Damn Wright: The Wrights

by Jordan, Skye

  “You are not going to believe this. Are you sitting down?”

  The next moment stretched time, and Dylan’s mind jumped around like a ricocheting bullet. He realized this was the first time since he’d taken the job that those words had created dread instead of excitement. “Just tell me.”

  “Assad has agreed to sit down for an interview. Can you fuckin’ believe that? The first interview since he targeted the White Helmets. And since you broke the story, he said he’ll only sit down with you.”

  Pain gripped Dylan, flattening his heart and soul like a vise. That night from hell flooded into his head. To the sound of Amir choking on his own blood. The deafening silence and soul-sucking isolation that swamped Dylan once Amir had passed.

  He dragged in a ragged breath. “Sounds like Assad’s angling to get me alone so he can cut my head off on national television.”

  “We thought of that.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Dylan stared at the sky. “I was kidding. Sort of.”

  “We’re prepared to send you with a top-of-the-line security team. Former SEALs and Delta Force, top-notch, the real deal. We’ll set up a neutral location where we have control.”

  Dylan’s mind instantly veered toward a very dark place. If he had a team of former military badasses at his disposal, he’d be using them to annihilate Assad, not interview him.

  “Come on, Dylan.” Charlie sounded like a junkie begging for a fix. “Tell me you’ll do it.”

  Despite a million misgivings, adrenaline spurted into his bloodstream, and the familiar burn spiraled through his chest. It took him a second, but Dylan realized the sensation wasn’t excitement. It was fear. And it wasn’t fear of Assad. It was the fear of snapping the tentative connection he’d made with Emma.

  “This could make your career,” Charlie said. “You could get out of war reporting and take a network slot.”

  A shot of excitement tightened his shoulders. As a network anchor, he could live in New York. Still not Nashville, but Emma had been considering moving to Baltimore with Parnell. Maybe she’d be willing to move to New York with Dylan.

  “After nailing this,” Charlie said, “you could write your own ticket.”

  Those words chilled Dylan’s blood. They were words he’d heard Charlie say numerous times. The words his boss used as a carrot to get Dylan to take on the kind of assignments other quality journalists stepped away from.

  All his past disappointments flooded in. Memories of the complex, in-depth articles he’d written on various terrorist groups and their roots of influence rejected by his network because they weren’t sensational enough. No boom. No blood. He’d ended up selling the pieces to magazines that serviced the millions of smart Americans who wanted honest information on what was really happening overseas.

  “Dylan?”

  “I’m here. I’m thinking.”

  “Hey.” Charlie’s voice grew serious. “You know if you don’t do it, someone else will. You know how quickly you’re forgotten when you step out of the light, and you’ve been gone almost three weeks. Are you really going to let someone else step on you to get what you deserve? You don’t want to go back to freelancing, Dylan. That’s cheap, unappreciated work.”

  Dylan leaned against the kitchen counter. “Are you seriously threatening to fire me if I don’t do this interview?”

  “Stop being dramatic.”

  “Don’t insult me. That’s what I just heard.”

  “It’s the nature of the beast, and you know it. Hungry journalists looking for their fifteen minutes of fame will fight to the death over this. You used to be one of those. It’s the exact same way you got your start. There are hundreds of people out there who would kill for the chance to be you.”

  No one knew the first fucking thing about being him. And Dylan was sick of this beast. “I’ll let you know.”

  He disconnected from a less-than-satisfied editor and kicked the wall. “Fuck.”

  * * *

  Emma parked in front of the house. Dylan’s rental truck was across the street, there was a new dumpster in the driveway, and the sound of hammering came from inside the house.

  Emma shut down her car and sat there a minute, getting her game face on.

  It was just sex. She’d been repeating the mantra since she’d left the house three days before. Sex with an ex wasn’t exactly uncommon or even groundbreaking. The internet claimed over twenty-five percent of ex-lovers hooked up, so it had to be true, right?

  The results of sleeping with an ex were reportedly mixed, from finding closure to cockblocking their future love life. Emma wasn’t one hundred percent sure where she landed on that scale, but over the last seventy-two hours, all kinds of emotions had resurfaced. Pain and loss, sure, but also a flood of longing and love. In short, spending the night with Dylan had wreaked havoc on Emma’s emotions.

  He was still the giving man she’d married, but he’d grown, diversified, and developed the kind of confidence that made Emma melt into his very capable arms.

  But that was over. It wouldn’t happen again. It couldn’t. She wouldn’t invite that kind of emotional chaos. She’d suffered enough for ten lifetimes.

  Now she had to jump into this renovation venture with both feet, own her decision and do her part to make it happen.

  “It was just sex,” she murmured to herself. Maybe if she said it enough, she’d believe it.

  Emma pried herself from the car, both excited to see Dylan and dreading it. She passed the dumpster just as Dylan came out of the house holding a door over his head.

  He stopped short. “Whoa.” He focused on her, and his face broke into one of those smiles that made her heart flip. “Hey, there.”

  He hefted the door over the side of the dumpster and faced her again, hands at his hips. His T-shirt was darkened by sweat and clung to his muscled chest. His dark hair was damp along the edges, and his face glowed with the kind of health she’d once doubted she’d ever see in him again. The same kind of vibrancy that brought back vivid memories of their night together.

  But something was off. “What’s wrong?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You. There’s something…wrong.”

  He exhaled and looked at the ground. Then shook his head. “It’s not important.” He met her gaze again and smiled. “Sure am glad to see you.”

  “I’m here to help with the house. Are you hurting?”

  He shrugged. “I’m always hurting to some degree, but I’ve been taking breaks and stretching. I’m okay.”

  She leaned her shoulder against the dumpster. “Then what’s wrong?”

  “It’s just work.” He shook his head. “Not important.”

  Work that would eventually take him away from her. Which was why she fought to keep her walls up. Why she held tight to the just-sex mantra. But the heart wanted what it wanted. And right now, it wanted to ease the stress in his eyes.

  “Talk to me,” she said.

  “My boss wants me to do an interview.” He leaned back against the side of the house, pulled off his gloves, and wiped his face with his forearm. “It’s just… It’s cutthroat, you know? And, God, so soul-sucking. No matter how much I give, it’s not enough. I’m in Syria, but they want me on the front lines. I’m on the front lines, but there aren’t enough deaths. I find the tragedies, but they aren’t dark enough. And the minute I’m off the radar, producers and editors get antsy and freelancers start circling like buzzards.”

  “Jesus.” She thought she had at least some kind of handle on what he went through by covering the stories. She had no idea the networks were that demanding or that the job carried so much competition and conflict.

  “You see things you can’t ever unsee,” he said. “Learn things you never wanted to know. Make decisions you never saw coming and compromises you never anticipated. I’ve sacrificed so much for this job. Don’t get me wrong, I know I made those choices. Not all of them exactly willingly, but they were mine to make, and I own that. But…” He
looked at the ground and shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  Emma heard the toll those choices had taken in his voice. Longed to reach out to him and soothe his stress the way she always had, with affection and love and reassurance, but now that they’d slept together, she couldn’t see where friendship ended and romance began. “Can you tell me who they want you to interview?”

  He glanced up at her, studied her eyes a second as if he was undecided.

  “You don’t have to, I was just—”

  “Assad.” His voice had dropped and held a rasp of fury. “And it’s more like Assad wants me to interview him. The network’s just jumping on the wagon.”

  “Oh shit.” Emma’s eyes went wide. She couldn’t begin to imagine the scope of an assignment like that.

  “Honestly, I don’t know if he’d get through the interview alive.” There was a darkness in Dylan’s tone she’d never heard before. “I might just kill the fucker myself.”

  She reached out and took his forearm. “Dylan. This doesn’t sound…healthy. The stress you have to carry and the compromises you have to make, it can’t be good for you on any level. Stress takes a toll on the body, and after what yours has been through, you can’t afford to drain it with this kind of pressure.”

  He exhaled and took her hand in his. When he looked at her again, that bleak fury was gone, but there was still something missing. “Yeah, I know.” He pulled her forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Sure helps seeing you. Thanks for coming over.”

  She pressed her hands to his chest, but he felt so good against her, she didn’t push him away. “How can I help?”

  He smiled, and his eyes rolled skyward as if he had to think about it. “A massage sounds amazing. Like you said, I’ve got to put my health first.”

  “Ha.” Now she did push away, but she was smiling. He took her hand and walked her toward the house. When she stepped in, her gaze was drawn to the ceiling, and all thoughts faded into the background. Dylan had taken out the ceiling of the living, dining, and kitchen area, exposing the peaked lumber of the roof. “Oh my God.”

  “Pretty cool, right?” Dylan said, following her gaze. “There was a huge attic of wasted space. All I had to do was open it up. Miranda’s coming over to check it out this afternoon. We’re going to frame up the new bathroom and add insulation in here.”

  “She is?” When Emma glanced at him, he was still smiling up at the ceiling, hands on hips. And despite the dark conversation they’d just had, he looked like an entirely different man from the one who’d come to her in the hospital parking lot just weeks ago. He looked light-hearted, happy, comfortable. He very suddenly, very clearly, looked like the man she’d married. Her heart dropped to her feet, then floated back to her throat.

  She still loved him. No matter how hard she attempted to rationalize it away, there was no denying, not only did she still love him, she would always love him. And she had no idea where that left her. Especially when she hated the way he’d run himself into the ground as a punishment for his past mistakes. Hated the idea of him interviewing men like Assad and putting his life at risk for stories just so he could keep his job.

  “Miranda says she doesn’t trust me to do it right,” he said, “but I think she just wants to get her hands dirty.” When he looked at Emma, his smile fell. “Oh shit. You hate it.” He looked at the ceiling again, this time frowning. “I thought it would add to the value of the house, but if you want the attic, I’ll just frame it up again—”

  “No.” She shook herself out of the heartbreakingly warm sight of the husband she’d lost so long ago. “No, I don’t hate it. And you’re right, it will definitely add value. Keep it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. It’s actually really incredible.”

  “Then why do you look sad?”

  “It’s stupid, but the house feels different. Like Shelly’s spirit isn’t here anymore.” Emma glanced around. The main part of the house was now nothing but a shell. She shrugged, wrapping her arms around herself. “Nothing stays the same, does it? People leave, move on, change.”

  She hadn’t been thinking about Dylan when she’d said it, but her words lingered in the air, attaching themselves more to their relationship than to Shelly’s memory.

  Dylan faced her, gripped her biceps, and turned her toward him, his expression serious. Almost grave. “Things do change. People do leave or move on, whether we want it or not. We don’t have any control over that. But we do have control over what choices we make next. And sometimes change means that something even better can fill the new space. I remember Shelly as a happy, giving, eternal optimist. I know she loved you, and I believe she’d approve of what we’re doing.”

  Tears came out of nowhere and burned Emma’s eyes. Before she could dip her head and hide them, Dylan pulled her close.

  She pressed her face to his chest and hugged his torso. He was so warm, so strong, so sweet. He smelled familiar, like earthy Dylan. A scent that moved mountains inside her. The stirring sparked a flash of heat. Desire bloomed in the pit of her stomach. She wanted to tilt her head back and kiss him. Wanted to strip off his clothes and feel him inside her again. Filling her. Completing her. Silencing all the self-doubt, soothing all the aches and pains of the past.

  He ran a hand down her hair. “I bet you’d be really good at texturing.”

  She pulled away. “What?”

  “Texturing.” He cradled her head in both hands and swiped at tears on her cheeks. And the way he looked at her, with love etched in his expression, twisted her heart. “Bet you’d wield a trowel like a pro.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “I’ll show you.” He kissed her forehead and let his lips linger. It took her back in time. To the way he’d kissed her before he’d left on that trip that changed their lives. It made her realize how badly she wanted him back. Wanted their lives back. Wanted all their hopes and dreams back.

  Only, there was no going back.

  Then he stepped away, took her hand, picked up a five-gallon bucket of something in the other, and walked her down the hall. After covering the hardwood floors with tarps, Dylan pulled in a ladder and filled a metal trough with drywall mud.

  The process was simpler than Emma would have guessed and consisted of simply spreading a thin layer of the mud onto the walls, filling imperfections, and smoothing over old uneven texture.

  Then he gave her the trowel and watched her try.

  She stepped back and compared her work to Dylan’s. “This is harder than it looks.”

  “Keep your touch light, but not light enough to leave too much mud on the wall. And don’t worry about making it perfect. You’ll sand it down to make it smooth after it dries. So the smoother you make it in this step, the less work you’ll have to do later.”

  He stepped up behind her and covered her hand on the trowel with his, then wrapped his other arm around her waist, drew her body back against his and moved them as one, giving her the feel of applying the mud the way he would. The movement also brought back a wildly erotic memory of the way he’d woken her deep in the night and made love to her just seventy-two hours ago in the next room.

  Her heart swelled with the kind of need only Dylan could fill.

  He felt it too. He brought the hand with the trowel away from the wall and around her body. Pressed his lips to her neck and moaned against her skin, echoing the desire they’d shared such a short time ago.

  “I’d better get out of here”—his murmur shot tingles across her skin—“before I get crazy ideas of smearing this mud all over your gorgeous naked body.”

  With a playful bite on her earlobe and a solid open-palmed swat to her ass, he left the room.

  It took Emma long, torturous moments to drag out her rational side, shake off the tingling lust, and wipe the grin from her face. Not once in her year-and-a-half-long relationship with Liam had he ever been playful enough to slap her on the ass. Nor had he ever made her t
ingle from the roots of her hair to the soles of her feet.

  Music came on and drifted through the house, followed by the sound of Dylan ripping walls down.

  Emma studied Dylan’s work again, took a deep breath and added another swipe of mud to the wall. She lost herself in the work. Not exactly artistic, but something about the motion made her feel loose and relaxed.

  She’d finished one wall and moved to the next when she heard an unfamiliar female voice in the house. She moved to work on the wall with the door to listen.

  “Dude,” the woman said. “You’re a machine.”

  “And you’re early,” Dylan said.

  “Just checking in. I have to run out to one of my jobsites. I may need to push the framing back a couple hours.”

  That told Emma it was Miranda who’d come in.

  “Of course. Not a problem.”

  “Jeez, Dylan, the work you’ve done on this house in such a short time is really impressive. You’re all in with this, aren’t you?”

  “Damn right.”

  Emma smiled.

  “I admire your commitment. I really do. I don’t know another man who’d do what you’re doing, and that says something when I’ve worked with men my whole life. This is hard work, especially on your own, and you’ve got to be hurting. Are you taking care of yourself?”

  Come to think of it, Emma didn’t know another man that would do this either.

  “Thanks,” he said. “Yeah, I’m doing okay. Wait a second, will you?”

  His footsteps sounded on the wood floor, and Emma hurried to the corner of the room, dipped the trowel into the mud, and spread it on the wall.

  Dylan popped his head through the doorway. “Em, come meet Miranda.”

  Butterflies brushed her belly. Then Miranda came into the room behind Dylan.

  “Hey,” she said, smiling at Emma. “Didn’t know you were here.” She looked at the walls. “Man, this looks good. You two are a force. This house is going to be done in record time.”

  “Em, this is my sister Miranda.”

  Miranda passed Dylan and wandered toward Emma with a friendly smile. “I guess you’d be my ex-sister-in-law.”