by Karen Cimms
I shook my head and laughed. “No. Thank you. That’s all.”
Chapter Ten
May
“Mail call.” Dylan dropped a thick letter-sized envelope on my workbench. I wiped my hands on a shop rag and slid my finger under the seal. Whatever was inside had been folded several times, and it looked like it had been pulled from a magazine.
I unfolded it carefully. The first side I looked at was the jump from an article that must have been on a previous page, talking about some romance novel. There were a few ads as well, but none of it was anything that would have interested me.
That wasn’t the case with the flip side.
The black-and-white image took up the entire page. The couple was wet, and steam swirled around them. The man looked straight at the camera over the top of the woman’s head. His hand was splayed against her lower back, pulling her toward him, just below the strands of long, wet blond hair. Her arms held his, and her face was turned, making it difficult to make out her features. They were angled just enough that I could see that her breasts were crushed against his chest.
The similarity to Rain was striking, but it could have been a coincidence. I would have tried harder to convince myself if it hadn’t been for the tiny sparrow tattoo on her left hip.
I don’t know how long I stood there staring, how long I stood there not breathing. My heart not beating.
Something clanked behind me, jarring me enough to fold the paper in half and then in half again. I kept folding until it was small enough to tuck into my shirt pocket. I turned the envelope over. No return address, but it was stamped. Only the stamp wasn’t canceled.
The steady whir of an air gun filled my ears. Scott cursed at Erik. A tire bounced across the cement floor of the bay. I snatched the envelope from my workbench and stalked into Dylan’s office. He was standing with his back to the door, searching through his filing cabinet.
“Where did this come from?” I asked, trying hard to keep my voice from shaking.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Where did what come from? The envelope?”
“Yeah.” I held it up. “This.”
“With the rest of the mail.” He slammed the drawer shut and took his coffee mug from the top of the cabinet. “Why? Bad news?”
I shook my head. “It doesn’t have a cancellation mark.”
He took the envelope from my hand and studied it. “Beats me. It was in with today’s mail, though. Maybe the post office missed it. It happens.”
“I guess.”
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
I left his office and kept walking. Out the front bay, around the corner, and along the side of the building to the back where my truck was parked. I unlocked the door, stashed the folded paper back in the envelope, and shoved it into the glove compartment.
My stomach rolled as if I were on the open sea in the middle of a storm. I wanted to vomit. Or punch something.
I closed my eyes, but the image of my wife only grew sharper. Where her hands rested on his biceps, I felt them. Where her breasts pressed against his chest, I felt that too. Whoever the fucker was, he knew the silkiness of her skin and that her hair smelled like vanilla.
I stalked away from my truck, pacing behind the building. I didn’t stop to think. My hand coiled into a fist, and I punched. Pain shot through my hand. My knuckles were raw, bloody from where they’d met with the cinderblock wall. I wanted to hit it again, to drive my fist through to the other side, but I could no longer make a fist. My knuckles grew warm and the skin was already turning a mix of reds, blues, and purples.
“Fuck,” I screamed at the top of my lungs. Then I spun and kicked the side of the building.
Because that was going to make everything better.
I was lying on my side, staring at the wall, when Rain came home from work. They’d given me painkillers in the emergency room, but I didn’t want them. If I could focus on the pain in my hand, I might be able to ignore the one in my chest.
The bedroom door creaked open. I closed my eyes, but when the side of the bed bounced up and down, I knew it was Zac. He dropped over my middle and touched his nose to mine. He smelled sweet, like ice cream.
“Wake up!” he yelled into my ear. I cringed. The only place on my body that wasn’t hurting was my head.
“Hey, easy. You don’t yell in someone’s ear.” I wrapped my arm around him and pulled him so that he was lying alongside me. I ran my bandaged hand over his chin. “Did you have a good day?”
He shook his head eagerly. “I made a big tall building with blocks, but Liam knocked it down.”
“That’s too bad. Was it really, really big?”
“The biggest. And I drew you a picture.”
“You did? Where is it?”
“Mommy hung it on the ’frigerator.”
“That’s a good place for it. I’ll look at it when I get up, okay?”
“Okay. Why are you in bed?”
“Why are you in bed?” Rain’s face appeared above Zac’s as she climbed onto the bed beside him.
I couldn’t look at her. Not yet. I buried my face in Zac’s neck and hugged him tighter. “I hurt my hand. So I came home early.”
Rain’s hand landed on my arm. “Oh no. What happened? Let me see.”
“Why? You’re a doctor all of a sudden?”
She got very still. I couldn’t even hear her breathing. When she did speak, the hurt was evident in her voice. That made two of us.
“Of course not. C’mon, Zac, let Daddy rest.”
Zac planted a wet kiss on my cheek and scrambled out of bed.
“Do you need ice or anything? Tylenol?”
“I’m good.”
“Okay. Dinner will be ready in a little while.”
“I’ll eat later. I just want to rest for now.”
She didn’t leave right away, but she didn’t speak either. Eventually, the bedroom door clicked softly, and I let out the ragged breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.
Chapter Eleven
Rain settled in quietly, the bed hardly moving when she climbed in. She was trying not to disturb me, but it didn’t matter. I couldn’t have slept if I’d wanted. The throbbing and shooting pains in my hand took care of that.
When she curled against me, I tried not to move. Her hand snaked around my waist, and she tucked her knees behind mine like she always did. Despite the hurt, anger, and pain that still filled me, I wanted her. I wanted to flip her onto her back and fuck her senseless. I wanted to remind her who she belonged to. I wanted to scream that no man had the right to touch her. No one but me.
And I wanted to cry, because the ache in my chest was far worse than the ache in my hand.
Her breathing became soft and even, and when I was certain she was asleep, I climbed out of bed. The pain pills the doctor prescribed were in the pocket of my work pants, the ones Rain had hung over a chair in the corner of the room. I fished through the pockets until I found what I was after and left the room.
The only liquor I could find in the cabinet over the refrigerator was a bottle of whiskey with about an inch left and a bottle of Scotch. I poured the whiskey into a glass, popped two pain pills into my mouth, and followed with the amber liquid. Stupid, I know, but I was in too much pain to worry about side effects or being drowsy. Drowsy was good. Comatose sounded even better. Anything to dull the pain in my hand and my heart.
I tossed the empty whiskey bottle into the trash—fuck recycling—and filled my glass with Scotch.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was raspy with sleep.
I took a mouthful of Scotch before I answered. “Nothing. Go back to bed.”
When I didn’t turn around, she moved alongside me and picked up the pills. “Percodan? You shouldn’t be drinking with these.”
“Too bad. I feel like drinking.”
She ran her hand down my right arm, stopping at my bandaged hand. “Is it broken?”
“Yep.”
I heard he
r sigh. “Did you and Dylan have another fight?”
“Nope.”
When I didn’t elaborate, she took a few steps away and spun back around. “Oh, dear god. Please tell me it wasn’t Preston.”
No matter how much I didn’t want to look at her, my head snapped up at that. “What? Why would you even think that?”
She looked lost. “I don’t know. The only two people I’ve ever known you to fight with are Dylan and Preston. If it wasn’t Dylan …”
“It’s not Dylan, so you automatically think of Preston? How often do you think of Preston? That was pretty fucking random.”
Her blue eyes widened and her mouth hung open, as if she were shocked. I was the one who was shocked to hear that bastard’s name on her lips.
“I don’t … Not really.”
Despite the mix of alcohol and drugs, I could feel the blood roaring through my veins. “‘Not really’? What the fuck kind of answer is ‘not really’?”
“What’s wrong with you tonight?” she cried. “Did I do something? You come home with a broken hand, and you’re treating me like I had something to do with it. If I did, I wish you’d tell me so I could fix it.”
I tossed the rest of the Scotch back, relishing the burn and hoping the numbing wouldn’t be far behind. “There’s nothing to fix, Rain. Go back to bed. I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
I turned my back and stared out the window. I could see her reflected in the glass. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun. She wore skimpy little sleep shorts, exposing long, shapely legs that I wanted wrapped around my waist and a tank tight enough to show her nipples, hard from the coolness of the night. I gripped the edge of the sink. I wanted her, but I’d be damned if I’d touch her right now. I needed to work through whatever this shit was, and as foolish as it might be, I wasn’t ready to hear what she had to say about it.
Besides, I’d heard it all before.
It’s no big deal, Chase. It’s just a body. Everyone has one.
And my personal favorite: If you don’t want me to do it anymore, I won’t.
She watched me for a few more seconds before leaving the room. I capped the bottle of Scotch and returned it to the cabinet as the room began to swim around me. I made it as far as the living room before collapsing on the sofa.
I woke to sunlight streaming through the front window. I was groggy as hell. A dull ache surrounded my head and my hand but my heart, for the moment, was numb. The house was quiet, and as impossible as it seemed, it looked like Rain and the kids had already left for the day.
I pushed myself up from the sofa and staggered to the kitchen. The coffee pot was ready to go with just the push of a button, according to the note propped up against my favorite mug.
Chase,
I hope you’re feeling better this morning. I assumed since your hand is broken, you wouldn’t be going to work, so I didn’t bother to wake you.
I’ll call you later to see if you need anything. I’ll make sure to be home early. I’ll make chili and cornbread for dinner. Hope that will make you feel better.
Love you,
Rain xxxooo
I tossed the note on the counter. A whole vat of chili wouldn’t erase the image of Rain in another man’s arms.
I downed a cup of coffee, burning my tongue in the process, and took a quick shower. Or at least I tried to. I covered my hand with plastic grocery store bags, but it was still a huge pain in the ass, especially since I was right-handed. Dressing wasn’t much easier, nor was brushing my teeth.
I had to get out of the house before I put my other hand through a wall. I wanted nothing more than to hop on my bike, but I’d made that impossible by breaking my damn hand. At least my truck was an automatic.
I turned off my phone, climbed in, and just started driving.
“Chase, what a surprise.”
My mother pulled the front door open wide and stepped back, allowing me to enter the cool, dark foyer. The shades were drawn, which was her way of saving on the electric bill and keeping the house cool. I’d always found it stifling, more so now that I was used to Rain letting the sunlight pour in throughout the year.
“How’s your hand?”
“How do you know about my hand?”
“I spoke with Lorraine earlier. She said you punched a wall and broke your hand.” The puckered frown she wore was usually reserved for whenever my father’s name would come up. “Really, Chase. Was that wise? I’m sure there are better ways for you and your wife to handle your differences without you having to hurt yourself.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if she’d rather I’d hurt Rain instead, but I didn’t really want to hear the answer to that. And it pissed me off that she assumed Rain was behind what I’d done. Which also made me wonder why was I here. I’d started driving, and Route 22 turned into Route 78, and the next thing I knew, I was in Pennsylvania. Did coming home show a subconscious desire to talk to my mother? It had to be a coincidence. No matter how much she tried to act as if she’d accepted Rain, I knew she was doing little more than tolerating her. If I were to sit down at her table right now and tell her Rain and I were through, she’d probably sigh with relief and congratulate me.
Coming here was a mistake, but walking out without an explanation would just make it worse.
I followed her into the kitchen. At least she’d feed me. “What makes you think any of this has to do with Rain? I was at work, and I got pissed off about something and punched a wall. Rain wasn’t even there. For that matter, neither was Lorraine, so what does she know?”
“Methinks thou dost protest too much.”
“Think what you want. It had nothing to do with Rain.” I could just imagine Mom’s reaction to that damn picture. “And how would Lorraine know anything? Dylan didn’t even know.”
Mom busied herself with pulling lunch meat, mayo, and pickles from the refrigerator. “I don’t know, darling. All I know is she told me you got a letter, became enraged, and punched a wall.” She held up a fresh plum tomato. I nodded, and she rinsed it under cool water. “Perhaps it was an assumption that it had to do with Rain. Forgive me if I’m wrong. What was it about?”
I’d have given anything for someone to talk to, but sadly, that someone wasn’t my mother.
“It was the IRS. I’m getting audited.”
A few hours later, I pulled into Wally’s driveway and drove around back to the barn where he kept the car. Busting my hand was going to leave the team in a lurch. There was no way I’d be able to tune an engine or change a tire, at least not for a few weeks. I was such a dick.
Spending the afternoon with Mom had done nothing more than reinforce how much she didn’t like Rain. Not that she came out and said it. It was more what she didn’t say. We talked about the kids, a movie she recently saw, and the new Lee Child she was reading. When I’d told her about the IRS, she dropped the subject, which was proof that she knew I was lying. If she’d really thought I was being audited, she’d have drilled me over how I might have screwed up my taxes. No, she was smarter than that.
That left me with two choices: go to Mondo’s and spill my guts over the bar, or talk to Wally and hope he didn’t go running back to Diane.
“Hey there, George Foreman. How’s it going?”
“News travels fast around here.” I slipped my socket set into my toolbox. We’d worked late Monday night, and I’d left some of my tools on the workbench, planning to finish up the next night. Now I just wanted to get everything out of the way for whoever would be taking my place for the next few weeks. It was also an excuse to have someone to talk to. “Then again, it traveled all the way out to Allentown, so I’m not surprised.”
He handed me a Heineken, leaned against the bench, and clinked the neck of his bottle to mine before raising it to his lips. “I’m guessing you didn’t really come here tonight to clean up your tools.”
I was doing little more than puttering at that point. I didn’t need to remove my tools from the barn, as I’d be ba
ck as soon as my hand healed. And I’d already put Wally in a bind with my hotheadedness. I didn’t need to waste his time as well, but it seemed my mouth didn’t get that message.
“Can we talk?”
He swung an old wooden chair around and straddled it, motioning for me to do the same. “I thought you’d never ask.”
As soon as my butt hit the seat, I found myself spilling my guts. He listened patiently, doing little more than nodding. I still had the magazine page folded up in the glove box, but there was no way in hell I was going to show him. I had no idea who or how many people had seen it, but he didn’t need to be one more.
His reaction when I’d finished surprised me in that there was no reaction. Not really. He pulled two more beers from the minifridge and handed me one.
“Well?”
He took a while to ponder my well—so long, in fact, that I wondered if he’d heard anything I’d said.
“Well what?”
My eyebrows had to have brushed my hairline. “What do you mean ‘well what’? What I just told you. What would you do if that were Diane posing naked with some strange guy?”
The son of a bitch laughed. And he kept laughing. He laughed until tears ran down his face.
I tugged on a piece of cotton batting sticking out from the opening of my cast and twisted it while I waited for him to finish. “I’m glad you find this so amusing,” I said when he finally shut up.
He shook his head. “Hoo boy. I’m not laughing at you. And I’m not laughing at the idea of my wife posing naked either.” He pointed the long neck of his bottle in my direction. “Not that she couldn’t, mind you. She’s a hot little babe. But it’s just not something she’d ever do. She won’t even go swimming without a T-shirt on over her bathing suit. I’m laughing because I got a picture in my head of some guy like Antoine telling Diane to strip down and her kneeing him right in the nuts.”
The laughter started again, and I entertained the thought of walking out. I’d been gone all day with my phone turned off, and the sun was starting to set. I would have liked to be able to go home with some sort of resolution, but that apparently was not going to be possible.
