By the time nine o’clock rolled around, she couldn’t get out the door fast enough. The reception had gone well by all accounts—or as well as could be expected given her mind was a million miles away—and she felt pretty damn good about her first showing. The early feedback had been positive, not that she had much to compare it to. The real feedback would come in the critic’s formal reviews.
The lights were off at Jax’s apartment when she arrived. She rang the buzzer anyway. If he wasn’t home, she’d sit on his front steps and wait all night for him if she had to.
No answer.
She rang the buzzer again. Just in case.
Still no answer.
Just as she was sitting down to make herself comfortable, his voice came over the intercom. “Yeah?”
She jumped to her feet. “Jax? It’s Becca.”
The door buzzed, and she let herself in, relief flooding her veins. He was home. And safe. She raced up the stairs, finding the door to his apartment open.
“Jax?” She scanned the dark living room, taking in the beer bottles that littered the coffee table. He’d been drinking. A lot. Her eyes raked over Jax, who sat on the couch in a pair of track pants and nothing else. His eyes were bloodshot. The five-o’clock shadow on his jaw suggested he hadn’t shaved. She’d never seen him like this before. Ever. Something was wrong. Very wrong. She took a tentative step forward. “Is everything okay?”
“Just peachy,” he said, taking a pull on his beer. “I’d offer you a drink, but this is the last one.”
“Are you drunk?” Stupid question. The answer was pretty damn obvious. “What is going on? Is this about last night? Because I didn’t mean to—”
“Just having a beer.” He shrugged as if it were no big deal. “Or twelve.”
Anger sparked low in her belly. Had he forgotten about their plans? It was only the biggest night of her life. “I called.” Stay. Calm. “I was worried about you.”
“I shut my phone off.” He set his beer on the table, next to the phone. Even in the dim light, she could see the screen was cracked. “I needed some time to think.”
“You missed the reception. At the gallery,” she clarified, just in case his beer-addled brain couldn’t make the connection. Judging by his current state, it was a pretty safe bet he might need the assist.
He looked up at her, an emotion she couldn’t identify flickering in his eyes, and grabbed his beer. When he raised it to his lips and took another pull, her Italian temper exploded, earning her a week’s worth of Hail Marys. The scene before her was new, but the feelings it evoked—the sickening, disheartening crash of betrayal, the disappointment, the overwhelming feeling of being inadequate—those felt all too familiar, and it disgusted her.
“Jesus, Jax. Are you fucking kidding me right now? This is the biggest night of my career, and you’re sitting here getting shitfaced?” She fisted her hands, nails digging into the soft flesh of her palms. The stabbing pain only fueled her anger. This could not be happening. The man she loved wouldn’t do this to her. Not again. “I’ve been out of my mind with worry, and you couldn’t even be bothered to return a goddamn phone call?”
…
Jax sat quietly as Becca unleashed her temper, keeping his face a blank mask. It wasn’t exactly hard after a dozen beers. She had every right to be angry, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to feel…anything. Apparently the beer was doing its job. Keeping everything—the guilt, the pain, the anger—at bay.
Dammit, that’s what he needed. An escape. From all of it. If only for the night.
Because every time he closed his eyes, all he could see were the flames. They reached for him, reminding him that no matter how far or how fast he ran, he’d never escape. They’d taken a life last night, and he hadn’t been able to stop them.
You’re a failure.
He’d failed, and a man had died. Somewhere in the city a broken family was mourning the loss of a husband, a father, a son. It was his fault, and there was nothing he could do to fix it. Broken was broken. A fact he knew as well as anyone.
The call had come in at the end of the shift, and it had been a bad one. He’d known it as soon as they’d pulled up. But he’d hoped, hell, he’d prayed—
“Jax?” Becca’s voice sliced through his thoughts like a blade. “Are you even listening to me?”
“How could I not?” he asked, forcing himself to do what had to be done. There wasn’t enough beer in the world to dull the pain this would bring. “You’re screaming loud enough to wake the dead.”
“Excuse me?” Her face paled, the color draining from her cheeks.
“Look, I said I was sorry, didn’t I?”
“Actually, you didn’t,” she spat, anger radiating from her. “And this isn’t about you missing the show. I understand the job comes first. I get that. I can live with that. But this? You stood me up—again—to get drunk on your couch?”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” he lied, hating himself for hurting her this way. “But if you’re just going to keep yelling, there’s the door.”
She flinched as if he’d slapped her.
Every fiber of his being ached to go to her, to hold her in his arms and apologize, but he had to stay strong. For her. It was going to hurt like hell, but it was better to get it out of the way now, to make a clean break before he did any permanent damage. She’d be hurt and angry for a while, but she’d get over it. Over him. His palms began to sweat. People got over breakups every day. There were other things, far worse things, you could never come back from. He’d always known it in the back of his head, but today it had become clear, when he’d heard her panicky voicemails, begging him to call her back.
That was the tipping point.
He couldn’t—wouldn’t—put her through that. His father had been destroyed by his mother’s death. By all accounts he’d become an entirely different person, a shell of a man. He wouldn’t do that to Becca. Never to Becca. She deserved so much more. More than a man who was always on call, who missed exhibits and holidays and birthdays. More than a man who could only offer sleepless nights and who might not come home at all one day, leaving her with a flag and a hell of a lot of heartache. She deserved a better life than he could offer. She deserved a successful photography business. A doting husband. Hell, even two point five kids if she wanted them.
The idea of Becca in another man’s arms ripped his guts out. But if he truly loved her—and he did, more than life itself—he had to let her go. No matter how bad it hurt.
“If I walk out that door, I won’t be coming back.” She leveled him with a glassy-eyed stare, her lips pressed into a firm line. “Do you want me to leave, Jax?”
He glanced at his empty beer. He was going to need another case to get through this night. “I think that would be for the best.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Jax awoke facedown on the bed with the mother of all hangovers. His skull felt like it was going to split right down the middle. He lifted his head and blinked against the harsh afternoon sun slanting through the open blinds. His eyelids felt like sandpaper, and his mouth was drier than a motherfucker.
What time is it anyway?
He squinted at the clock, trying to decipher the blurry images. Eventually, he abandoned the effort and dropped his head back onto the pillow, cursing himself for drinking so damn much. It was a wonder he hadn’t ended up with alcohol poisoning.
Fortunately, he still had some aspirin leftover from his lacerated arm. If only they weren’t in the bathroom. It was only twenty feet, but it might as well have been a city block.
Deciding to work his way up to movement, he lay still, trying to recount the events of the prior night. He immediately regretted his decision, recalling the look on Becca’s face when he’d told her to leave. Total devastation. His chest hurt just thinking about it. He’d been a complete asshole. But it was for the best, wasn’t it?
Yes.
He had to believe that or he really would be the biggest prick in
the city. He’d just been so angry after the fire call. Losing a life was never easy, whether it was a civilian or a firefighter. Every loss cut close to home. Every loss left a scar.
They’d been so close, literally within arm’s reach of the vic, when the floor had collapsed. He’d damn near gone with him, but Anderson had pulled him out. Two in, two out. It was their way. But watching someone fall like that? Knowing you were so close to making the grab? Knowing one day it could be you?
That shit messed with your head.
There was a reason firemen didn’t talk about the horrors they’d seen on the job. It was because they saw the worst of the worst. It was the job. It was his choice. His burden to bear. His guilt. No way in hell was he going to poison Becca with those stories.
Becca.
His gut churned with nausea. What he’d done, the things he’d said to her…there was no turning back now. It made him sick knowing he’d ruined her special night. It was unforgiveable. He hated himself for it. He could hardly blame her if she hated him, too. That’s what he’d wanted, wasn’t it?
Enough.
It was time to get up and move on. He’d make himself fucking crazy if he lay there thinking about her any longer. Pulling himself to a sitting position, he swung his feet over the side of the bed.
A bolt of pain hit him behind the eyes.
Probably nothing compared to what Becca was feeling. He forced himself to move through his morning routine. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. The first day of the rest of his life. Because starting over without Becca? It was like starting a newer, shittier chapter where all the things he’d dared to hope for were no longer possible. He brushed his teeth, took a shower, and popped a few aspirin. Too bad they’d do nothing to ease the ache in his chest.
When he returned to his bedroom in search of clean clothes, he stopped in front of the dresser. The pink bear sat on his dresser, looking out of place in the masculine room.
Becca’s bear.
The one she’d won.
For him.
Damn. He missed her already. Missed waking up next to her. Missed the feel of her lips on his. Her laugh. Her smile. The way she quietly watched the world through the lens of the camera. The sassy way she gave as good as she got. Hell, he even missed her temper, although he’d gotten a healthy dose of it the night before.
Guilt clawed at his gut. He yanked open the drawers and grabbed a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, pulling them on and ignoring the condemning stare of the stuffed toy.
Becca was too proud to let him see her cry, but he’d seen the look in her eye when she left. He’d been so sure he wouldn’t hurt her this time. He’d never imagined that hurting her might be the only way to protect her…from him.
He picked up the bear, squeezing it tight in his hand.
What the hell have I done?
He hurled the bear across the room. It hit the wall with a quiet thud and slid to the floor. Unable to look himself in the eye, he turned from the mirror and stalked out of the room.
Was this what his life would be from now on? Helping others but keeping no happiness for himself? And really, did he have any right to be angry or sad or whatever the fuck he was feeling when it was his own dumbass fault?
…
Becca stared at The Post, words like “promising,” “inspirational,” and “moving” swimming before her eyes. She’d read the critic’s write-up on her work half a dozen times, and she still couldn’t tell if the review was good or bad. The biggest night of her career, and she couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
Talk about a sad state of affairs.
Even sadder was the fact that she’d cried herself to sleep, just like the old days. Definitely not how she’d imagined celebrating her first gallery exhibit. Of course, she hadn’t imagined Jax getting shitfaced and breaking up with her, either, so it just went to show how unpredictable life could be.
But it wasn’t unpredictable was it? Hadn’t she known all along this would happen? Wasn’t this why she had the stupid three-date rule in the first place? Jax had taught her that lesson at fifteen. And here he was, offering a refresher course ten years later.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
She should’ve listened to her gut. Instead, she’d listened to her heart and look where that had landed her. Home alone, nursing a broken heart, and feeling like she’d been dropped in a vat of Jell-O. The whole world was muted. The sights, the sounds, the colors. Hell, even her movement was sluggish.
A broken heart will do that to you.
And her heart was broken. It was the real deal this time. Shattered into a million tiny shards she couldn’t even fathom piecing back together. It was still too fresh. The pain cut like a knife, leaving her raw and exposed and weak.
God, she was weak, wasn’t she? Especially when it came to Jax. He was a habit she just couldn’t kick.
Jax.
Against her better judgment, she’d let him in—again—and now she was paying the price. Again. Only it was worse this time, so much worse. She loved him. And that pain? It was visceral, cutting her down in ways she wouldn’t wish on her worst enemy. She’d never felt anything like it. Her heart ached for what she’d lost, what they’d lost.
Even breathing hurt.
Pressing a hand to her mouth, she suppressed a sob, refusing to let another pass her lips no matter how damaged she felt. She’d been so naive, thinking he wouldn’t hurt her again. Believing he’d changed. Fine, maybe he had changed. Hell, he’d proven it time and again. But in the end, it hadn’t mattered. Maybe they just weren’t meant to be. Maybe she was one of those dark, lonely artists destined to suffer for her craft. Because after everything she’d done, after all the changes she made in her own life—changing her name, her appearance, her attitude—she’d landed in the same place.
Broken. Miserable. Alone.
A fresh wave of tears leaked down her cheeks. How could she be so careless with her heart? She’d known from the start that letting Jax slip past her defenses was a bad idea. She’d even known he was the one man who could eviscerate her, drawing her in with his good looks and charm. So why had she let him talk her into it?
And breaking her three-date rule? That was just asking for trouble. Sure their time together had been amazing, some of the best weeks of her life, but in the end, it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. She would never be enough.
Pulling a tissue from the box in her lap, she wiped her nose.
The way he’d looked at her last night, his eyes flat and uncaring? That wasn’t the same man she’d fallen in love with, the man who’d lit a fire in her soul, finding passion she hadn’t even known existed. It couldn’t be. She refused to believe it.
Not that it mattered, given how he’d stood her up and kicked her out of his apartment all in the span of one night. She slumped in her chair. Not her finest hour. Or his.
So what had happened to make him lash out like that?
No.
She would not waste any more time making excuses for Jackson Hart. Nor would she waste any more tears on him. She’d found a way to get over him once before, and dammit, she’d do it again. No matter how difficult and soul-crushing it proved to be.
After all, she was an artist. She’d find a way to channel her pain into her work, and she’d come out the other side better for it. Jax may have broken her heart, but he would not break her.
She was Brooklyn strong. Always had been, always would be.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jax stepped through the door to Mancini’s feeling like an intruder. Even with Chris’s invitation it didn’t feel right being there. Not after what he’d done to Becca. Guilt and shame washed over him, hitting him harder than the blast of cool air the ancient AC was pumping out.
It wasn’t fucking right. He wasn’t fucking right.
He turned to leave.
“Hey, Jax! Get your ass back in here.” Chris slung a bar towel over the shoulder of his Yankees jersey. “They’re just about to throw out the
first pitch.”
Resigned to his fate, he joined his friend, taking a seat at the end of the bar where he could watch the big screen in peace.
Chris slid a bottle of lager across the bar.
“Thanks, man.”
“Forget about it,” Chris replied, eyes glued to the screen.
They watched the top of the first in silence. The Yankees got a runner on base, but failed to score. Chris hollered at the TV like the hot-blooded New Yorker he was, while Jax nursed his beer silently. Guilt gnawed at his gut. Why the hell had Chris asked him to stop in anyway?
He glanced around the bar, half expecting to see Becca come prancing out of the kitchen in one of her funky T-shirts. But no, Chris had assured him she wouldn’t be there. She was going into Manhattan, which inspired an entirely different flurry of unpleasant emotions.
Was she at Stout tonight, looking for his replacement? His shoulders slumped. Even if she was, he had no right to feel anything but happy for her. This was his choice. And he wanted her to be happy. The last thing he wanted was for her to be miserable like him.
Still, the idea of her moving on so quickly hurt like a motherfucker.
When he looked up, Chris was staring at him. Okay, maybe glaring would be a better word for it. Not that he didn’t deserve it. He sure as hell did. Frankly, he counted himself lucky his old friend hadn’t dragged him into the back alley and beat the piss out of him…yet.
“I should kick your ass, you know.”
Jax nodded. What could he say? He’d been thinking the very same thing.
“I haven’t see Frankie like this since she was a kid.” Chris braced his arms against the shiny bar. “I don’t get it, man. I mean, I’m all for the single life, but if you’re both so effing miserable apart, why aren’t you together?”
“It’s complicated,” he muttered, taking a pull on his beer. The icy lager slid down his throat easily, reminding him of the last time he’d touched alcohol. The last time he’d lost control. That wouldn’t happen again. Not that it mattered. He had nothing left to lose.
Seducing the Fireman (Risky Business) Page 16
