She still wanted Dave.
He imagined her as a sun. Her gravity always threatened to pull him in, but as long as he stayed a safe distance, the warmth sustained him. Sometimes he came away with a well-deserved sunburn.
He saw how miserable she was. She looked at him with those dangerous eyes and yearned toward him and each time she did, he felt pulled like a magnet to her. He tried several times to make it work with her, but even when he touched her, the agony of the contact overwhelmed him. He thought his bones were going to turn to ash.
“Don’t you know what you do to me?” he asked the last time they’d attempted anything. They’d kissed and he had to jerk away from her before getting fully consumed. He stayed bowed over his thighs with his head in his hands, throbbing, with a roar in his ears.
“Is it that bad?” Frankie asked, her voice dead as she coiled like razor wire, hands clutched into fists at her sides.
“Frankie—”
“You know, you’re the only one… If I could practice, I swear I’d get better.” Frankie Welton’s vulnerability made him want to rip out his heart and gift it to her.
He held the manic laugh behind his teeth as flames whipped around him with the dreaded roaring. Practice. His mouth felt charred, yet she wanted practice. She mistook his expression as mockery and the air sucked out of the apartment.
Thank God, she didn’t actually burst into flame like some goddammed superhero or bring the house down in a blaze like Firestarter. Jesus Christ, her expression. The look could reduce whole deserts to glass fields.
Frankie Fucking Welton.
Who would keep him safe from her?
When her mother had passed away in 2010, he’d thought she would move to California to be with the people still paying him a fortune to train her.
Protect her.
Watch her.
Frankie hadn’t cried. She’d dug in deeper and refused to move. He suspected Ellen’s fits imprinted her with a fear that kept her away. As much as Frankie Welton feared anything anyway.
Things settled down as she focused on her job and trained harder than ever. He handled her more carefully and she blazed like a comet, pulling him behind in her tail.
No one touched Frankie Welton. She was a force of nature.
They fell into a comfortable routine. He found a girlfriend to dull the ache. He had Frankie and their mutual friends. Frankie moved up the rankings as an amateur fighter. As her trainer, his gym became more successful. His star was on the rise.
Then, unexpectedly, Amy passed away.
Frankie finally chose new life. She leaped from the nest and flew to California and the fate that always waited for her decision.
Her glorious wings fell across the sun.
The moment she walked through security and out of sight—he was plunged into absolute darkness.
He went a little crazy in the cold and dark.
“I’m coming out there,” he shouted into the phone at Mr. California. The man who started all of this. The asshole who provided his money and took the woman he loved. He must love Frankie. Why hadn’t he just thrown himself into her sun? Better that than the blind fumbling. He felt numb and frozen.
“You’re not getting on a plane,” came the response, his voice flat and unconcerned.
“The fuck I’m not. I can’t…I cannot handle it here without her. I—” He was babbling and breathless. His chest felt too tight.
“Listen, kid. You’re going to reach down between your legs and grip the withered prunes you call balls and squeeze them until they swell up to grow you a functioning pair. While you do that, you are going to pull your own head out of your asshole and wait. Am I clear? Do you understand me?” He spoke as he would a child.
Dave was torn between a sob of rage and grief. What was happening to him? Dave Yarrow, Mixed Martial Arts fighter and trainer, was having a complete breakdown. He felt like a kid right now. He closed his eyes and imagined Ellen foaming at the mouth and drew in a calming breath. Crazy.
“Clear?” the man asked, his voice mild.
“No! I don’t understand. I love her.”
“Boy, you don’t love her. You didn’t want her burning you up like a candle wick. Remember? She’s safe here. Protected and adored. Your duty is done. I’ll send your last payment and—”
“Fuck you. And fuck your payment.”
“Oh. I think your balls are dropping a little. Next your voice will start changing. For fuck’s sake. Grow up.” The smug bastard sounded so pleased. That son of a bitch.
“I’m telling you. I am going to be there.”
In the following silence, he thought the line went dead. At last he heard a small chuckle. “You’ll wait. You’ll know when it’s right. And for fuck’s sake, man up and break up with that bimbo between now and then or the burning will be the least of your problems. Clear?”
And the line went dead.
Chapter 2
Celebration of Life
August 2015
Frankie gripped one hand into a fist at her side and the other around the stem of her glass. The party was in full swing and she felt as far from the joy on display as she was from the sun. Every titter of laughter made a spark of anger flare along the nape of her neck and shoot down the hole in her chest.
They didn’t need to act so happy that her aunt Amy was dead.
Another peal of laughter rang from a table packed with women in flamboyant flowery dresses and she gritted her teeth, tasting ash under her tongue.
Assholes.
She took solace in the familiar ritual of threat assessment, measuring her future opponents. These were potential rivals, and adversaries.
Or possible allies, the voice of Intuition murmured in her head, but she drowned it with a deep drink of wine.
It was disturbing how her Intuition suddenly developed a voice. It was one thing to have feelings about future events and quite another to have a life coach whispering in the back of her head. Maybe she was going crazy like her—
No, Intuition murmured, then fell silent.
She kept the strangers at a distance. They were so uptight they squeaked as they prowled around her parameter. None of them knew how to handle her. They smiled hopefully but their eager expressions faded when she stared back. She wasn’t playing along with their farce.
Amy was dead.
Like her mother, Ellen, and father, Frank. Frankie was now the last Welton. She was not okay with it and she’d be damned if she would pretend.
Her knuckles ached to hit something. Maybe that big woman in the taffeta dress, howling like a gibbon.
‘Amy wanted the event to be a happy occasion,’ Barbara Harris-Wallace, Amy’s best friend, had told her. ‘She’s in a better place.’
What sort of madness was that? Why did Amy think anyone would be happy she wasn’t there?
Frankie tossed back the rest of the wine without tasting it. Luckily, a swanky server in chef coat and long apron appeared beside her as though by magic. She snagged another drink, resisting the urge to extend her middle finger when he grinned at her. Instead she glared until he moved on.
‘That’s right, bud,’ she thought, ‘just keep going. Don’t give me an excuse to stomp your neck.’
She lifted the wineglass to her mouth, poised to throw that one down her throat like the four prior. Something stopped her. A cold spot in the room. Everyone was grinning, and laughing too loud over the harp and piano music.
Except the gathering around the memorial.
Those people were definitely not playing along.
She watched them with a prickle of warning tightening her muscles. They were dressed in tailored suits and expensive shoes but no amount of polish could conceal the threat in their postures. These were carnivores masked like the flock. The cold snapped around them and she smelled the frost.
The center of their focus was a small blond man. He leaned insolently into the table, one ass cheek poised on the edge. Even from the distance, Frankie could see his mout
h moving, his silver eyes half lidded as he smirked. Every word he formed made the group coil tighter.
She strode toward them. Frankie Welton stood six-foot-two in socks. With the weight and strength of years of fight training, she moved with a purpose despite the painful heels. The celebrating crowd swirled and parted for her.
Tension cracked as a huge man broke ranks. He looked like a grizzly bear with his long black hair unbound and wild. Drawing himself up, he shoved a finger down at the blond. Behind the ragged brown beard his face was almost purple.
The movement didn’t trouble the small man, who leaned toward the giant, smiling. His mouth formed words behind a curling mustache and pointed beard.
Frankie couldn’t hear him but she read it. “…you? Or Him?”
One golden eyebrow arched, his features poised in question while the cutting smirk curved lazily up. It was like watching someone slip a knife between the other man’s ribs. The bear jerked and grunted out a shocked breath.
The group gasped and several people leaped for the larger man, grabbing his arm before he could swing. Blondie tipped his head, standing to advance on the huge man, antagonizing him.
That son of a bitch.
As if this celebration wasn’t bad enough, that little shit was trying to start a fight?
Abso-fucking-lutely not on Frankie’s watch.
“I am paying my respect,” the blond said in response to some outcry. His gaze passed over Frankie and she saw a glimmer of guilt before it was masked by an arrogant smirk.
The expression goaded the guests and their voices lifted in protest, others answered in defense. The opposing forces clashed together, surging to a peak.
Frankie’s fist tightened around the glass until wine sloshed over her knuckles. A familiar metallic thrill sparked in the back of her throat. She understood their need to fight. Hell, she longed to join them.
Easy. Don’t let this get out of hand, Intuition warned.
“Hey,” she called, close enough to smell the aftershave on the gathered men. “Is this any way to honor my—”
In the grasp of the other men, the bear whirled on her. His gaze was slick and desperate, his mouth parted and panting. Pain twisted like hot wire around him, an echo of her own grief.
‘Yes. I feel you.’ She wanted to roar, gripping the glass.
He did not see her. Instead, his red-ringed gaze lashed out, attempting to tear into her.
A memory pulsed behind her eyes. Ellen in the hospital, gripping her hands with her eyes wide, slippery whites around bulging blue yokes. ‘You have to hide. Hide. They will find you and they will kill you if you go!’
The image swept away under the pain lancing through her temples. The taste of burnt sage filled her mouth. Her heart drilled up her throat, trying to hammer through her teeth. Instinctively, she shoved back against the sensation, throwing up walls to hide. Hide!
Through a haze of scarlet, she saw the big man’s body spasm in agony as though she had punched him. Sanity flickered in his expression like a distant light switching on.
“Sebastian,” the blond snarled.
Sebastian made a sound like an animal caught in a trap. When he jerked his attention off Frankie, the little man punched his baffled face. The dark head snapped to the side and he grunted in surprise, but the impact didn’t sway him.
The enchantment holding Frankie fractured with that crack of knuckles on flesh.
Sucking in a burning lungful of air, she stumbled back and slammed into something hard enough to rattle her teeth.
The glass jarred from her grip, drenching her in wine before shattering at her feet. The ring of breaking crystal vibrated through her, piercing the spot in the center of her sternum. It shattered something binding her and her heart stuttered to life with a painful wrenching sensation.
“Careful.” A hand grasped her bare shoulder, steadying her. His tone and the warmth of the touch matched the texture of soft cashmere against her exposed back. A thick arm curved around her, offering support while her heels scraped on the wet floor. The huge hand splayed against her hip with comfortable familiarity.
She spun toward the human wall and found herself cocking her head back to look up at a man who offered her a delighted smile. Golden-green eyes regarded her with amusement in those jungle shadows. In that moment, despite the pain in her head and chest, she felt grounded.
“Frankie Welton,” he breathed out her name as though in tribute.
Contrasting the turmoil around them, his expression was full of tranquil ease, as though nothing could blemish the perfect moment. Black hair fell in neat curls across his brows, his skin swarthy dark in contrast to the luminous gaze she found lost herself in.
A distant part of her mind whispered that time did not stand still. She had not just stepped out into brilliant sunshine. The social awkwardness would crash down at any moment.
His long fingers flexed, squeezing her shoulder, then her hip. The sensation made her stomach coil in unfamiliar satisfaction. It was perfect, yet completely alien to her.
“I’ve got you, Sunkist,” he assured her, like a victory. His head bowed, close enough for his peppermint breath to stir her curls. “It’s only my uncle and… Watch out.” His tone hardened as he ensnared her in his arms.
“Sunkist? You have the count of three to get your hands off me you son of a—” she snapped, but the words and breath were forced from her lungs as he yanked her backward. One emerald pump went flying as he spun her off her feet. The novelty of looking up at the big man was eclipsed by his power and speed.
He swept her up and into his arms as if she weighed nothing. As though it were natural to put his hands on her and whirl her about. As if they had been doing this forever. Her blood roared in her ears with a battle cry, for she was no delicate damsel who needing saving. She was a fighter.
She did not get handled this way.
No one touched her.
It was dangerous.
Except that it felt right. It silenced the ache in her. Not only the burning between her eyes but old aches she never realized existed. Her eyes stung with foreign emotions.
The blond hit the floor with a bone-rattling crash right where she’d been standing. Agile as a cat, he rolled, twisting to spring back to his feet. He remained crouched low, ready to continue the fight.
The human wall set her down and pushed in front of her, pressing his palm against her wine-soaked stomach to keep her back. “What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” His voice sent an unexpected thrill through her. It wasn’t loud but it cut through the din around them.
One foot bare, the other unbalanced by the heel, she wobbled as her world twirled off its axis point. She spun out of sync with reality. The air felt too hot and she couldn’t seem to get enough into her lungs.
Do not pass out, Intuition said with a chuckle. She fixed her eyes on the broad shoulders in front of her.
Silence filled the room, all eyes shifting to the commotion. The blond straightened, smoothing a hand down his elegant suit.
“Peace, Christopher. Mercy.”
Frankie stepped to the side, arms crossing over her chest and thrust her chin forward. The little man shifted his attention to her. A pleased smile tugged his mouth as he inclined his head and pressed his fist to his chest.
The movement was odd, performed slowly and laced with something meaningful she should understand. Unfortunately, the deeper meaning nested in the subtle cues were ones she couldn’t possibly decipher.
“Frankie Welton,” he said with a depth of respect that unbalanced her. He held her gaze with steely appraisal. “I am sorry for your loss.” The dangerous silver eyes narrowed and the smile fell away. The gaze went over the scars on her face, settled on her broken nose and returned to her eyes. His mouth tightened and a look of absolute fury burned in his expression. He shot a look back to the human wall and tipped his head in the same deep respect. “Christopher Harris-Wallace. You take care of her, boy.”
“With my life
and on my honor.” He spoke as though it were a verbal ritual with even more pieces she couldn’t connect.
“Hey, you little shit. What is this about?” Frankie snapped, jabbing a finger toward the huge man being restrained. She stared down her crooked nose at the blond. “You have some balls.”
Rather than being intimidated, he laughed. “Damn right I do. Sebby needed an attitude adjustment. My timing was poor.” His manners turned solicitous as he offered a courtly bow. “Have mercy, lady.” Even though he’d been thrown to the floor, the man didn’t suffer more than the ruin of his expensive suit.
Her fingers curled into a fist as she drew herself up taller. He seemed as worried about her advance as he had been about the bear. “I’m no lady.”
The wall, Christopher, sighed and shifted his posture, his hand settling against the small of her back. “Frankie.”
Warmth spread through her from the point of his palm to the sore center of her chest. Rather than the edged scraping she associated with physical touch, this felt silken and tingly. Pleasant.
That made this and him even more dangerous.
“Don’t,” she warned, side-stepping his touch and into the cold.
There was no mistaking the disappointment as his long fingers curled into the space she vacated, as though keeping hold of the warmth she left behind.
The blond man breathed out a rumbling sigh, squinting up at Frankie. “I must depart. Be careful.” Without waiting for a response, he turned and sauntered to the faction of tough-looking men in tailored suits.
He fixed his opponent with an unwavering stare and tapped the corner of his eye. Then, he drew back, snatching a napkin from a baffled server on the way out.
She started forward to catch up with him and demand answers but Christopher blocked her path. He didn’t touch her this time, but he said her name again and she looked up at him.
“Are you all right?”
The way he asked made her pulse thrum. “What the hell is going on?” She lifted a hand to rub her temples, where the throbbing pain still ran in time with her heartbeat.
“He and my uncle go way back. His name’s Mambo and it’s best to let him go unless you want to duel it out here.” Christopher glanced around pointedly and she followed his look, realizing they were the center of the room’s attention. “Do you know how to duel?”
Lies That Blind Page 2
