But damn him, I can’t stop hearing the echo of his words in my ears.
The jerk planted this seed of an idea, that Ryan could be the girl I could get serious about, and it won’t stop pressing at my frontal lobe.
I’m going to have to pummel him for this.
7
Fletcher
“You’re seriously allowing your kid to have a manhunt party for his birthday?”
I look skeptically at Penelope, my sister-in-law. She married my twin brother, Forrest, two years ago in a courthouse ceremony. And my brother then adopted her three young boys. Surprisingly, he’s become one of the best father figures I’ve ever witnessed interact with children. Who would have known? I was happy for him though and having three rowdy nephews keeps me on my toes.
“Take that judgment out of your tone, Fletcher,” Penelope scolds me, setting up a table in their driveway.
She throws a colorful tablecloth over the folding table and then begins putting cups, plates and plastic silverware on top. It’s dusk, with the summer sun sending rays cascading over the rooftops of the houses in her and Forrest’s neighborhood.
“I’m just saying … it’s a game where people hunt other people in the dark and then drag them back to the ‘jail.’ Which in this case, is your garage. You don’t think this could get ugly? Or some other mischief could be happening out in those woods?” I raise an eyebrow, trying to suggest something.
“He’s twelve, Fletcher. If you don’t think any of those boys or girls in his grade haven’t kissed each other yet, I don’t want to know how oblivious you’ll be as a parent.”
Forrest snorts at his wife’s tongue lashing of me. “And when did you become so morally righteous? What were you doing as a twelve-year-old?”
Well, maybe he has a point. I was stealing cans of beer from Keaton and Bowen’s parties in the farm fields. And actually, probably doing much worse than an innocent game of manhunt.
“Fine, if this is what the kid wants for his birthday, I’ll make it the best damn manhunt party he’s ever seen.” I clap my hands together.
“Uncle Fletch! Uncle Fletch!” Matthew and Travis run into the driveway, the garage lights from several houses illuminating the block.
“My dudes!” I high five my adopted nephews and then ruffle their hair.
Who knew I’d love being an uncle so much? The kids are a blast, and I get to let my goofy side out, even more, when I’m with them. I help Forrest and Penelope out a lot by picking them up from practice or school, and they look at me as more of a friend than an authority figure. I know that Molly will do the same one day, but for now, she just has me wrapped around her miniature-sized pinky.
“Are you going to be on my team?” Travis bounces up and down, not yet at the age where excitement is no longer cool.
“You bet your ass I am.” I elbow him after I curse, and the boys giggle. “We’re going to crush those hiders. How many kids you got coming to this thing, anyway?”
He ponders the question for a minute, while Matthew begins sneaking bites of cookie off the snack table his mom set up. “About thirty. Plus all the old people.”
And by old people, he means my brothers, sisters-in-law, and myself. Damn, are we really being called the oldies now?
“Well, the old people might just kick your butt.” Bowen comes walking up, hand in hand with Lily.
They greet me with a fist bump and a hug respectively. “Where is baby lady tonight?”
Lily’s eyes look weepy. “Eliza is watching her, she’s already asleep. I’ll have to run home in a few hours to feed her, but Bowen thought it would be fun to get out.”
“Don’t sound so miserable about it.” Bowen kisses his wife’s forehead as she sniffles. “Molly is fine, babe, and it’ll be fun to get out just the two of us for a little while.”
“You’re right. I just miss her already.” My sister-in-law blinks rapidly, and Bowen leads her away for some privacy.
“Okayyyy,” I blow out a breath, not wanting to deal with that kind of emotional baggage tonight. “Let’s get this party started!”
About half an hour later, nightfall has descended, and so have the town’s pre-teens. They’re all gathered in the driveway, listening to Penelope lay ground rules about the game.
“You’re going to split into two teams, one will hide first and the others will hunt. No straying, if we get a call that you’re on Main Street, you’ve gone too far. No physical violence, we’re not playing tackle and capture here. If I find you destroying property, I’ll escort you down to the police station myself. Don’t spook the neighbors, who have been warned about this little game going on. All in all, have fun, but be respectful!”
I’d say that’s a fair ask, and the kids don’t voice any objections. I can see a couple of the boys and girls eyeing each other, and it makes me nostalgic. I remember the days of first crushes and innocent flirting.
“Okay, split up, and we’ll give the hiders a five-minute head start. Go!” Forrest yells, and all the kid’s scatter.
“I’m going to own these kids!” I holler, feeling the adrenaline course through me.
So, what, I’m almost thirty and still enthused by backyard games? I’ve used about eight of my nine lives and have to find enjoyment in the little things.
The world goes silent as some hide and others try to sneak up on them, and I edge around the side of Forrest’s house. My feet tread lightly, and a summer breeze brushes through my T-shirt as I snoop about.
There is a form in the shadows, and I smirk at how poorly someone hid. Here, in the trees behind Penelope and Forrest’s house, is such an obvious hiding spot. Or maybe that’s what they were going for, thinking that no one would check here because everyone would run miles away.
I skirt around the other side of the clump of hedges, careful not to make too much noise or the person will suspect me and flee. When I’m close enough, I reach out a hand, grab them by the upper arm, and whisper, “Gotcha.”
“Oh my God!” A female voice yelps, and from the sound, I know she’s not Travis’ age.
She moves into the light a bit, the moon illuminating one side of her face.
“Ryan?” My heart rate kicks up as I realize I’ve come across the one person I never thought I’d be hunting.
“Fletcher … jeez, you scared the crap out of me.” Five black-painted fingernails come up to massage her chest, like she’s recovering from a mild shock.
“I didn’t realize you were playing. I didn’t see you in the driveway.” I’m dumbfounded, and acutely aware that we’re alone, secluded in the bushes.
“I was standing out back with Keaton and Presley when Forrest yelled to start hiding. So, I made a dash for it. Figured, why not partake in the fun?”
She had the same idea I did. “Right.”
The silence envelops us, and we should move out of the hiding spot, but neither of us moves. An enchanting magnetism draws us closer, and rather than announce that I’ve captured a prisoner, I stay quiet, staring at her as she stares at me.
I shouldn’t do this, admire her fox-like features or search for answers to questions I can’t ask in those whiskey-colored eyes. My hand hasn’t moved from where it lightly holds her arm, and the longer I keep it there, the bigger the hole I’m digging myself into.
But, it could just be something we leave out here in the dark. A stolen moment between us that only the night will witness and won’t leave us tied to anything.
Without thinking further, my free hand reaches up to catch the silky ends of her locks, the dark hair slipping through my fingers like smooth silk. Ryan’s eyes flick down to where I touch her, and her eyes flutter closed as if I’ve put my hands in the most intimate of places. My God, is she sexy … and we’re both fully clothed, having only the lightest of contact.
“Fletcher …” The way she says my name is different than anyone who has ever called me by it before.
“Hm?” I ask distractedly, my gaze catching on her lips as she speaks.
Full an
d transfixing, I know that in the daylight they’re the color of ripe plums. I study them as they move again.
“Are you going to kiss me?” Ryan breathes, and my eyes flick up to hers.
The expression in them isn’t rejecting, but it isn’t inviting either. She’s not asking me to kiss her, she’s asking if I’m going to. I’m not sure what’s worse; being asked to kiss her when I know it will only harm both of us in the long run, or not knowing if she wants me to when I’ve decided it’s the only thing I want on earth.
The brush of her fingers over my tricep sends goose bumps over my flesh, and I realize she’s just touched me, too. Our mouths are inches apart now, and whether or not either of us have mentally agreed to this kiss, it seems to be happening.
Her scent catches in my nostrils, feminine and somewhat overpowering, in the best way possible. But it’s her perfume that finally breaks the spell, instead of spurring me to run faster in the direction of danger.
“No,” I answer her question, untangling my fingers from her strands and backing away.
Because once I taste her, I know it will never be enough. I’ve barely been alone with her, but I feel it deep in my bones. There is something addicting about Ryan Shea. Which is the worst possible thing for me.
She eyes me warily, but almost in an understanding way, as I retreat backward, our eyes never dropping from one another.
I nod, hoping she gets why I can’t kiss her. On some deeper level, I feel more connected to this woman than almost anyone else in my life, and I don’t even know why.
Ryan nods back, confirming that she sees who I am past the face I put on for most people.
8
Ryan
The chiming of my ringtone wakes me from a dreamless sleep, panic hitting me as I sit up in bed.
No matter why your phone goes off at three a.m., it’s always going to incite some kind of fear. I throw the rumpled sheets off my body, disoriented in the strange guest cottage in the pitch-black night.
What if something was really wrong with Presley? No, they would have come out to tell me if that was it.
If this was Yanis blowing up my phone in the middle of the night, I was going to fucking kill him. Or better yet, block him entirely from ever calling me again. Which I should have already done, I know.
My hands fumble around in the dark, trying to grab at my phone which is still vibrating on some surface. Finally, I find it, and pick it up while squinting against the bright screen.
“Hello?” I say groggily, pushing a few sweaty strands from my face.
“Ryan? You picked up! Aw, listen, girl, I really need you. I got some people on my ass, and there is just some money …”
My blood goes cold in my veins, that sinking feeling of dread dropping my stomach down to my toes. Fuck, I hadn’t thought of the possibility of her calling.
Natasha rambles on in the background, while I try to keep my composure. I don’t call my mother by anything but her first name, simply because she gave me up when I was three years old and drifted in and out of my life for years until I put a stop to it.
“I’m not sending you any more money.” I put my foot down, stopping her drug-fueled diatribe.
I’ve learned that mistake the hard way, many times. It started when I was fifteen and would send her any bit of my after-school job pay. And then when I was twenty, in college, and would shave off portions of my scholarship-awarded stipends. Then again, at twenty-four, when I was earning good money with my first company. Each time, I believed she’d use the money to get clean, to go to rehab and come back into my life as a real parent.
The last time I sent her funds, she’d nearly overdosed and I got the call from the hospital as her emergency contact. When I’d gone to visit her in the room she was admitted to, I barely recognized her. Her skin was gray, her hair missing in patches, and so many track marks up her arm, it looked like an angry cat had gone to town on it. I was so disgusted, I puked in the adjoining hospital room bathroom.
I didn’t have the heart to completely block her number, call me an idiot, I know.
“Aw, come on, sweetheart. Don’t you want to help out your dear old mama?” Her voice was scratchy, as if she’d smoked every pack of cigarettes in America.
Considering she’d given me up at birth, put me into some of the worst foster homes imaginable, and didn’t give a real shit about me, was it any wonder I didn’t want to help her fuel her heroin habit? But I don’t say that, it’s no use. I’ve tried to have that logical discussion before, and it only ended with me in tears and her immature, destroyed brain confused over why I would have any problem with her.
“I’m not sending you anything. Don’t call here again, Natasha.” My stomach is in knots, because there is a very good chance I could never talk to her again.
Why did I still care for this useless piece of a human? Because she was my biological mother, and we were all apparently born with unconditional love for them … no matter how horribly they treat us.
“You know, you’re some high and mighty bitch, you little—”
I cut her off before she can hurl more insults at me, clicking the red button on the screen to hang up abruptly.
“Fuck,” I mutter, running my hands through my disheveled hair.
I’ll never be able to sleep after that rousing conversation. My legs shake unconsciously on the bed, and I huff a frustrated breath as I stand and walk out of the guest cottage. Outside, the night is muggy and does nothing to relieve the pent-up anger in my chest.
Crossing the backyard, I gently and quietly slide open the door to the kitchen, silently thanking Presley for keeping it open in case I need a midnight cereal binge. Right now, though, I need something stronger than cereal.
Breaking open the bar cart that Keaton keeps on the other side of their island, I select a single malt scotch and pour a heavy hand into a highball glass. The first sip numbs my jumpy limbs, and the second and third start to drown my anxious thoughts.
“Someone else needs a nightcap, I see.”
Hattie, Presley’s grandmother, walks into the kitchen. I rush to her, hugging her tightly.
“I didn’t realize you were staying here tonight!” I keep my excited voice quiet.
“A pipe burst in my bathroom and soaked the whole bedroom carpet. I’ll be staying a day or two while it gets fixed. Apologies for not visiting sooner, you know I adore you, girl.”
The warm smile that stretches my lips is genuine. “And I adore you. Can I pour you a glass? What’s keeping you up?”
She grunts as she takes a seat at the kitchen table, and I start fixing her a drink. “At my age, you don’t sleep much anymore. Just catnaps here and there. But my old bones are too stiff and pained to lie down flat in a bed for long. And what, might I ask, woke you up?”
Bringing both our drinks, I sit next to her at the table. “A phone call.”
We both sip, the bitter liquor burning as it slides down my throat.
“Who was on the other end? Not that prick, I hope.”
Of course, Presley told Hattie. Her grandmother has a way of pulling information out of anyone with a pulse. I don’t mind though, Hattie only wants the best for me, and I know it.
“No, thank God. I’m done wasting time on his excuses, or him in general.”
She pats my knee. “Good to hear. So, who woke you?”
I take a large gulp before I answer. “My mother.”
“Ah.” Hattie sips, ruminating. “You know, you don’t have to waste time on her excuses, either.”
“I know that. But with her, it’s not that simple.” My fingers tap the side of the glass.
“No, I suppose it’s not,” she agrees.
We drink in silence for a few minutes, and then Hattie speaks again.
“Ryan, you have had a tough life. I’m not sure anyone in this town, or anyone you consider a friend, really grasps how much shit you’ve had to shovel. Being abandoned, as a child, it does a number on you … one I don’t fully grasp because
I haven’t walked in your shoes. And I know why you turn to men to fill that love tank of yours, why you think their approval and affection will make it full. I’m also aware that you know you’re a strong, capable woman … one who can kick ass in the boardroom or the bedroom. But something, deep down in that closed off heart of yours, is broken. You think you give these men love, but you’ve never truly gifted your heart to anyone. Because the first person who was supposed to take care of it, completely broke it. Over and over again, I’m sure your mother lets you down. I’m an old woman, so I can say these things without having explicit knowledge on the specific subject. So, I’m going to tell you that, until you cut out the cancer that is your mother, you will never truly be able to be with someone as a whole person.”
Hattie’s words are harsh, and tears prick at the corners of my eyes. Maybe it’s the whiskey, because I’m not usually a crier, or maybe it’s that she’s so brutally correct.
But she’s wrong, in a way. Someone in this town does know me … sees inside my soul and understands on a deeper level than he should be able to.
When Fletcher found me during the manhunt game earlier tonight, it had been fate meddling again. What were the chances? First, the drive into town, and then him walking into my guest cottage. The third time, and it was more than just a coincidence now. I am a science girl through and through, but the universe is clearly sending me signals and I am not against believing in superstition if it’s trying to tell me something.
And when he hunted me down, not on purpose, I could feel the tension between us coming to a tee. That’s why I’d asked if he was going to kiss me. Because my promise to myself was to stay away from men, but Fletcher seemed to be digging himself into my thoughts like a stubborn splinter. If he is going to go for it, I am not going to stop him.
Though, Fletcher seemed to stop on both our behalves. It’s as if he knew my moral dilemma and had an almost identical one. We could act on this, and maybe it would be great. But, more likely, we would only end up in worse condition than we are right now. I appreciate his ability to act rationally.
Falter: The Nash Brothers, Book Four Page 4
