PAIGE
“ASHES TO ASHES, dust to dust.”
Beneath her hand, Mikey’s arm felt hard as granite, muscles straining against the fabric of his Marine dress blues. His face might have been carved from stone. He sat at full military attention, unmoving and untouched. He’d barely spoken a word in days, had shown no emotion. No highs, no lows. He simply radiated an unwavering tension so thick it nearly suffocated her. It was as though he were holding himself together with some giant, invisible rubber band that drew increasingly taut. When it reached the inevitable breaking point, he would explode, splattering pieces of himself from here to Kingdom Come.
It wasn’t something she looked forward to witnessing.
Because there was to be no burial, Reverend Moody was holding the committal ceremony here at the funeral home. The place wasn’t air conditioned, and from where she sat in a hard wooden chair in the front row, she could hear people behind her fanning themselves with their programs.
Please let this be over soon. Please let this be over soon.
Directly behind her, someone coughed. She took a quick, illicit glance around. Dad and Casey were here, as were both sets of Mikey’s parents, half a dozen cousins, and all available aunts and uncles. The family had come to rally around him, and it was gratifying to see them here. She recognized a number of faces. Many more were strangers. Even Amy Tardiff was here, sitting in the back row wearing a navy dress and pearls. Was she here for Gunther, or for Mikey? Did it really matter? She’d come to pay her respects. As had everyone else in the room. Everybody knew Gunther. And everybody, it seemed, had liked the man.
Paige tried to ignore the empty seat on Mikey’s other side, the one marked RESERVED. The seat he’d saved for Gunther’s daughter, on the off chance that the woman might actually show up. She’d known the chances were slim, but still she wanted to bitch-slap Jenell for not caring enough about her father to even attempt to make it to his funeral.
Reverend Moody ended the ceremony. Mikey stood as Gunther’s flag was folded and presented to him. For the next half-hour, while he stood rigid and emotionless, she stayed beside him, her arm looped through his, as every person here greeted him and uttered their condolences. The place was sweltering, the dog days of late summer sinking their razor-sharp canines into anyone foolish enough to venture away from the air conditioner. By the time things wrapped up, her yellow linen dress was soaked through, and she wouldn’t be surprised to hear that she smelled like the hind end of a sheep. Paige had smelled the hind end of a sheep, up close and personal—Casey raised sheep—and it wasn’t pretty.
They drove back to his place in silence, the bag that held Gunther’s ashes and his flag sitting on the bench seat between them. Inside the trailer, Mikey disappeared into the bedroom. While he was gone, she went around turning on fans. Spike lay beneath the kitchen table, sprawled flat on the floor, where it was cooler. She filled his water dish, lifted thick, tangled hair off the back of her neck.
Mikey returned, once again a civilian, wearing a pair of boxer shorts and a tee shirt. “I’m taking a shower,” he said.
Paige wandered into the bedroom and peeled off her dress. In just her underwear, she stood in front of the fan. The movement of the air helped, but the air being moved was still sticky and intolerably hot.
“Screw it,” she said, and took off the rest of her clothes, padded barefoot into the bathroom, and opened the shower curtain.
He looked up, and for a long, electric moment, their gazes locked. He made a slow perusal of her, from head to feet, stopping at all points of interest in between. “Seen enough?” she said, and stepped into the tub and closed the curtain around them.
“I can’t—” he started.
“Shut up. This isn’t a democracy. Turn around.”
He turned and leaned into the wall, forehead and palms braced against the smooth plastic of the tub enclosure. Paige found a bottle of body wash, poured a generous puddle into her palm, and worked up a good lather in the tepid water.
She started with his neck, soapy hands slithering on wet skin, massaging tight muscles. Moved to his shoulders, spent a fair amount of time there, fingers working to release the tension. One at a time, she massaged his biceps, traced a soapy trail along the path of his tattoos and down his forearms.
He made a soft sound that was either pleasure or protest. She worked her way back to his shoulders, then down his broad, muscled back, fingers digging deep into the flesh around his ribs. When her knuckles brushed gently across taut buttocks, he let out an audible breath.
Paige took a step back, soaped herself thoroughly as she watched his back expand and contract with each breath. She returned to him, wrapped her arms around him from behind and pressed her soapy body against his. When her hands stroked up and down his chest, he shuddered.
“Don’t,” he said.
Ignoring him, she moved her hands lower, past rock-hard abs, past his navel, to find him hard and erect, yet silken soft against her fingers, the conundrum that was man. She stroked him, teased him, soapy hands slipping and gliding. “Stop,” he said.
“No.”
“I can’t.” His voice was ragged. “Shower…I’ll fall.”
“You won’t fall.”
“I only have one goddamn leg!”
“And I won’t let you fall. Do you hear me, Michael? I. Will. Not. Let. You. Fall.” She pressed a kiss to his shoulder, right below the tattoo that said Rachel. “Never. Ever.”
In one smooth and powerful motion, he reached behind him, peeled her off his back, and shoved her against the wall. Both of them breathing hard, they looked at each other for a second or two. Then she seized his hips, fingers biting into his flesh with such force that she knew he’d have bruises tomorrow. He spread open her legs, she yanked him closer, and he drove into her.
This wasn’t lovemaking. This was sex, hard and violent and electrifying. The grab bar dug into her spine, but she didn’t care. The water streaming over them turned cold, but neither of them noticed. All his anger, all his fury, he poured into her. And she took it, welcomed it, gave back as much as she got.
The explosion left them gasping, shuddering and limp. Paige clung to the slippery wall, her legs trembling so hard they barely held her up. The frigid water cascaded over them. Beneath her fingertips, his skin was pebbled with goosebumps. His face lay buried in her hair, each labored breath a gust of hot air against her cheek.
And then he pulled free from her. Beneath the spray of icy water, he rinsed her stickiness from his body. The ancient trailer pipes clanked when he turned off the faucet. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Like you think I’m your goddamn white knight, come to rescue you. I’m not. There’s nothing white about me. My soul is as black as the pits of hell.” He reached for his crutch, released the bar, and swung himself out of the tub. Stood there, still naked, water running in rivulets from his body onto the rug. “I can’t do this.”
And he hobbled off to the bedroom, leaving her standing there, naked and wet and freezing.
She wrapped herself in a plaid flannel robe she found hanging on the back of the bathroom door and went after him. Mikey lay sprawled on the bed, a forearm resting across his eyes. “Can’t do what?” she demanded.
He lifted his arm. “This—whatever the hell it is that we’re doing. You. Me. I can’t do it.” He returned the arm to his forehead, blocking his view of her. “I want you to leave. Will you just leave?”
“I don’t understand. You want me to go home?”
“I want you to go back to California.”
Fear knotted her stomach, wound its way to her heart, and wrapped around it like a boa constrictor. Take a deep breath, she told herself. This is the meltdown. You knew it was coming.
“Come on, Lindstrom,” she said, trying, without much success, to hide the tremor in her voice. “You’re having a bad day. You just said goodbye to your best friend. You’re stressed to the max, and—”
“I’m not having a bad day.” The resignation in his voice tore at her heart. “I’m having a bad life.”
“Then fix it! We can make it better. Whatever it takes, we can fix it.”
He slowly sat up on the edge of the mattress, presenting that broad expanse of back to her. “That’s the thing,” he said. “It can’t be fixed.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course, it can be fixed. Everything can be fixed.”
“You think so?” Resignation turned to anger so suddenly it made her dizzy. He spun in her direction. “If that was true, I wouldn’t be sitting here with one leg, would I? I wouldn’t be half a fucking man! They haven’t found a way to fix that yet, have they?”
“You didn’t hear any complaints from me in there, did you?” She jerked her head in the direction of the bathroom.
“I’m toxic, MacKenzie. A dead man walking. I can’t work for you. I can’t be responsible for you. I can’t be with you. I ruin people’s lives. Sometimes, I get them killed.”
“So, what, now you’re going to be a goddamn martyr? You are not responsible for what happened to Gunther!”
“Yes!” he shouted. “Yes, I am! I was supposed to have his back. I was always supposed to have his back! He always had mine. That’s the way it worked. We took care of each other. But that’s not what I did!” He stopped, struggled for breath. “I dropped the ball. I fucked up, and now he’s dead. I do a lot of fucking up.” The bitterness in his voice was inescapable. “This wasn’t the first time. It won’t be the last.”
She couldn’t feel her lips. Where the hell had her lips disappeared to? “You’re a control freak, Lindstrom. You need to let go of it. You’re trying to save the whole world. That’s too much responsibility for one man to carry. There’s no reason you should have to.”
“I have a responsibility to the people I love!”
“Your only responsibility is to love them. Everything else is on them.”
“You don’t understand!”
“No, I don’t, because I love you!” She could hear the hysteria in her own voice, but couldn’t seem to control it.
“I love you, too, goddamn it! But we can’t be together!”
This was crazy. His logic made no sense. He was just reacting to Gunther’s death. Tomorrow, he’d come to his senses. He’d tell her what a damn fool he’d been, he’d beg for forgiveness, and they’d go back to their plans for the future.
“Leave.”
“Don’t do this, Mikey. Please don’t do this.”
“Why are you making this so hard?”
“I’m making it hard? I’m making it hard? You’re ripping my heart right out of my chest, but I’m the one making it hard? I thought you were different, Lindstrom. I should have known better. You’re just one more goddamn worthless man, like all the other goddamn worthless men out there.”
“I’m doing this for you.” He looked near tears. “Why the hell can’t you see that?”
Inside the pockets of the robe, her fists clenched. “That is the worst bullshit I’ve ever heard! The only person you’re doing this for is you. So you can feel all smug and virtuous because you saved poor, weak little Paige from your big, bad self.”
“MacKenzie? You’re only embarrassing yourself. Put your goddamn dress back on and get the hell out. Go back home to California, back to your life, and forget all about the half-assed, fucked-up prick you shacked up with in Maine.”
“No,” she said. “I won’t go.”
“Then I’ll call Teddy and have you physically removed.”
Her universe shattered into a million tiny pieces that rained down on her like confetti. She couldn’t feel anything above the knees. Maybe she was having a stroke. Maybe she’d keel over right in front of him. That would be convenient for him, wouldn’t it? Nobody would ever need to know he’d just destroyed her life. He could just tell them he’d shagged her to death.
“Leave,” he said, exhaustion and despair coloring his voice. “Please.”
For an instant, she had the oddest hope that he’d change his mind. Then he raised his chin and met her gaze head-on, and his eyes, those beautiful dark eyes, looked dull and lifeless.
And she knew it was over.
MIKEY
NUMB AND ACHING, he waited until she was gone, waited until the sound of her little yellow car had faded away, before he threw on a pair of boxer shorts, attached his prosthesis, and hobbled out to the kitchen.
Woodenly, his movements slow and calculated, he retrieved a glass from the cupboard, then took down the bottle of vodka. His hand shook as he poured. Mikey lifted the glass, swallowed its contents in one long draught, and slammed the glass on the kitchen counter.
You did the right thing.
It wouldn’t be fair to her, to be saddled with him, with his black moods and his self-pity and the fury that seemed to emanate from his pores. She’d get over him. Paige had a life out there in L.A., a good life. She had a career, and friends. There’d be another man someday, a man she could settle down with, make babies with. She’d forget all about him. It might not happen today. But someday, she’d look back and realize that they would have been a disaster. She had a future ahead of her, a bright and shining one. He had no right to tie her down to a lifetime of dealing with his black despair.
You did the right thing.
He poured another vodka. Picked it up, studied it. Admired its anesthetic qualities, its ability to camouflage itself as anything it wanted to be. Its ability to convince him that he really had done the right thing.
He wasn’t convinced yet.
Mikey swallowed the vodka, stood for a minute with the glass in his hand. They were gone. All of them. Rachel, Gunther. Now Paige. She’d get over him, but how the hell was he supposed to get over her?
He was so damn tired of doing the right thing.
He drew back an arm and heaved the glass. It hit the wall over the couch and shattered. The sound of breaking glass was satisfying, but not satisfying enough. He opened the cupboard, took out a second glass, and chucked that as well. It hit the wall and bounced, landed on the coffee table, and broke.
Once he got started, he couldn’t stop. He broke every glass in the house, tossed a half-dozen plates. Picked up the sugar bowl and heaved it, sugar flying everywhere. Propelled by fury and swigging vodka straight from the bottle, he kicked the living room wall until a hole appeared in the purple paneling. And then he kicked it some more. He hated that fucking color anyway.
You did the right thing.
Blinded by tears, he tore down the living room drapes, balled them up, and tossed them in a corner. The rage should have been cleansing, should have chased her away. But his brain, his heart, wouldn’t let go of her. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t erase the sound of her laughter, the feel of her soapy hands on his cock, the way she always called him Lindstrom, like he was the most exasperating guy on the planet.
Goddamn it, goddamn it, goddamn it.
It was the sight of Spike, standing in a corner, quivering in terror, that finally stopped him. Shaken, he dropped the vodka bottle, picked up the terrified dog, and cradled him to his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said, mortified by his own actions. “I’m so sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to scare you.” Spike gave him a cautious lick of the tongue. Mikey checked the rocking chair for broken glass, sat down and examined the Chihuahua’s feet, to make sure Spike hadn’t been injured as a result of his temper tantrum. Then he sat and rocked the dog until his heart rate had slowed and his breathing was back to normal.
You really screwed that one up, didn’t you, Mick? So what are you going to do about it?
“Rachel,” he said aloud, “shut the fuck up.”
PAIGE
HER CLEANING LADY had obviously been in. There wasn’t a trace of dust anywhere. Somebody—probably Lucy—had sorted the mail and stocked the fridge. The house smelled of fresh air and cleaning products. It was a good smell, a welcoming smell. Except that she didn’t feel welcome. Everything
felt wrong. The house, her life. All of it. Something inside her had died, and it wasn’t coming back.
She left her guitar and her suitcase where she’d dropped them. Locked the door and kicked off her shoes, pulled out her cell phone, and sent a text to Lucy and Tony. I’m back. Exhausted. Need some down time. Will call when I’m ready. Love you both. P.
And then she called Dad.
“Are you okay?” he said.
“No. But I will be. Eventually.”
It didn’t matter whether or not he believed her. She didn’t even believe her. It was just what you said under these circumstances, a little white lie to comfort the other party who was hurting for you and didn’t know what to say or do.
“Look,” he said, “I know this probably seems like the end of the world, but—”
“Dad. Please don’t.”
At the other end of the phone, he let out a hard breath. “Is there anything I can do for you? Call my friend Paddy to come over and teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget?”
“Please don’t do him bodily harm. And who the hell is Paddy?”
“You’re sure? Because I know people in the Irish Mob—”
“There is no Irish Mob.”
“You grew up in South Boston and you’ve never heard of Whitey Bulger? Say it isn’t so.”
“Dad? I love you. I’ll call you if I need anything.”
Too tired for words, she hung up the phone and dropped onto the couch. Still trying to make sense of what had happened, she closed her eyes and waited for the tears, but nothing came. She was too tired to cry. Too numb. Too pulverized.
She would survive. This was a speed bump, nothing more. She was strong. Proud. Tough. She’d survived the last twelve years without Mikey Lindstrom. She would continue to survive without him.
But the future lay unfurled before her, a bleak and desolate and empty landscape. This hurt. It hurt in her heart, in her mind, in every aching muscle she possessed. Like a bad flu, despair hung over her, crushing her with its weight.
Welcome to the rest of your life.
Face the Music: Beyond Jackson Falls Book 1 Page 29
