Only for Her (5 page)

“Hey, girls!”

My fake excitement rings true to them, and we do the necessary small talk. This isn’t exactly what they’d picture for a twenty-first birthday party, but they’re sweet to show up at Sarah’s last-minute invitation.

“Bruno sends his love.” Dominique, who has been there the longest out of the girls here, holds a card.

My cocktail buzz has me more giggly than I’m used to. Bruno sending a birthday card is like Sarah jumping on the bar to strip—it won’t happen unless there’s a catch. I’m unsure about opening the card in public, but Bruno has some tact. I think. “What is it?”

“No idea,” she says, handing it over. “But we’re all dying to know.”

I set my drink down and rip open the card. It’s on thick card stock with
Emerald’s
embossed along the top.

Happy birthday, Ginger. I have a business proposition for you now that you’re an old lady. Forget the past, grab the future, and go get laid.

x, Bruno

His scrawl is in thick, dark ink, and I pull the card to my chest as if everyone can see it. My cheeks go hot, and the girls’ eyebrows go up. A dozen questioning eyes are on me.

“What’d it say?” Sarah asks.

The Emerald’s girls would never ask anything that’d invade Bruno’s privacy, but they’re dying to know too. It’s written all over their pretty, made-up faces.

“Happy birthday and to go have fun.”

“I bet.” Dominique’s smiling. She’s the only one senior enough to risk nosing into Bruno’s business, even if he’s not around.

“Hey.” The bartender nods for my attention. “Birthday girl.”

“That’s me.” I tuck the card deep into my purse, and our little stripper circle breaks up as the girls mingle, leaving me to fidget on the bar stool.

“Guy over there sent you this.” He slides a shot of something dark with whipped cream on top to the edge of the bar.

I catch the guy’s eye and wave. Cute but not my type. No one is ever my type, even on my birthday with a direct order from one boss to get laid and with another boss trying to ease all the responsibility in my life. “Thank you.”

He smiles because he knows, with one look, I’m not interested. My mind drifts back to Grayson. Sipping drinks all night has made my cheeks tingly and my heart crave his call.

“Emma,” Sarah snaps at me. “Forget Grayson. At least for tonight.”

“Right. And what should I focus on instead?”

“Hmm.” She scans the room.

Between listening to Grayson growl into my ear earlier and having a few fruity-tooty drinks in my system, I’m slow to control my emotions. I check my phone again. It’s seven. Grayson said he’d call back. Will he? I mean, come on, why, after all this time, should I trust him to do anything he says? Then again, he called today.

“Ugh.” Groaning and leaning against Sarah’s shoulder, I chew on my lip. “Why isn’t he calling me back? And why do I want him to?”

She pats my head. “I’d be shocked if you didn’t want him to. Be mad and all, but you’re messed up over him.”

“Messed up? That’s one way to put it.”

“Well… Grayson’s alive. Around, maybe… have you thought about how you’re going to mention Cally?”

“Shhh,” I hiss, as if maybe saying Cally and Grayson in the same sentence will cosmically notify him of his unknown offspring. “No, I haven’t. It’s only been a couple hours.”

She takes a pull off her drink. “Talk about a game changer.”

“No kidding.” I keep checking my phone. The closer I get to the bottom of another empty glass, the more my attention focuses on Grayson’s lack of a return call.

“You could always call him, ya know.” Sarah bobs an eyebrow then stares at my phone that I’m unsuccessfully trying to covertly check. “Yeah, you’re totally busted.”

Hmm, I should have better phone-checking skills. I’m pretty sure my happy-birthday happy hour is messing with my stealth moves. Can’t help it though; his number is waiting for me. “It’s all I can think about.”

Sarah finishes the last of her drink. “All you have to do is hit send.”

I nod. We shouldn’t be strategizing while drinking. “I could call him.”

“You could,” her voice trills.

“But I won’t. Right?”

I’ve had one too many pink-purple-and-green things bought for me by birthday wishers. Sarah too, just because she’s cute. If I drink one more, then I totally will call him. I look at Sarah, my voice of reason, and see she’s a notch past tipsy. I gotta get out of here.

“I think I’m done.”

She frowns. “But it’s your birthday!”

“It’s happy hour. And that’s probably over by now.”

“Party pooper.”

Story of my life. But there are cabs outside, and my house needs to be unpacked. I can’t afford a hangover or a drunk dial to Gray. Or could I?

I lean into Sarah, squeezing my eyes shut. “I’m going to call him.”

“I know, sweetheart.” She kisses my head. “I can’t believe you lasted this long.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Grayson

Highway lights dully glow in summer’s twilight sky as I drive down Interstate 95, heading from Maryland to Virginia. Sometimes the military network pays off. After just one phone call from my hospital room to my buddy Parker, I’m pushing down the highway in a two-ton dually pickup truck that growls when I floor it. It’s blacked out, decked out, and almost tactical in the way it’s been outfitted.

Nothing identifies the truck other than an emblem pressed into the center of the leather steering wheel, the same emblem on the title and registration in the glove box. One word is on all three: Titan.

Uncertainty grows in my chest. I don’t know who Parker works for, but I do know Titan Group.
Everybody
knows Titan exists, but that’s about it. They’re a special ops, post-military outfit. I asked Parker for Emma’s phone number and access to a set of wheels. When I’d walked out of Walter Reed, after shooing Mazie away, there sat this truck with keys in the ignition, a wad of cash in the glove box, and cell phone programmed with one number.

It took me less than a minute to call her. That conversation, even with her hesitations, did more for me than the weeks of PTSD therapy bullshit I had to sit through to get released even after the docs gave a green light to my healing ribs and wound.

Her voice. Damn… I still can’t shake it, replaying her words in my mind as I fly down the interstate with no idea where I’ll end up. A radio station is on, and rock pours through the speakers. My thumbs drum, my heart pounds. Cold sweat spikes on my neck and shoulders. The closer I come to passing Summerland County, the more anxiety kills me.

I’ll call her back. But not now. Not when I’m pulled toward Summerland as if the county’s got my ass on a leash.

My head pounds, and I rub my temples. Before anything, I need to get a hotel room and get my head on straight. I’ve got nothing. No home. No Army contract. No team to shoot the shit with. Nothing.

The only shit I’m holding on to right now is survivor’s guilt. That’s what the nurses at Walter Reed called it. A social worker stopped by with pamphlets and a stern warning that no one could help me if I didn’t admit that I needed help. Even Mazie, queen of mental what-the-fucks, nodded.

They warned me about triggers. They said I wouldn’t be able to handle letting people down, disappointing others. That it would freak me the fuck out, sending me into some kind of PTSD tailspin if I thought I’d left someone hanging again. Well, newsflash, fuckers—there isn’t anyone else to disappoint. I’ve hurt and abandoned, loved and left everyone there is to leave.

What I need is Emma, which means I need a plan. I might be uncertain about where I’ll work, where I’m going to live, how I’m going to eat after I spend the money in my wallet, but I am suddenly and unquestionably confident about her and me. We just need face time.

Step one’s complete, thanks to Parker and Titan hooking me up with a phone number.

Step two: find out personal details and adapt. She’s got a boyfriend? Fixable. A husband? Harder to fix, but still it can be done.

My determination surges. It all starts with a call back that I can’t make while driving, heading past my hell. A sign ahead reads Summerland County line in five miles.

Damn, that fuckin’ place. Nothing there for me, but it’s as if I can’t stay away. Unwilling to go another mile, I jerk the wheel, hitting the shoulder. Gravel spins in the wheel wells. The smell of burnt brakes filters into the truck. My hands strangle the steering wheel, and I press my forehead onto the Titan emblem.

Can’t get the future if I avoid the past. I grab my cell and hit redial. Forty-five seconds later, no answer. Shit. Okay. New plan. Grab a burger and a bed somewhere, wait until first light, try again. And again. And again. Until I get what I need. Her.

Emma

After a quick cab ride to my new home, I’m alone and harboring a serious cocktail buzz. I bypass the kitchen and living room, heading straight for my room. After checking for accidental missed calls a thousand times, my phone died sometime during the drive home. I’m going to flip out if it doesn’t charge ASAP.

I plug the phone into the charger and watch it for a few seconds to see if it will turn back on. Nope. Shit, shoot, shit. What if he’s calling right this second?

Ugh. I’m going nuts and need to get out of these clothes. One last look at the phone, and I head into my bedroom. It’s lonely now that I’m home with no Cally to make dinner for, no two-year-old’s stories to keep me entertained.

I chuck my purse across the bedroom and flop onto my bed. But the combination of throwing and flopping while buzzed doesn’t sit well, and I need to change anyway. What’s a girl to wear when tipsy and home alone the night of her birthday celebration? Definitely something comfy. I change into my jammies and pace.

I unpack a box then check my phone. Still dead. I head to Cally’s room, certain the box of her toys is in there and needs to be unpacked first. After ripping it open, I line up all her stuffed animals and dolls against the wall, making her favorite one the center. Packing that well-loved one was a mistake—grinning, I totally blame Uncle Ry-Ry—and I’m not sure how we’ve made it all week without that doll.

Okay, that’s done. Now what? Back in my room, I take off my makeup then check my cell again. Five percent. I shrug, biting my lip. That’s gotta be enough to at least turn it back on.

I press the button, and it lights up. I could unpack another box or just stare at my phone, willing it to ring. Damn Grayson. I can’t stay away, can’t stop thinking about if he called. Maybe it will… now.

Nope. Not a peep.

What if he called, and I missed it? No voicemails… but he wouldn’t leave one, would he? I unplug it and move to another outlet before it dies again. Now I can sit on my bed and stare, wishing for it to ring.

Still doesn’t. Seriously, he could’ve called when it was dead.

I scroll to my earlier incoming calls. His number is just sitting there, begging me to hit him back. My thumb hovers. Oh, this is such a bad idea. Nervous excitement rushes through me, and I hit SEND.

It’s ringing!

My stomach’s in my throat. I’m blushing, I know that, and I’m trying not to grin like a crazy woman. What the fuckballs am I doing? This is so bad. Bad. BAD in a major way. But I can’t hang up.

“Hello?” His voice is gruff with sleep.

Hell. It’s Friday. He went out and had a couple too. Maybe he passed out. Maybe I shouldn’t have called him. He said
he’d
call, but he didn’t. So
that
is something. This is a mistake.

Holy shit, I’m losing my mind. “Hey, Grayson.”

Silence. Oh. Awkward. I didn’t sign up for this. What am I doing?

“Hey.”

I hear rustling noises. Grayson’s in bed? What if he’s not alone? What if he is? Do I want to know this much about him this very second? God. My mind is spiraling.

“Hey. Buzzed you earlier, went straight to voicemail.” He clears his throat. It’s sleep-soaked and rough. “What are you up to?”

“I’ve been drinking.” Because that honest revelation is what’s needed. Ugh.
Head. Slamming. Against. Wall.
I groan. “I mean. It was a happy hour. For me. I guess—”

“Happy early birthday.”

God… Just, God. I curl into myself and hide under the covers, letting the deep rumble of his voice echo in my head. “Thanks.”

“So… what are you doing for the real deal?”

Nothing I’ll tell him about. Cherry’s helping Cally decorate cookies and “make” me dinner on Sunday. “Small family thing.”

“Your family, everyone’s good?”

I close my eyes. It’s like we’re just catching up, not like our conversation earlier at work. I always thought he’d check in after we found out he went to basic training. Maybe he’d check in with Ryan. I thought he’d talk to
anybody
. But Grayson fell off the planet.

Yet somehow the memories of middle-of-the-night chats stir me. “What did you mean earlier, you’re not the guy I knew?”

“I can’t explain it. Dead man walking.”

My sweet golden boy? Sure, he had his dark moments, his hidden pieces. “What does that mean, Gray? Why?”