by Tara Wyatt
Her smile faded. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, just a little sore.”
“Where?”
He leaned forward and lifted his shirt enough so she could see the baseball-sized bruise emerging on his lower back. “I tried to turn away from it, but I wasn’t fast enough.”
She let out a small hissing sound. “Shit, Hunter, that looks really painful. I’m gonna get you some ice.”
“Really, I’m fine.” But she was already halfway to the kitchen. He smiled to himself. He had to admit, it was nice to have someone fuss over him, even if it was unnecessary. Getting beaned fucking hurt, but it was part of the game, and it was just a bruise. He’d gotten lucky. He’d seen guys get hit with pitches and wind up with concussions, broken hands, or worse.
Marlowe came back with an ice pack wrapped in a towel. She lifted his shirt and pressed it gently to his bruise. He winced a little at the contact and the cold. “How’d rehearsal go?”
She made a little humming sound. “Good. I think we’re ready. I’m so excited to get up on stage again. It’s gonna be great.”
He turned to look at her over his shoulder. “I’m sorry I won’t be there. I could try to get out of this charity thing…”
She shook her head. “It’s okay. I understand. It’s not a big deal.” She bit her lip and adjusted the ice pack slightly. “So…um, I found out today that Dirk released a new song, and I’m like 99.9 percent sure it’s about me.”
Hunter’s eyes narrowed and he turned to face her, setting the ice pack down between them. “What?”
She nodded. “Yeah. I called Chip and basically told him to sic any and all lawyers on Dirk with the message to leave me the hell alone.”
“What the fuck’s his problem?” Hunter’s voice came out louder than he’d intended, but it was hard to hear himself over the blood pounding through his temples. Adrenaline flooded him, making him feel restless.
“I don’t know what kind of game he’s playing. It’s Dirk. He’s a sick bastard. He probably just can’t stand to see me happy, or he’s trying to mess with me just to see if he can. He gets off on stuff like that, on mind games, on trying to control and manipulate people.”
Hunter clenched his jaw and forced himself to take several deep breaths. A protective anger fiercer than anything he’d ever felt coursed through his veins. “Forget the lawyers, maybe I should talk to him.”
Marlowe laid a hand on his forearm, shaking her head. “Don’t. The last thing I want is to drag you into this drama. And besides, you promised me no more wild, remember?”
He took another breath, trying to get a hold on his anger. “It wouldn’t be wild. It would just be me telling him to get fucked.”
A rueful smile tugged at her lips. “That’s sweet, I think, but the lawyers are on it.”
He nodded slowly. “Are you okay?”
She shrugged. “I think so. I was angry when I first heard the song, but now, after sitting with it most of the day, it just seems kind of sad and desperate.” Her eyes met his. “But it didn’t scare me.”
He cupped her cheek, his thumb tracing over her cheekbone. “Good. But however you feel about it, I’m here, okay? If you want to talk or vent, or—”
She cut him off by leaning forward and capturing his mouth with hers. “I can think of something I’d much rather do than talk, and it involves me, you, and that massive shower of yours.”
“Yes ma’am. Your wish is my command.” He rose from the couch and took her hand, leading her down to their bedroom.
Nearly an hour later, Hunter slipped on a clean pair of boxers and pulled back the sheets of his bed. As he slipped between them, he watched Marlowe, perched on the edge of the mattress on her side, wearing one of his old T-shirts—her favorite thing to sleep in—as she massaged the lavender-scented lotion she used every night into her arms and legs. The nightstand on her side, empty in the past, was now hers, holding her lotion, a little purple and white patterned bowl that she dropped her jewelry into, a few books piled haphazardly on top of each other, and a small vase holding a few pink and purple dahlias she’d stolen from the garden. He hadn’t even known what flowers the landscaper he paid to look after the property had planted. It was as though having her here made him see his home through new eyes.
She clicked off the lamp on her nightstand and slid into bed beside him, letting him pull her immediately into his arms. He tucked her against him, the sweet scent of her hair mingling with the lavender and lulling him into a warm sense of comfort. This was home.
Home. The word bounced around his brain and turned into a question he couldn’t stop himself from asking.
“So…what do you plan to do with your house in Nashville?”
“My house?” she asked. Her voice had a sleepy, liquid quality to it, probably thanks in large part to the two orgasms he’d given her.
“Yeah, when are you going to sell it?”
She didn’t say anything, but he felt her stiffen in his arms, her spine going rigid. “Why would I sell it?”
“Because you live here now, with me. This is your home, Marlowe.” I’m your home, he added silently.
She didn’t say anything for a long moment, and he pushed up on to his elbow so he could see her. She rolled onto her back and looked up at him, her face unreadable in the dim light. “I have no plans to sell my house. I know this is my home, but a huge part of my career’s in Nashville. I think it makes sense to keep it, to have a place to call home when I’m working.”
He nodded slowly. “Makes sense. I was just curious.” He kissed her on the lips, a sweet but brief kiss, and then pulled her back into his arms. After a few moments, he heard her breathing slow into long, even breaths as she fell asleep. He stared at her hair as his mind reeled. Objectively, he understood her reasoning for keeping her house. As a country singer, she spent a lot of time in Nashville, and she was right, it made sense to have a place to call home while she was there. And yet…what if she was keeping it as some kind of safety net? What if this was her way of keeping one toe out the door?
He closed his eyes tight and tried to will the thoughts away. He was being ridiculous. Marlowe wanting to keep her house in another city, in another state was fine. Totally, and completely fine.
His eyes traveled over her sleeping silhouette in the darkness. A feeling almost like panic gripped him. What if, no matter how much he loved her, how big and how fierce and how loud, it wouldn’t be enough to stop her from running? He’d spent so much time trying to convince her to trust him, to let him in, that he’d never really asked himself if he trusted her.
He did. Of course he fucking did. She was his wife. He loved her. She loved him.
He held her a bit tighter, trying to ignore the creeping sense of desperation lingering in the back of his brain.
Fourteen
The swanky ballroom in the Four Seasons Dallas was filled with equally swanky guests dressed to the nines, all mingling with other guests, glasses of champagne in their hands as they laughed and talked. A stage was set up at the front of the room where a jazz quartet played old favorites by Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin, the music seeming to float on the air. The far wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling windows, and gold fabric hung in swags from the ceiling. The lights were low, glinting occasionally off of the polished silver trays carried by servers as they circulated among the round tables, offering little bites of food that would leave a mouse hungry. Thankfully, there was also a bar at the back of the room serving nothing but the good stuff. Grey Goose, twelve-year-old single malt, Dom Perignon, and bottles of Sam Adams’ Utopias.
“Thank you so much!” a bubbly blonde cooed at Hunter and Dylan after taking a picture of all three of them together. “My sister’s going to be so jealous.” She checked the photo on her phone and then gave Dylan a lingering look before sashaying away through the crowd. Once her back was turned, Dylan rolled his eyes. She was far from the first woman to make eyes at Dylan tonight, who was flying solo after his girlfriend
Maggie had come down with a bad cold and hadn’t felt up to coming. Hunter smirked and glanced down at his silver wedding band. He’d been left blissfully alone in that department tonight, and he was grateful.
“Maybe I need to get one of those,” said Dylan, tipping his chin at Hunter’s left hand.
Hunter shot him a grin. “Maybe you do.”
“Believe me, it’s crossed my mind. But I don’t wanna rush things and scare her off. She only just moved in.”
“I highly doubt Maggie’s going anywhere.” As he spoke, an unexpected tinge of jealousy burned in Hunter’s chest. Maggie was in it for good with Dylan—it was completely obvious in a way that it wasn’t with Marlowe. For starters, Maggie wasn’t hanging on to a house on the other side of the country, keeping one foot out the door.
No. He wasn’t going to let himself go down that road. With a shake of his head, he pushed the thought away, bringing his attention back to the party in full swing around him.
The Scott Foundation’s annual charity dinner and gala was a fixture on the Dallas social scene calendar, bringing out five hundred of the city’s wealthiest citizens to wine and dine with local celebrities, participate in a silent auction, and spend $1,000 a plate for a charitable cause. Hunter took a swig of his beer as a man holding a Longhorns cap and a Sharpie approached them, clearly seeking an autograph. After chatting for a few minutes about the season and the team’s postseason hopes, the man headed back toward his table. Hunter moved the sleeve of his suit jacket up just enough so he could glance at his watch. He felt restless and he knew it was because he was in the wrong place. He should’ve been over at the House of Blues, watching Marlowe’s show from the front row. He should’ve bailed on this stuffy gala to support her. Maybe she was still keeping that little bit of distance—or, at least, what felt like distance to him—between them because he wasn’t being supportive enough. Any husband worth anything would be at his wife’s show, plain and simple.
He pushed a hand through his hair and then drained the last of his beer, trying to tamp down the edge of tension he hadn’t been able to shake for the past few days.
“I shouldn’t have come tonight,” he muttered, more to himself than to anyone.
Dylan’s head swiveled to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“Marlowe’s show is tonight. That’s where I should be.”
“So why aren’t you?” Dylan asked as if it were the most obvious question in the world.
Before Hunter could answer, the lights dimmed and a voice came over the loudspeaker. “Ladies and gentleman, we’re pleased to present tonight’s special musical guest. All the way from Nashville to perform his new single, please give a warm Texas welcome to Dirk Marshall!”
A curtain rose at the back of the stage, revealing a band and Dirk, who stood in front of a microphone, a guitar in his hands. Singing about Marlowe. Singing about Hunter’s goddamned wife.
Red tinged the edges of Hunter’s vision and his fists clenched painfully at his sides, his feet rooted to the spot. Tension radiated down his neck, his jaw tight. His heart hammered so loudly in his ears that he could barely hear the song, but it didn’t matter. He’d already listened to it after Marlowe had told him about it. Listened to it and hated every second of it.
The overwhelming urge to storm the stage, rip the guitar out of Dirk’s hands and pummel him gripped Hunter, making it hard to breathe. Making it hard to think about anything but connecting his knuckles with the man’s jaw. He wanted to make him pay, make him hurt, make him bleed for what he’d done to Marlowe. For putting his hands on her. For fucking with her head and breaking her heart. For making her feel alone and scared. For making her think she wasn’t worthy of love.
I’m going to kill him. I’m going to fucking rip his motherfucking head off. I’m going to break every single one of his fingers, then I’m going to break his nose, and then I’m going to break his teeth. And it still won’t be enough for what he did to Marlowe.
The thoughts churned in his brain as the song continued until Hunter’s entire body was tense, taut with hot fury. With a Herculean effort, he turned and stalked through the crowd, heading for the bar, knowing he needed to get a hold of himself and his rampaging anger.
The bar was tucked away at the back of the room, and was currently empty, as everyone was enjoying Dirk’s performance.
“Shot of whiskey,” he barked at the bartender. A shot glass full of amber liquid appeared before him in record time, and feeling guilty, Hunter tossed a $100 bill down on the bar, hoping the tip would compensate for his shitty attitude. He could feel the control he had over his temper slipping; he was barely hanging on by his fingertips. He needed numbness. He needed some semblance of calm if he had any hope of controlling himself. His fingers wrapped around the cool glass and he knocked the drink back, savoring the calming burn down the center of his chest.
“Another,” he said, leaning heavily against the bar. He thought he’d made progress with all of his impulse control issues, centered as he’d felt with Marlowe in his life, but apparently he’d just been fooling himself this entire time. One look at Dirk and he was ready to jump on the stage and raise hell. Lifting the shot glass to his lips, he took a long, deep breath and then downed it, letting its soothing warmth flow into his limbs. He set his glass down with a clack and the bartender refilled it immediately, but this time, Hunter didn’t reach for it.
Marlowe had told him she didn’t want him to get involved in her problems, in her past. He’d promised her that if she gave them a chance, he’d turn over a new leaf. Hell, he’d even promised Javi that his days of punching people were done. He’d be breaking a lot of promises and letting a lot of people down with just one swing of his restless fist.
It wasn’t worth it. He knew that now. Knew that his impulses weren’t as important as his words. As his actions. Marlowe made him want to be a better man, and the only way he could be that man was by actually being better. Knowing better and doing better.
He slid onto the barstool and nursed his drink, lingering over it as he fought with himself. And he almost felt like he’d won. Almost.
But then Dirk slid onto the barstool beside him, a wry smirk on his face, and all of Hunter’s hard won control flew out the window.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” said Dirk, signaling to the bartender for a drink. He glanced at Hunter, a cocky glint in his eyes. “Though you’ve got your work cut out for you with that one. She don’t listen real good.” He leaned in a little closer. “Between you and me, I dodged a bullet with her.”
Hunter tossed back the rest of his drink, feeling more settled than he had all night now that he’d decided he was going to kick the shit out of Dirk. He dropped his feet to the floor and leaned against the bar, facing him. A muscle in his jaw jumped, tense with coiled energy. “That why you’re still writing songs about her?” He took a step closer, invading Dirk’s space. Dirk wasn’t small, but Hunter was bigger. Probably stronger and faster too, he was willing to bet.
Dirk made a dismissive noise. “She needs to learn that not everything I do is about her.” He took a long pull on his drink. “She always had a way of twisting things. It’s why I had to let her go.”
“Funny, I heard a different version of the story.”
“And what version’s that?” asked Dirk, trying to appear disinterested, but Hunter could tell he was making him nervous, and it felt damn good.
“The version where you put your hands on her.”
Dirk, clearly lacking any sense of self-preservation, grinned. He almost looked proud. And that grin shredded the last of Hunter’s restraint. He walked into him, putting them nose to nose and chest to chest. “Which means I’m about to put my hands on you.” He shoved him, hard, sending him stumbling back a few feet. Anger twisted Dirk’s features into something ugly and cruel. Revulsion and protective anger shuddered through Hunter when he thought about Marlowe being on the receiving end of that kind of rage.
“You threatening me?”
“It’s more than a threat.” And then he swung his fist, connecting with Dirk’s jaw. Pain sang through his hand and up his arm, only making him want more. Dirk fought back, and the crowd erupted into shouts and cries as they fought, punching and shoving. Brawling, in the middle of the gala until Dirk lay on the floor, blood tricking down his face, with Hunter standing over him, chest heaving, adrenaline charging through his veins. Hands pulled him away—Dylan’s hands—but they were quickly replaced by much firmer, rougher hands. Event security.
All of the fight went out of Hunter and his shoulders slumped. Fuck.
“This him?” he heard a voice from behind him, and then he felt the cold kiss of metal on his wrists. As the cop read him his rights, Hunter knew that in the span of a few minutes, he might’ve just ruined everything.
Hunter stared at the phone in front of him, trying to find the guts to pick it up with his ink-stained fingers. His knuckles ached, his lip was split and the sleeve of his dress shirt was ripped. But how he looked was nothing compared to how he felt. How was he supposed to tell Marlowe what he’d done? But he had to find a way. At the very least, he owed her an explanation as to why he wouldn’t be coming home tonight.
“Time’s a ticking, Blake,” said the cop behind the desk in a bored tone as he turned the page in his newspaper. “You gonna make a call or not?”
“Yeah,” he said gruffly and picked up the receiver, dialing Marlowe’s number. As he’d anticipated, it went to voice mail. She was probably either still on stage, or enjoying the after party. Something in his chest clenched at the sound of her voice on her recorded message. His heart slammed against his ribs and he had to force his mouth to move after the tone.
“Hey, it’s me. Uh…listen. I’m okay, but I won’t be home tonight. It…” He swallowed thickly, hating himself a little bit more with every word. “Dirk was at the gala, and we got in a fight. So I’ll be crashing in jail tonight.” He sighed heavily. “I’m so sorry, Marlowe. I just…fuck, I’m just real sorry. For everything. I love you.” He hung up the phone and was immediately taken to his cell. The door slid closed with a jarring clank, sealing him in to stew in his own thoughts for the night.
