“You lost?” he said, taking in her face, pretty. Nope, didn’t recognize her.
She didn’t smile as she rested one hand on her hip and the other on the roof of the car. “Aaron McCabe?” she asked.
There it was again, twice in one day. Another relative? No, this was ridiculous. “Who’s asking?” Maybe she wanted something. It happened with women far too often, and how was everyone finding out where he lived? This was getting crazy.
“My name is Mary. I recognize you from your photos.” She gestured to his face. “Hate to see the other guy.”
Of course, his face from last night’s fight. He could hear the phone ringing again from inside the house. He should answer it or at least check and see who kept calling. Could be Trey or Jim to discuss all manner of business.
“Yeah, sorry,” he said, but he wasn’t really. It was just the polite, conversational thing to say. He stepped closer, thinking he should have grabbed a towel to wipe the sweat he knew covered him. He rested his hand on his hips, his loose shorts catching the breeze. It was still hot but felt nice. There was something about her expression, her eyes. He found himself staring.
She cleared her throat.
“You didn’t say why you’re here,” he said. Not someone lost or selling something, as she knew his name.
She didn’t smile as she glanced off to the side, then back to him. “I’ve watched your career for years. Even made it to a few of your fights.”
Stalkerish, creepy, even though she was pretty. “Look, this is my home. Although you’re pretty and I’m flattered, I take exception to fans just showing up. It’s not cool,” he added and took in her puzzled expression.
“Oh, I see. I guess it would seem a little odd. No, I’m not a crazed fan seeking you out. I knew Brittany,” she said, and he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
He could feel that giant ache again, and he didn’t know what to ask her. No, he didn’t believe her. She was messing with him. “Brittany who?”
Her expression softened as she took him in. “Your girlfriend. You know, the one you spent three months backpacking and seeing the world with at eighteen? You started in New Zealand, then Australia. You worked on a boat and sailed up to New Guinea, then over to the Philippines, Malaysia, Thailand, with plans to head into Vietnam, Myanmar, and then eventually over to India. Brittany studied the languages, the local cultures, and you planned—”
“How the hell do you know this? Who are you?” He wasn’t nice, and he sounded like an ass. She should have been scared.
“I told you, my name is Mary. I knew Brittany,” she said, and he took in the way she swallowed again, nervous.
“You were a friend of hers? I knew all her friends. I don’t remember you,” he said, and he wondered as he stared at her closer. The eyes were so familiar. He was normally so good with faces, with remembering. “You went to school with her? I’m sorry, I don’t remember you. It’s hot. You want to come in? Could offer you a cold drink,” he said, walking around the car, touching the railing, and stopping when she didn’t follow.
What was she thinking? He wasn’t sure, but she seemed rattled. “I’d like something cold. Thank you,” she said, and this time she reached for the glasses on top of her head, slipped them on, and started around the vehicle.
* * *
Following Aaron McCabe into his house, she was forced to remove her sunglasses and rest them on top of her head to see firsthand the details she had researched. He was tall, lean, and ripped with muscle. He had a fighter’s body, an athlete’s body. Added to that, he was handsome, once she got past the blackened eye, the swelling, and the cuts on his face from his fight the night before.
She took in his living room, which had a huge picture window that looked out to the pond, which appeared more like a small lake. There were no pictures on the walls, and the furniture was tasteful.
“I have beer, water, orange juice, and Gatorade,” he called out from the kitchen.
“Water is fine,” she said, wondering now whether this was a good idea, being here. As she looked around, she didn’t pick up a woman’s touch anywhere, but that didn’t mean anything. He walked back in, this time with a red T-shirt on. His face was pink from his workout, but the sweat was wiped away. He handed her one of the two water bottles he was holding.
“Thank you.” She twisted the cap and lifted the bottle to her lips, then swallowed. He narrowed his eyes, and she knew he was trying to figure out who she was. She looked away, and he took a seat in a large easy chair that looked as if it had been made just to fit him.
“You said you knew Brittany. You know her body was never found.” He said it so coldly. “Are you here to reminisce?”
She didn’t say anything to that. What could she say as she took in the man who’d loved Brittany, a young man who’d planned out a future with his high-school sweetheart? There were a lot of kids in high school who had looked good together, but Aaron and Brittany hadn’t just looked good, they’d fit together. “You were in Khao Lak. She talked you into spending a day at the beach by one of the resorts.”
He frowned again and this time leaned forward, slamming his bottle on the only table in the living room. “Who are you? I only told two people about that, Brittany’s sister and my brother, and my brother isn’t a man you would know, so again…” He was standing and pacing behind the chair before leaning down, resting his hands over the back, staring her down with a look she’d never seen on his face before. It was dark and uneasy, unpredictable.
She swallowed and said the first thing she could think of. “There may have been one other who knew.” She stood up, taking in this man, who was a stranger to her and whose expression let her know he didn’t like games.
Then he stepped around the chair, walking toward her, really looking at her, desperate. “Who are you?” he asked as he stood so close to her, looking down into her eyes. He had to know. How could he not?
She started to tell him, she wanted to tell him, but instead she stepped back to the door, seeing him looking at her as if she were a ghost.
7
How long had he been sitting in the dark since Mary slipped out the door? He’d stopped himself from running after her and cornering her before she could climb back into that rental car and drive away, but he hadn’t been able to get past something about her that reminded him of Brittany, who was buried in some dark hole along with how many others?
He relived the horror of that day. Yes, she’d had the idea of going to the beach, and it had been a great idea, one he’d been happy with at the time. He’d been game for some fun before they moved on, running and playing in the waves and swimming as the warm sun beat down. In a matter of seconds it had been over. It was a horror he’d relived time and again. As the first of six waves hit, he had struggled to keep his head up, hit by debris in the water, swept inland until he hit a tree and hung on. He’d yelled and called out for her over and over.
He had called Vic after searching for weeks through hospitals and all the bodies that had been piled and discarded like yesterday’s trash. Her name was listed nowhere, and Vic had finally settled him on a plane and dragged him back to the States. He said nothing, because they both knew she was already one of the thousands buried in mass graves.
He’d called her sister, who he’d sworn would blame him forever. After all, it had been his idea to travel, to see a part of the world they’d never have the chance to if they stayed in that isolated spot in Nevada. Brittany too had a free spirit, and it had cost her the ultimate price.
Yet here was a woman called Mary who had shown up on his doorstep after all these years, like a mystery, with a story.
He didn’t know what to do when his phone rang again. He’d been ignoring everybody and was about to do so again, but he saw his brother’s name. Shit. “Hey,” he said, wondering what Vic wanted, considering he never called that often. He wasn’t Chase, wasn’t the brother who organized and brought them together. He didn’t need to.
“Was just h
eading to bed and thought I’d try you again,” Vic said. Of course it was late there, the other side of the country, in Oregon. Vic never called, yet Aaron realized he had left two messages.
“What’s up?” He pressed his thumb and finger to the bridge of his nose, not really listening, instead wanting to get off the phone and continue sitting in the dark so he could eat his heart out, alone.
“Chase called,” Vic said, right to the point. That was Vic. He didn’t analyze the shit out of everything.
“Great,” Aaron said. What the fuck, Chase? Who else had he called? “Just so you know, he’s making something out of nothing.”
There was silence on the other end. It was the kind of silence only Vic could bring, letting everyone know he was thinking. He never really knew what Vic would say or do.
“You called, so I take it there’s a point to this,” Aaron said as he finally reached over and flicked on the light.
“Huh” was all Vic said, and Aaron pulled the phone away and stared at it.
“Vic, why’d you call if you don’t want to talk?”
“I’m flying there in the morning. That’s why I called. Have some business to take care of.” Vic was to the point, and Aaron wondered what else he was going to say.
“Great, so you said Chase called you. Was the trip planned before or after?” Was the business part a ruse? No, Vic didn’t do that kind of thing. He got in people’s faces, said what he needed to, and moved on. Aaron liked that. Chase was the one who showed up and babied, who worried, who was about fixing everyone’s problems. Vic always had his own stuff going on, but he would be there in a minute if needed for him, Luc, and Chase. For his parents, though, that ship had sailed long ago.
“Trip was before. Chase said you’re stressed. He was calling around to get one of us to your next fight in Nashville. He can’t go. He’s setting up a practice in the next town and has a couple clients. I told him no, but he seems stuck on the fact that you’re in a frame of mind to kill or be killed.”
He wondered whether there was more, considering Chase had pushed so hard in Anaheim, sticking his nose so far into Aaron’s personal business that he’d felt as if he were incapable of handling his own problems. Chase just didn’t get it, was all. “I fight for a living. It’s what I do.”
“Huh” was all Vic said again. He gave nothing away, and he was impossible to read, even for Aaron. But Aaron wasn’t interested in analyzing what his brothers did. That was their business.
“Okay, this has been fun, Vic. So you’re coming tomorrow. You need a ride? Where are you staying?” He presumed the next town. Maybe he was bringing the wife, his son.
“With you,” Vic said.
Now Aaron knew there was way more on his mind than business.
As he sat in the dark, considering everything about that night—Mary, his next fight, Chase, and now Vic coming—he realized he had only until morning to figure out a way to pull himself together.
8
Mary sat in a chair at her laptop, answering an email to her sister, who had asked the standard “How’s the holiday?” and inquired about the made-up gallery that was apparently interested in selling some of her pieces. Mary had her portfolio of sketches and always carried it with her, but she’d lied about the gallery because she couldn’t have her sister wondering what she was doing traveling to Alabama when she was supposed to be in a small resort town in the Carolinas with a slew of galleries.
She had cashed in the term deposit her father had taken out for her, his Christmas present to her, which would pay for the flight, hotel, and food for the four days she planned on staying.
A knock on her door had her calling out, “Just a minute.” She quickly hit Send and closed up her computer. It had to be the maid, and Mary really should go out and grab a decent cup of coffee.
She pulled open the door and could have kicked herself for not looking first. There was Aaron, his face not as swollen, looking too hot for his own good. He was wearing blue jeans and a dark shirt that fit snugly, showing off his shoulders, biceps, triceps, and six pack. He oozed strength before her, and he was staring at her as if she had a lot of explaining to do. It was a look she didn’t recognize.
“How’d you find me?” she said as he pressed his hand to her door and walked in uninvited. She could see him taking in the basic motel room, the unmade double bed, the orange bedspread, the tacky carpet, old and worn. Her bag was in the closet on a rack.
The door was still open, and she squeezed the knob as she took in how stiff he was, fisting his hands before he turned to face her.
“Who are you?” he said.
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She closed the door instead, stalling for something, anything to come to mind that would sound reasonable, believable.
Then he was right in front of her and had her against the door. She could smell him, faint citrus soap. She stared at his chest, She should have been scared. After all, she didn’t really know him, not this man, not this Aaron.
“You’re in my space,” she said and looked up to him, taking in the intensity, the way he was staring down at her, studying her face. She could see he was racking his brain, trying to put it together. Did he recognize her? How could he have?
He finally stepped back, turned, and gestured toward her. “What kind of game are you playing? Who are you? I’ve asked you, and you don’t answer. Are you related to Brittany, family, a friend? Did you go to school together? You knew things yesterday only a few do.”
There was a desperation about him now, and she realized she’d pushed too far, said too much. She was still staring at him, feeling such loss. She had thought those feelings had left, but her memory of him had turned into an obsession.
“You said there was one other who knew,” he said, shaking his head, staring at her. “You talked about that day at the beach before the tsunami hit, but I knew who she emailed that day. How could you know the details you do?”
“Because I was with Brittany in the hours following,” she said.
He was staring at her, right through her, his gaze intent. He wouldn’t let her walk away until she told him everything. What could she say to the man who’d been everything to the young woman who’d been ripped away from him?
His hands were on his head. “What do you mean, with her? I need details. Where was she, what happened to her? I couldn’t find her. She wasn’t on the list at the hospitals or any of the camps. I searched for weeks and couldn’t find her. How long have you known, and you didn’t tell me?”
“She didn’t know what happened, what had hit her. She was hurt pretty bad. All the debris swept up in the water in those waves had tossed her around and battered her like she was nothing. It was horrible. She caught the fender of a car when she came up, and there were kids inside, screaming. She held on, and it swept her in. There were others, arms sticking out of the debris. She heard screams, yelling. A man was there, another woman. Those kids in the car got out, and everyone was hurt. The man was missing an arm, ripped off, and there was so much blood. Brittany wrapped up the stump with a soiled cloth, made a tourniquet, and tied it off.
“Her face was ripped up, gashed. Part of her scalp had torn away, and blood was pouring down. Her leg was broken, but no one noticed right away as the water receded and everyone was shell-shocked. Someone found a stick for her to lean on. The other woman didn’t have a scratch on her until she turned around, and there was a hole in her back. You could see her spine where the skin had been torn away, but she had no idea. The kids were young, didn’t speak English. Everyone moved further inland around so many bodies. We made it into a building, up to the second floor.
“There were people on the roof, yelling, a family of seven. They pulled us up through the hole before the water hit again. It was so close it came all the way up, and we thought that was it, we’d never survive. The sound of people screaming and crying still haunts me. We watched as the waves snatched up those who ran for safety and tossed them like rag dolls. Some w
ere dressed, some not. Many had broken arms or legs, bloody. The man died sometime in the night. There were others in bad shape, and we waited, expecting the water to hit again. We were terrified. Then we saw helicopters and all the bodies of the dead. They were everywhere.”
He had one arm across his chest, and his other hand touched his chin. He had to be reliving his own hell from that time. How many days had they hung on, waiting for help to come? “She was alive,” he said, and she could see how this was tearing him apart. She’d never considered this when she finally found the courage to seek him out. Maybe she shouldn’t have.
She nodded. What could she say? She had been there amid the screams, the pain, the bugs biting at them, and the fear that it could hit again. “We could hear ambulances in the distance, people calling out. There was mud and debris, cars heaped in piles, motorcycles in trees. Everything was surreal. We talked, everyone talked. We all had lost someone or had been with someone as we felt death’s grip on us. It connects you to people forever and has a way of cutting through all the bullshit of life, cutting it all down and making everything so simple.” She moved away from the door and sat down as her legs weakened. She’d never spoken in detail about what had happened, not like this, not since she’d come home and been coddled by her family.
“So you knew her? Where was she? What happened to her?” he said, and she didn’t know what to say.
“I woke up in the hospital. Don’t know how I got there or what happened to the others. It was eight days after.” She needed to say more, but she watched as his eyes dampened and a tear slipped out. His hand was over his head, rubbing, and he paced in a circle away from her.
“Why did you wait so long to tell me, and why now?” he said.
“It was two years before my memory returned,” she replied, and she watched him nod.
Then she had spent ten years watching him from afar, watching the man he had become.
Don't Run From Me Page 4
