Running Away With You (Running #3) (13 page)

When I see the entrance to the boardwalk, I make a sharp turn and leap eagerly up the steps.  The boardwalk is just as empty.  The arcades and shops have all been boarded up for the winter.  The homes and condos that line the north end of the boardwalk have been deserted, destined to remain empty until the spring.

I find myself eyeing the beach, scanning for the surf fisherman who dominated the shoreline not that long ago.  They, too, have gone.  In their place I find the occasional treasure hunter, hoping to strike it rich with his metal detector, profiting from the discovery of lost jewels and trinkets buried beneath the sand, just waiting to be uncovered. 

A feeling of unease creeps over me.  Is it the empty buildings?  The barren shoreline?  I quickly look around for signs of danger, but there are none.  My heartbeat quickens and my breath comes in short spurts.

Recognition ignites and I suddenly notice the song echoing through my ears is “Afterburn” written and sung by Averee DeVeau.  It was her last big hit before the incident that almost ended Evan’s life.  I listen to the lyrics and I realize that her biggest hit was written about Evan.

Just off in the distance, I can see Wilkinson’s Bar, the very place where it all occurred.  I try to calm myself, but it’s no use.  What is wrong with me?

I stop to try to catch my breath, clutching the railing that separates the beach from the boardwalk.  I focus on the rise and fall of the tide as it breaks on the shore, willing it to act as a talisman, magically calming my nerves.

But the universe will not have it.  Instead, a surf fisherman appears seemingly out of nowhere, fishing gear in tow.  He stops momentarily, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small object.  He lifts it and strikes the lever, igniting a small flame, which he uses to light his cigarette.

Fire.

My brain knows this man is not Ryker.  The better part of me recognizes the fact that he is not there to harm me.  But my instinct is to run, to flee, to get away from this situation, the sooner the better.

So many things in my life are beyond my control.  A checklist rolls through my mind.  I cannot control the actions of a mentally unstable ex-girlfriend.  I was helpless to stop her from entering my bedroom and kidnapping my boyfriend.  I had no way to defend myself against the vengeful intentions of a madman intent on burning my house to the ground with me still in it.  I find myself the subject of intrusive and unwelcome inquiries from my ex-boyfriend.  And now I am unable to manage even the simple task of planning my own wedding as most normal people do, because Evan had to sleep with the sister of the only woman who can help me.

But I’ll be damned if I won’t find a way to control my body’s reaction to it.  I turn off the hideous sound of Averee De-Ho, quickly shuffling stations, and force my feet to move, carrying me away from this place.  When I reach the end of the boardwalk, I turn around and run some more.  I run until I feel my body begin to release the tension.  I run until my mind is clear. My music is turned up, drowning out all the unhealthy thoughts in my head.  I forget about sexy football players, demented pop stars, broken soldiers, and annoying fans. 

It’s just me, my music, and the feel of my feet as they connect with the pavement.  With each pounding step, I can feel the pressure being released from my body.  By the time I return home, I feel significantly better.  That is, until I see Callie’s car sitting in my driveway.  Shit!  I’m late.  How long have I been gone?  There’s no way we’ll make it in time for the kick-off. 

By the time we arrive in our suite at the stadium, the first quarter is nearly over.  I spent the entire car ride assuring Callie and Dean that everything is okay and begging them not to tell Evan.  It would tear my heart out if he found out I was late for his game.

I join Willow, the wife of wide receiver Carlo Rivera, on the outdoor deck, anxious to put some space between me and my future sister-in-law.  Having Willow there is one more reason why I’m glad we share the suite with other players.  Miami has just scored the first touchdown and extra point.  I watch in horror as the Sentinels try in vain to pull ahead.  It’s like they just keep digging themselves in deeper. 

As the clock winds down, it’s clear the Sentinels are in trouble. The cameras find Evan sitting on a bench, staring at the field in disbelief.  As the clock runs out, the Sentinels are served their first loss of the season played at home, at the hands of the Miami Dolphins. The reporters rush onto the field to interview players. As ESPN’s cameras race toward Evan, they catch him shaking the hand of the victorious Ryan Tannehill.

Evan wasn’t himself today.  I could see it.  He was definitely off his game.  I know the feeling.  I let Callie and Dean drive home without me, preferring to stay back and wait for Evan.  I’m not sure what to expect when I see him.  The last home game he lost was during preseason and I didn’t see him until hours later.

After giving a few impromptu interviews on the field, he joins his teammates in the locker room, and then takes a quick a shower.  I hang back for a short while, and then head down to the locker room and wait for him to emerge.  He smiles when he sees me, but the sparkle doesn’t quite reach his eyes.  He gives me a big hug but doesn’t have much to say.

I’m not sure how I’m supposed to act.  Do I acknowledge the loss?  Logic dictates that he cannot possibly win every game, so the odds were that eventually he would lose a home game.  But he knows that.  Football is a game of predictions, and no one knows the game better than Evan “Big Mac” McGuire.

He’s eerily quiet on the drive home.  I take his hand in mine, lace our fingers together, and give it a comforting squeeze.  He releases my hand and plays with my engagement ring, twisting it mindlessly in circles as he drives.

Trying to break the heaviness in the air, I make small talk about the restaurant.  I tell him about some of our new seasonal menu items and the winter cocktails Derek plans on serving.

I only get one-word replies.  That’s unusual for Evan.  He’s usually happy to hear about our restaurant.  “Evan, you’ve lost games before,” I remind him.  “Why is today’s game upsetting you so much?”

He reaches back over as he drives, grabs my hand and brings it to his lips.  He kisses my hand gently, takes a deep breath and blurts out, “I got a call before the game.  They arrested Ryker Donovan today.  He turned himself in to the local police.  He’s been transferred to the Ocean County Jail in Toms River.”

“When did this happen?” I ask.

“Sometime this morning.”

“There’s more, isn’t there?”  I have this sinking feeling that this is not entirely good news.

“When I got the call, it took me right back to that God-awful night.  It felt like it was happening all over again.  He almost took away from me the one thing I treasure the most in this world – you.”

I should feel safer knowing that Ryker is behind bars.  But doubt eases its way into my mind, bringing with it all sorts of questions.  “Evan?  Do you think he’ll make bail?  Will they let him out?”

“I hope that never happens.  If I ever get close enough to put my hands on him, I swear to God I’m going to kill him.  You’d better pray he never again sees the light of day, or you’re going to be visiting me in jail for a very long time, Juliette.”

Face the Music

T
he alarm goes off at six o’clock.  We’re naked, tangled in soft white sheets.  Evan moves slowly as he reaches over to turn off the alarm.  I can tell his body is sore from yesterday’s physical punishment by the way he moves.  He cautiously swings his legs off the side of the bed and he groans as he tries to sit up. 

My eyes follow the ray of sunshine streaming through the window as it lands on his body.  His broad shoulders beg for my touch.  I can’t help but notice the gentle curve of his spine leading to his trim waist and round ass.  The perfection of his frame is the subject of many a blog post and fan page.  This is the stuff Calvin Klein underwear models are made of.

I scoot over to his side of the bed, lean up on my knees, and massage his aching shoulders.  I pepper his spine with kisses as I work my way down, moving from his upper back to between his shoulder blades, and easing my way down to the base of his spine and his hips.  He tilts his frame forward, encouraging me.

His body is chiseled to perfection, with gloriously toned muscles, firm and defined.  But today those muscles are as hard as bricks.  No wonder he aches.  As I work my thumbs up and down his spine, he winces from the pain.  “Evan, you need to loosen these muscles.  Do you want me to run you a hot shower?”

“I don’t know, Juliette.  I’m pretty sure I’m supposed to exercise these muscles to keep them from tightening up too much.”  He swings around and sweeps me up in both arms, depositing me playfully on his lap. 

I wrap my arms around his neck and squeeze.  I love this man with all my heart.  After a little playful canoodling, I peel myself off him and start his shower.  He should be off on Monday, but because of yesterday’s loss, the team is expected back at the stadium by eight o’clock.  They’ll do some conditioning, maybe a little weight training, and review the game footage. 

Evan doesn’t beat himself up too much over the loss.  He once said to me that the quarterback gets too much of the blame and too much of the credit when it comes to wins and losses.  Evan is competitive, and I just know that he will take his frustration to the next game and do everything in his power to secure a victory on the road.

After he leaves, I throw on my running clothes and go for a pounding run on the beach.  Evan doesn’t want me out on the beach alone, so I decide to send a text to Auggie so someone knows where I am.  I also have Maddy with me and I know she will protect me and keep me safe.  It seems like a reasonable compromise.

I dress in layers, clip on my iPod and head out.  The beach is uninhabited by humans and creatures alike.  There are no dirty seagulls, which I prefer to call rats with wings.  The surfers are absent, as are the fisherman. 

When I run, it’s just me and my playlist.  This is the time I give to myself and no one else.  The first song to play as I begin my run is OneRepublic, “If I Lose Myself.”  It’s exactly what I plan to do – lose myself completely.  Release my worries, my concerns, my fears, and just run.

I try, I really do.  I focus on the wind blowing in my face and hair.  My hands are clenched into fists so tight that I can actually feel my nails digging into the flesh on the palms of my hands.  My breasts, which have always been larger than I would like, bounce rhythmically up and down with each pounding step.  I no longer get winded as I used to, so instead I concentrate on the feel of my heart pounding in my chest, pumping the blood to my extremities as I move farther and farther from home.

Eventually the lactic acid builds up, leaving me with burning muscles.  My body is screaming, telling me it’s time to stop.  I’m at a threshold.  Can I continue?  Can I push through?  Can I control the pain?

Control
. 

I stop thinking about my body’s physical pain and find something else to think about – the bail and arraignment hearing of Ryker Donovan scheduled for nine o’clock tomorrow morning.  My imagination is in overdrive.  I wonder how many people will be there.  I try to anticipate what the judge will do.  Will Ryker be given bail?  Will he change his plea?

The faster my mind churns with possibilities, the less pain I feel.  Before I know it, the pain is nearly gone, replaced by pure elation.  The endorphins my body releases take over and all I know is the buzz of excitement that lifts my spirits.  Running has always helped me clear my mind, but this is different.  I feel a new high I’ve never felt before.  It’s intoxicating.