sunny day seems strange considering where we're going. For some reason I always picture graveyards under shadowy, gray skies. But we're not headed to a funeral, and maybe the sun has decided to pay its respects by presiding over the unveiling of the new headstone—a memorial for someone who was very much loved.

We park behind Tucker's mom's car. I see her in the distance, standing with her sister's family—the only other people who were invited today. She runs her fingers over the large marble stone, tracing the top of its elegant shape.

Even from here, I can see the heartache staining her face. There are some losses you never get over.

We make our way over to them, but thirty yards to my right, I see the pond Tucker once told me about, and I tell Billy to go along with our friends, and make a detour. The water glitters in the glow of the afternoon light, and I can't help but think that Tucker was right—it is incredibly peaceful.

I spend too much time just staring at the ripples in the water made by the light breeze, and then suddenly that same breeze carries a familiar scent. I close my eyes and breathe it in.

I don't turn, though I know he's there, right behind me.

“It's nice, right?” his deep voice rumbles.

“You were right,” I murmur. “He would be happy to know you made sure he got to be near the pond.”

Tucker's arms come around my waist. “And now he finally gets the headstone he deserves, too.”

I turn in his arms, and stare up into his beautiful army green eyes, wistful and adoring. “Hi,” I breathe.

His leans down and skims his lips over mine. “Hi, Princess.”

He takes my hand and wordlessly leads me over to where his family and friends stand around admiring his father's new headstone. It is a stunning pink marble, engraved with his name and his roles as a loving husband and father, the dates of his birth and death, and a beautiful etching of the symbol of his religion.

I can't help but think of how close Tuck came to be lying beside his father. My hand comes up to his biceps, my fingers absently tracing the spot on his suit jacket that lies above the scar the bullet left behind. You don't think of an arm wound as potentially fatal. But when it decimates a major artery, your body loses too much blood. Even the EMTs had a tough time staunching it, and by the time Tucker got to the hospital, he needed two transfusions before the doctors deemed him likely to survive. It reminded me so much of Billy's accident, and I doubted I had the luck to be granted a miracle again so soon. Still, I prayed and prayed, begging God not to punish the man I loved for saving my life.

He awoke a day later cracking jokes and flirting in true Tucker form. But just hours later he was begging my forgiveness for our breakup—for his assumptions about what I knew, and his rash reaction. But I never blamed him for it in the first place, and we were back together before he was even discharged.

The fallout from Zayne's actions and his subsequent death had far-reaching effects. I was still in the hospital, refusing to leave Tucker's side, when I got a call from my father's lawyer, asking me to go see him. By then, Tucker had told me everything. About how my mother was the one who forced my father to accept the plea deal, threatening to take us from him if he gave the money back. It was an explanation that made more sense than the last decade of my life.

It wasn't until Tucker was released that I finally made it upstate to visit my father, and by then he'd already made quite a few arrangements. The federal prosecutor, it turned out, was still immensely interested in recovering the rest of the funds, and agreed to negotiate a new plea deal in exchange. While he wasn't willing to offer the original six-year deal, he agreed to eight. My father had already served nine.

His release hearing was scheduled a couple of months later, and while he waited, he had divorce papers drawn and filed.

We were due for a lifestyle change, but it didn't exactly leave us destitute. The house was all we were left with, and after it was listed and sold we had its eight-million dollar value to hold us over.

The funds my father returned were divided between his victims, and about a month and a half later Tucker and his mom got the call alerting them that they were due restitution.

He'd been joking about how he would spend all of his newfound wealth when I suggested he start by replacing his father's headstone. He agreed that he couldn't think of a better idea, and when he brought it up to his mother, she agreed as well.

So here we are.

Tucker's mom shares the story of how she and his father first met, and it's decidedly sweet and swoon-worthy. I never knew that they were high school sweethearts, and I can't imagine her pain at losing him. I grip Tucker's hand a little more tightly.

Later that night I drop Billy off at the apartment my father has rented for us, and then go meet Tucker at his house. It's still uncomfortable for him to be around my dad, and I can't blame him for it. I've spent most nights over at Tucker's anyway.

It's late, and it's been a long day, and as I stare at my Kindle and read the same line from my romance novel for the third time over, I decide to call it a night, and hit the power button.

“How about this one, Princess? Two bedrooms and two full baths, so Billy has his own room when he stays over. It even has an eat-in kitchen.”

I sigh noncommittally. Tucker has been trying to convince me that we should get an apartment together. He doesn't want to live in the lacrosse house next year, and with summer just beginning, he doesn't want to spend it like we did in high school. Sure, his mom is fine with me staying over, but he has no interest in spending time at my dad's place, and I'm not exactly speaking to my mom currently. The truth is I think Tucker still feels guilt over our breakup, and he's been working hard to make up for lost time.

But that doesn't mean we have to rush things by moving in together.

“We just got back together six months ago, Tuck.” It's bullshit. We may as well be cohabitating for all the time we spend together. But even after these happy months, a part of me is still so terrified to trust it. What if things blow up again? What if signing our names on a lease puts too much pressure on our fledgling relationship?

Tucker takes the tablet from my hand and sets it on his night table, out of my reach. I roll onto my side to face him. “So fucking what, Princess? You've been my girl for as long as I can remember, even if we took a while to get our shit together.”

“Tuck, you know I love you…”

He scowls. He knows I'm going to say we shouldn't rush, and all the other practical, reasonable things I've been saying for weeks that my heart doesn't actually agree with.

Tuck's features soften as he leans over me, his mouth covering mine softly, sweetly. “You say six months, I say a lifetime. We've been through this. I'm not letting you go, not for anything. We both already know I couldn't if I tried. I've proven that.” Army green eyes shine with sincerity and hope, and I just don't have it in me to deny him anymore.

And, of course, I don't actually want to. “Okay,” I breathe.

Tuck's eyes widen in surprise. “Okay?”

I nod, and he smiles triumphantly before bringing his lips back down to mine.