Wrong then Right (A Love Happens Novel Book 2) (38 page)

His stay. Like he was going on vacation to the Caribbean. Nope, no vacation for retired Petty Officer First Class Beckett Smith. That guy could be found on the battlefield, highly trained, confidently capable, and deadly accurate. The guy sitting here right now, currently powering down oranges like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, was simply Beck Smith. The guy who’d spent too many days buried in a bottle of hooch and was now headed to nothing more than a fancy drunk tank. Some highfalutin rehab for addicts with more money than sense. Where they were paid to help Beck get his head on straight. To sober up and dry out. To get un-fucked up.

“You keep eating like that, you’re gonna go soft around the middle. Pretty soon, you’ll be wearing elastic waist pants and sandals with socks.”

Beck barked out a laugh. “Jesus Christ, what’s with you, man? First no drinking and now no extra calories? You’re fucking Dudley Do Right over there. Oh, I’m sorry. Maybe I can’t swear anymore, either?”

Ash chuckled, as Beck had intended, and six oranges later, the big man couldn’t keep silent any longer. “Are you gonna do something with those? Christ, I’ll be finding random fucking orange peels in here for years.”

Shrugging, he added to the stack. “You need a new ride, anyway. This thing has to be fifteen years old.”

“It reminds me of something. Of someone.” Shaking his head, Ash tapped the wheel intermittently again. “We all make mistakes, Beck. Everybody has heavy shit in their past and on their conscience. Things we regret. People we’ve abandoned. But you still have a chance to fix things. You’ve got a do over. A gimme in your back pocket.” Looking over at him, he added, “And I have faith that you’ll figure it out before it’s too late.”

People we’ve abandoned? Even in his darkest day, which just happened to be in the last week, Beck could say with certainty he’d never abandoned anyone. Rejected, yes. Abandoned, no. Ash was talking about himself. And Beck wasn’t touching that emotional grenade for all the money in China.

Shoveling orange peels into the empty Gatorade bottle, he laid his head back and studied the passing ditches once again, praying he wouldn’t puke now that his bottle was full. Thirty days was his sentence, with the caveat that it could be more should his head be as hard as everyone thought. A mere blip on his radar, really. His survival training had prepared him to endure a fate much worse, for a far longer period of time. The problem would come in the talking. Countless therapy sessions where he’d be required to expose himself. Speak of the incident that so many assumed had damaged him to the point of no return. Beck didn’t think he was damaged at all. Just a little worse for the wear.

And undeserving of a life filled with the things that made people happy. A life filled with love and sex and loyalty. A life filled with Hope.

“I knew it was you.” Ash’s quiet words made no sense and Beck turned to look at him in confusion. “At Sam’s wedding. In the hotel room,” he continued, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “I knew she was in there with you.”

Shocked, Beck stared at his profile then out the windshield, too shaken to speak. Ash had never said a word. And never tried to put a stop to her living in his house. In fact, he’d only given him a half-assed warning to keep his distance.

Finally looking back at him, Beck opened his mouth to ask how—and then why—but nothing came out.

“I see everything,” Ash said cryptically, in response to the silent question.

“And you just let it happen? You didn’t try to stop me?” They were rhetorical questions because he sure as shit didn’t want an answer, dangerously adding, “Then or later?”

Ash took his sweet time responding, enjoying the prolonged stress to Beck’s blood pressure. Long minutes passed while his skin itched, his stomach rebelled, and he debated his ability to duck a flying fist in his crappy condition.

Finally looking over at him, Ash gave a simple shrug. “I knew it was you.”

Then he reached over and turned the radio up, the loud, industrial sound of alternative rock signaling that he was finished with their chat. Reminding Beck with those five basic words—
I knew it was you
—that
he trusted him. That he valued him. That their bond remained unbroken. And that he still loved him like a brother.

The knowledge carried profound relief.

Two and a half excruciatingly long and silent hours later, they pulled onto a cobblestone driveway and passed through tall iron gates with a nod from a uniformed security guard manning the entrance. His head throbbed in time to the ruts in the road as the Jeep slowly crawled up to the circular portico. Beefy, muscular men stood waiting, as if they were bellhops ready to carry your luggage to your suite and not hired muscle for those unlucky bastards who resisted the check-in process and required some physical persuasion.

Beck didn’t need assistance. He just wanted to get the next thirty days and nights over with.

Hopping out of the Jeep, he reached in to grab his bag. Pausing to look over at the man who seemed to have more faith in him than he had in himself, Beck nodded his thanks and moved to shut the door.

“Hey, hold up a minute.”

Beck tried not to react, knowing it was a done deal.

Ash’s next words would be his verbal termination from Scorpio Securities, Inc., with a legal document to follow shortly, absolving them of any negligence Beck might have committed while on the job and/or under the influence. He’d never once swallowed a sip of alcohol on company time, but goddamn if he didn’t deserve it, anyway.

He’d screwed up everything good in his life, so it stood to reason his career would go down with the drunken ship. It was a wonder they’d made the entire trip to Marin County without Ash telling him from the get-go. He’d seen the looks Sam and Ash had exchanged as they’d all huddled in his kitchen, Sam making the facility arrangements as Ash made coffee and Nolan tried to sober Beck up using an iron will. Scorpio was a widely known and well-respected company, blemish free of delays, dereliction of duty, or contract breeches. And due to Beck’s alcohol fueled binge, they’d had to push the Karachi detail off by five days. An eternity to their best customer, the United States Government, specifically the State Department. Scorpio was one of only a few civilian entities that retired Special Forces operators took great interest in. Beck’s position—or former position, he amended with a plummeting stomach—was coveted by many men who were as qualified as he was.

Only they weren’t binge drinkers. They weren’t alcoholics.

“When you’re done here in a month and you’re back to being Beck?” Ash hesitated, then clarified, “The Beck when the booze doesn’t take hold? I’ll tell you. If you still want to know.”

Swallowing back the mouthful of vomit threatening to show itself, a vile mix of nerves and Crown Royal, Beck could barely speak as the words penetrated the cobwebs in his mind.

He still had a job.

Gripping the Jeep’s door frame to remain standing, he cleared his throat of the sudden, overwhelming emotion. “Tell me what?”

“Where she is.” Ash’s expression turned to one of gluttonous enjoyment. “And then you can clean up the fucking mess you made of that situation, too.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Some wise soul had once said that the fastest way to get over someone, was to get underneath someone else. Hope was convinced it was some spiky-haired douche bag looking to get laid by the recently dumped—and therefore, revenge fuck seeking—female population. Her personal twist on the saying went a little bit more like, the fastest way to get over someone is not to get shitfaced and naked in aforementioned douche bag’s bed, while he awkwardly fumbled between your legs, unsuccessfully trying to locate your clit.

And just like any woman who’d been dumped on her unsuspecting ass, she’d contemplated having random rebound sex, thinking a little revenge fucking sounded pretty good. For all of five minutes, of course. Falling into a spiral of cheap chardonnay, ice cream by the half gallon, and slick talking men she’d otherwise never have sex with, was not her cup of tea.

Mostly, Hope just wanted the ache to go away.

Her weird human brain needed concrete deadlines on everything and after getting the old heave ho from Mr. Man Candy, she’d spent every day since—to put it bluntly—feeling like ass. But unfortunately, there was no expiration date for crawling out of the shit pit that was heartbreak. She’d imagined it would be quicker, but it was already a week into January, the four months since she’d left California passing like cold molasses from a glass jar. Doubling up her course load had helped, dovetailing the spring semester classes in with the current fall semester, leaving her little time in the day to do anything beyond her studies. The decision to go full throttle and double down on her senior year course credits did have its benefits, though, trimming the normal nine month timeline in half.

Short term pain for long term gain, because she needed to hotfoot it back to San Diego for the sake of her sanity. As it turned out, she was not, Hope realized soon after the first snowfall, a cold weather girl. Her reptilian winter skin might still be pale and scaly, but she was determined to spend Valentine’s Day in a bikini on the beach. And she’d have her hard earned college degree signed and sealed, by that time, too, even if her current school schedule killed her. And with finals only a few weeks away, it just might.

Her phone rang, the jingle of Christmas bells a welcome respite as she stared at her laptop, trying to drum up enthusiasm for her term paper in environmental planning class. It was the last of four, this one focusing on irrigation and drainage principles. Despite the scintillating read on ground soil moisture retention, Hope’s nerves tensed with anticipation. They did that every time the phone rang, her foolish heart betraying her rational mind, setting herself up for disappointment.

A quick look at the display told her what she already knew. It wasn’t him.

It was never him.

“How are you doing, kiddo?” Ash’s familiar voice, along with his use of her childhood nickname, soothed the sting only slightly. “You have frostbite, yet?”

“Only on the tip of my nose,” she joked back lamely, knowing it would make him worry less. “I’m okay, I guess.”

Moving to look out the thin glass of her tiny apartment’s only window, she saw nothing but gray sky and white snow. Flakes the size of quarters had been falling at a swift pace nearly all day, rapidly accumulating as dusk descended and the temperature plummeted. A picture perfect postcard scene, the frost clung to the trees, weighing down the naked branches. And even though it was two weeks past Christmas, a strand of multicolored holiday lights hung haphazardly on the lone evergreen tree, rooted in the center of the common courtyard. The blinking rainbow added a paltry amount of cheer, but hardly camouflaged the decaying apartment complex.

Hope had celebrated her very first white Christmas alone, and she prayed it was her last. She’d regretted her hasty refusal to tag along with Ash for a long holiday weekend in Maui, his pity invitation both sweet and sad. Skiing in Aspen was his backup offer, but she’d said no to that, as well. It was hard enough to keep her mouth shut and not pimp him for information during their phone conversations. In person, she’d be unable to stop herself. The unanswered questions about Beck ran on a continuous loop through her mind, lessening only partially with time.

Where was he? What was he doing? Who was he doing it with?

And did he ever ask about her.

“You’re okay, meaning you’re fine,” Ash said, not satisfied with her lackluster response. “Or you’re okay, meaning you’re under the covers listening to love gone wrong songs and eating chocolate truffles?”

“Do you know how expensive chocolate is? I can’t afford it.” Turning away from the window, she dropped down onto the scratchy plaid sofa and propped her cold bare feet on the chipped coffee table. The old, ugly furniture had actually been listed as an amenity when she’d rented the studio apartment.

Yes, she could afford a better place, thanks to her savings from Club Kitten. And the chocolate truffles, too, if she wanted them. But she didn’t. What she really, desperately wanted, what she spent the long lonely hours of the night pining for, didn’t want her back.

“I don’t eat when I’m depressed, anyway,” she said. “So, the bad news is, I’m actually kind of miserable. The goods news is, I can honestly say that I’ve never looked better. My clothes fit so damn good, Ash.” Hope choked out a laugh, then sighed involuntarily, her humor falling flat. “I miss him.”

“If I have to cross three states and the Rocky goddamn Mountains to make you eat, I’m gonna force feed you applesauce like you’re a senior citizen. I’ll shove a feeding tube down your throat and enjoy every second of it.”

Hope believed him.

“You’re a guy, you’re not supposed to understand.” She paused, treading carefully. “I know somebody who would understand, though. And you know her, too.” Olivia.

“Don’t go there, Hope.” It was a warning, but a weak one.

“But I miss her, too. I want to talk to her. You do, too.”

“Not even a little,” he replied, much too quickly.

“You’re a fibber, Ash.”

She heard the sound of him tapping rapidly into a keyboard, always multitasking. “And you’re a brat, Hope.”

She laughed, knowing that’s what he wanted. “Maybe so, but at least my pants aren’t on fire, Mister Liar Li—” Her doorbell rang, the never used chime sounding sickly and weak. “Who the hell? Some idiot is at my door in the middle of a snowstorm.”

“Do not open that door to a stranger, Hope,” he said sternly, his big brother voice loud and clear. “And you have your weapons ready, right?”

Ash had shoved a black zippered bag at her when she’d headed out of San Diego almost five months ago, giving her strict instructions on where to place the contents. She’d followed his rules reluctantly, knowing he meant well. And that he also knew the mind of your average psychopath far better than she did.

He’d included two small, lethal looking pocket knives and she’d tucked one between the bottom cushion and the arm of the sofa, and the other under her bed pillow. The can of mace was in her purse, as was the spring-loaded titanium pick, should she drive herself into a lake and need to break a car window to escape. The dull black pistol, a Glock-17 that according to Ash, would fit well in her hand and stop a threat with as few rounds as possible, was in the top drawer of her nightstand, alongside a full box of bullets.