by Liz Crowe
“Go,” he called out, his voice low and broken-sounding. “Please go.”
She got up and found the boxers, then walked into the kitchen. He was slumped against the counter, clutching a beer and looking as miserable as she’d ever seen a man look. She went to him, but he sidestepped her, keeping his face averted, his body as stiff as a board.
“Owen, honey, stop it.”
“I’m gonna tell Jon and Zane about your ex. I’ll need his name and anything else you can give me—especially what he looks like. I’ll have them move you somewhere else too. That shit hole you call an apartment is the opposite of safe.”
Her mouth was hanging open, but she couldn’t seem to close it as he spoke, all the while not looking at her. He downed half the beer then put the bottle on the counter with a rattle.
“You don’t have to do anything,” she said, anger rising along with her disbelieving acceptance that the man was about to toss her out of his apartment, again. “I don’t need your help.”
She grabbed the pile of clothes she’d been wearing before she changed into that stupid, revealing bikini and marched into the half bath, got dressed, yanked her hair up into a ponytail and marched back out again.
Owen was on the couch, head in his hands. “I told you. I warned you. I’m fucked up, and you don’t want any part of me.”
“You know what? You may be right,” she said. “Oh, your phone was blowing up earlier. Same number calling. Don’t get up. I’ll show myself out.” Her ears were ringing with fury, and her heart conducted a timpani concert in her chest. She turned to glare at him before she put her hand on the doorknob.
He’d gotten up and was holding onto the back of the chair, staring at her, his face a rigid mask of so many emotions—she didn’t care to sort them out. “You can stay away from me. I’ll take care of this…thing on my own. I’ll tell Zane and Jon when I’m damn well ready to.”
He opened his mouth and made as if to move toward her. She held up a hand. It shook with rage, and it was all she could do to not scream. “Stay away from me, Owen Taylor. I get what you’re about. Just another guy who can’t keep his promises.” She sighed, willing herself not to cry.
“I’m…”
“Goodbye, Owen.” She slammed the door nice and hard behind her, snatched her phone from her purse, and dialed up an Uber as she started walking toward the road.
Chapter Eleven
Owen stared at the slammed door as if it might reveal the answer to his current dilemma. No such luck, of course. With a groan, he dropped into the chair and cursed himself, his luck, his life, his missing leg for the zillionth time. What was it with him? Lainey was so god damned perfect and what had he just done?
He’d almost throttled her, that’s what. When he’d come to a fully awake state, he’d thought she was that cunt, Hannah, and he’d almost lunged for her, hurt her, like her lame ass husband.
Jesus.
Talk about FUBAR.
That was him… in a nutshell.
He popped open another one of his IPAs and sat, staring down into the depths of it for a few seconds before something made him snap to, a memory, a snippet, danger. A very real danger for Lainey.
“Shit,” he muttered as he reached for his phone that lay screen down on the high counter. It took him a solid ten seconds to process the numbers and letters filling his screen. Finally, with shaking hands, he hit redial and put the device to his ear.
“Owen,” Antony barked in his ear. “Where the fuck’ve you been? I’ve been calling for two hours.”
“I know. I’m sorry. What…I mean how is she?”
“She’s got stage four breast cancer, man.” Owen heard his stoic, manly man friend Antony Love suck in a ragged breath. “She just got out of her first surgery, and the docs are trying to be upbeat, but… shit, man, Mama’s dying. Can you come?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can get a flight out and tell my boss, and…”
“I gotta go. Aiden’s here, and it’s all fucked to high heaven.”
“Why does having Aiden there make things fucked?” Owen stared down at his missing leg, honestly curious about that comment. Antony had always been close to his youngest brother, which left the two middle Love brothers, Kieran and Dominic to bond.
“It’s Rosie. Oh, hell, never mind. Just get your ass here, all right?”
Owen stared down at the silent phone. Rosie? Rosalee Norris? Paul’s widow? What could Antony be talking about? He’d gotten two newsy handwritten letters from Lindsay Love in the last month, none of it indicative of anything relative to the big C in her case. She had said she thought Antony and Rosie might get married soon, which had flipped an old, tired, stupid switch in his head—the one that refused to accept that particular configuration of his old friends.
He hit a speed dial and hopped back to his bedroom to start packing. “Yeah, Jon, it’s Owen. I gotta take a week or so off. I’ve got a family emergency. My mother, I mean, sort of my foster mother, she’s got cancer and just had surgery and is going downhill fast.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Take whatever time you need,” Jon said. “But what happened with Lainey?”
“Um, what do ya mean?” Owen zipped up his duffel and grabbed his metal leg. “I don’t know…”
“She just called me and gave her resignation, Owen.” His boss leaned on his name in a way that Owen recalled from his days a grunt Marine. “You guys took a half day off, and now she’s calling and telling me she can’t work for us anymore. What the fuck did you do to her?”
“Nothing. Okay, here’s the deal. She’s married to some asshole she ran away from. Some rich asshole. She took your job for the dough so she could hire a lawyer for a divorce. But she’s on the run. She’s been that way for a couple of years now, trying to stay one step ahead of this guy. And apparently, he found her. Sent her an email this morning.”
“What the—”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. She said she would tell you and threatened me to high heaven if I did, but I guess…I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. Was it a two weeks’ notice, or what?” Owen got his prosthesis attached and stood, shouldered his duffel and ran to the kitchen. “Jon?” His heart was pounding, and his chest ached in a way he couldn’t attribute to either the possible death of Lindsay Love or the loss of Lainey Jackson. “You still there?”
“Yeah, I’m here. I’m gonna call Zane and tell him to go check on her. I’m sort of stuck where I am right now.”
“Okay, fine. Good. Her place is crappy and unsafe. Get her out of there and into someplace else, okay? I’ll call you and try to explain more later. Just get her out of there, Jon? Please?”
“I’m putting Zane and Chris on it now. Call me when you get there. And Owen, I’m sorry about your mother.”
“She’s not…yeah. Okay. Thanks.” He ended the call, put his fists on the cool granite counter, and counted to twenty. Then he grabbed his keys and headed for the airport.
After touching down in Lexington four hours later, Owen felt like his head was full of marbles, rolling and spinning and bonking into each other. His whole body ached with dread at the thought of seeing Lindsay in any way reduced, much less the way Antony said she was right now. Once he could power up his phone, he sent another text to Lainey. He’d sent her a bunch already, but she’d ignored him.
Like she should.
Considering his asshole-ish behavior.
“I’m in Kentucky. Please just answer your phone for me once or give me a heads up that you’re all right. I’m sorry. I love you.”
Owen stared down at those last three words for at least five minutes before he hit send. As he made his way down the aisle after all the crush of humanity had filed out into the airport, he tried to convince himself that it was no big deal. Normal, healthy people used those words all the time. People not like him.
He made an attempt to keep his tough-guy Marine face on, his emotionless bastard of an IT jerk persona. The thought of that and the way Lainey was likely describ
ing him right this minute made his knees give out. He slumped against the terminal wall, trying to catch his breath.
“You all right, son?” A voice cut through his haze of agony.
“Yeah, yes,” he said straightening when he saw the voice came from a man who was, without the shadow of a doubt, ex-Marine. He was tall, with a head of gray, crew cut hair. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, and he held himself in the tensed and ready, yet comfortable in his own skin manner of a platoon leader. Owen snapped into a salute on autopilot. The old dude chuckled and patted his arm.
“Stand down, son, stand down. We don’t do that here in civilian land.” The sharp gray eyes narrowed. “You just looked like you needed some help.”
“No, sir. I mean. No. Thank you.” Owen wiped his dry lips with his fingers, his aching brain still trying to catch and hold onto the random marbles of thought and memory. “My mother. She’s sick. I’m here to see her.”
“All right then. Go do that. And relax. Everything will be fine.” The old guy patted Owen’s arm and walked toward a coffee shop. Owen sucked in a breath, straightened, and reminded himself that he was here for Lindsay. She deserved for him not to be obsessing over some stupid fucking chick.
Not a chick. A woman.
Lainey.
The first woman you have ever wanted to—
“Stop it,” he said under his breath. “It’s over. Move on.”
“Owen? Owen, over here!” He spotted Aiden, the one Love brother who didn’t resemble any of his family members, waving his arms in the middle of a crowd. Owen nodded, re-shouldered his duffel, and made his way closer. The guy looked haggard, much older than his years. But Owen figured he probably didn’t look much better.
They exchanged quick man-hugs, and then Owen followed Aiden outside into the warm night.
Three Days Later…
“Dude, she must be something pretty hot,” Antony said around the mouth of his beer as Owen tapped frantically at his screen.
“Yeah. I mean, no. I mean none of your fucking business, Love.”
Zane’s last message had been somewhat of a comfort. “She’s safe. Staying with Missy and me for now. But she insists on leaving, and I’m pretty much blaming you right now.”
“Fine. Blame me. Just keep her away from her ex. Tell her I’ll pay for her lawyer. I’ve tried to tell her, but she’s ignoring me like it’s her job right now.”
“Huh. Imagine that.”
“Well, I don’t know what she told you, but it’s none of your business.”
“When it concerns my second best employee you bet your ass it’s my business. How’s your mom?”
Owen blinked at the change of subject. “Rallying. She’s tougher than most of the Marines I know.”
“Yeah, anyone’s Grammy is tougher than most Marines I know,” Zane shot back. Owen rolled his eyes but sipped his beer and let himself relax ever so slightly.
Antony and Aiden were sitting on opposite sides of the Love family pool glaring daggers at each other. Owen didn’t think he wanted to know the details, but the basics seemed pretty clear to him.
Antony had played boyfriend to Rosie the last few years and was comfortable doing that. But there was no spark, nothing deeper than a close friendship no matter what they’d pretended to each other and the rest of the world. And now Aiden had dropped into the equation. Owen was no expert in the romance arena, but he could sense the tension between Rosie and the youngest Love brother from a mile away.
Antony was not a talker, so he’d gotten nothing out of the guy. But the spark was all too clear between Rosie and little Aiden. Owen slammed his beer, grabbed another from the cooler, and went on ignoring the eldest and youngest, as they tried to kill each other by the sheer force of their glares.
“I’m gonna head back tomorrow,” he said after about thirty minutes of silence punctuated by the sounds of lawn mowers and dogs barking, plus the occasional random beer burp. He got up and stretched, then ambled back toward the house, figuring he could find something to eat amongst the mounds of disaster-roles donated by the community.
Lindsay was a well-loved, well-known figure in the town and especially within her church congregation. The house had been a veritable thoroughfare of well-meaning townsfolk. He couldn’t wait to get the hell out the way now that he knew Lindsay was going to make it, at least past this stage. He wasn’t much but in the way right now and he knew it.
After heating up a hunk of lasagna and eating in front of a Reds game on the television, he cleaned up his dishes and was asleep within twenty minutes on the couch. The immediate dream image of Lainey, of her lush, full body, her sweet smile, her thick golden honey hair filled his sleeping brain. Her lips formed his name. “Owen,” she said, softly as she moved into his arms. “Owen,” she whispered in his ear. “Owen….I love you.”
“Owen,” a voice barked. A hand shook his shoulder, and he sat up, wide awake. “Dude, your phone is blowing up.” Aiden tossed it on his lap and flopped into the recliner with a heavy sigh.
“911,” the number filled his screen, both from Jon and Zane. He gulped and scrolled down noting how many times they’d sent it. “Call me, asshole,” Zen finally demanded via his final text.
Chapter Twelve
Lainey sat and stared at the TV screen, flipped through a few channels, then turned it off with a sigh. She looked down at the empty ice cream pint in her lap, and then over at the closed window blinds. Sunlight peeked around the edges, reminding her that there was a life outside these four walls. Outside her prison.
She jumped up and headed to the kitchen of Zane’s utilitarian apartment. She’d been baking up a storm out of sheer boredom. The counters and cabinets were overflowing with breads, pastries, pies, scones, the works. She sighed and picked up a scone, put it to her lips then threw it across the kitchen with a loud curse.
“Fucking men,” she sobbed as she slid to the floor of the kitchen. After a few minutes of sobbing—something she’d been doing so much lately her eyes burned and her face ached—she got slowly to her feet and started sticking all the baked crap into the big zip lock bags she’d asked Zane to pick up on the way home yesterday.
Once she had everything packaged up, she stared around her favorite room at a total loss. When the doorbell rang, she headed for it on autopilot, feeling woozy and drained, like she needed a nap, even though she’d taken one earlier in the day, after getting eight hours of sleep. As she scraped her hair up and into a ponytail, she had the half thought that she should really take a shower, maybe put on different clothes. But she had ordered Chinese and was looking forward to the Kung Pao chicken.
She grabbed her wallet from the cluttered table and hauled open the door, half asleep, miserable, and not paying attention.
“Hi Lainey,” a voice said, cheery and eager and instantly recognizable. Her vision narrowed to a pinprick as she looked into a familiar face. A terrifyingly familiar face. She stumbled back, wishing she’d had the wherewithal to put on shoes so she could duck under his arm and run. Her feet tangled in something, and she felt herself falling backward. A hand reached for her, grabbed on too tight, yanked her forward, and then all the lights went out at once.
She woke with a sneeze, which made her groan in pain. Her nose was pressed onto a hard, dirty surface. Her shoulders ached, but when she tried to rotate them to relieve the pressure, her wrists seemed to be locked in place behind her back. With some effort, she shifted so she was lying on her side, which let her at least draw a full breath.
“Think, Lainey. Process your surroundings. Remain calm.”
She kicked out her legs and wiggled her way over to an empty bed frame then forced herself onto her butt. The room was small and pitch black. It smelled like animals and piss. There were noises all around her. Above, below, to the sides. Screams, shouts, television shoot-outs—or at least she hoped they were on the television—filled her ears and brain.
“Get up, Lainey. Get moving. Find a door or a window.”
Th
ese little pep talks kept her mind off the pain in her skull and shoulders. She moved to where the noises seemed louder and figured out it was a window covered in some kind of dark paper. After a few minutes spent trying to peel it way using her swollen fingers while turned the wrong way, she was able to peer out onto an unfamiliar, dark streetscape.
There were random beater cars lining the streets and most of the lights were out. She saw a busted out fence beneath her, possibly surrounding the yard of the building she was in. As if to distract her shivering, terrified body, her brain began to formulate an escape plan.
When a door opened behind her, she whirled with a scream. “Help!” She screeched at the top of her lungs. “Help me! Please!”
Someone laughed. “Help me too, while you’re at it muthafucka,” a female voice hollered from the hallway. Then the door shut, leaving her in the dark again. Alone, with her husband.
“What a shame,” he said. “What a crying shame.”
Lainey scrambled into a corner and got on her knees. She recalled that this kind of submissive position was something he liked. It was possibly the best way to keep him from killing her. Because she knew in her gut that he would do that. He would kill her this time.
His hand touched the top of her head. Lainey kept her eyes down on the floor. His rich cologne hit her nose, almost making her gag but she held it back. If she made a sound without his permission, he’d backhand her, exacerbating the pain in her head and nose. She stared at his expensive brown loafers, at the dust motes dancing around his feet, and started to pray.
“Jesus, Zane, I thought you had this.” Owen glared at the tall, obviously distraught man, then over at Jon who looked equally wigged out. “Give me the SITREP,” he barked, hoping to get them focused.
“Lainey must have answered the door without looking,” Zane said before he dropped into a chair and ran a hand down his face. “I told her not to. But shit, man, I can’t babysit the girl. I had work to do, you know?” He raised one arm, indicating the GAPS office, now devoid of its one female presence. “I never thought he’d find her at my place. It’s so far off the beaten track.”
