Although he hadn’t slept in 36 hours, he was filled with nervous energy. He left the bright lights of the football stadium and headed west. There were groups of people shuffling toward the evacuation center. Weary travelers, cloaked in darkness. If they wondered why he was walking the opposite direction, they didn’t ask.
After he’d gone several miles, he stopped seeing evacuees. Those who hadn’t reached their destination had sought shelter for the night. The stragglers were the last of the city’s displaced residents. There were some stubborn people who’d decided to stay and protect their homes or businesses. Others were injured and unable to move.
The damage grew increasingly worse. There was rubble on the sidewalk and buckled asphalt everywhere. The air grew thick with smoke. He was beginning to think he’d have to turn around and look for another route. Then he spotted a group of young men in the middle of the street, carrying baseball bats.
They didn’t appear to be evacuating.
Shit.
Mitch was a big man who rarely had to worry about his personal safety, but this was an unusual situation. There was no law here. He didn’t want to get jumped. Police officers and other first responders were saving lives at the epicenter.
Instead of continuing towards the threat, he ducked behind a tree in someone’s front yard. The group of men stormed down the street, the lower halves of their faces covered in handkerchiefs. They might actually be protecting the neighborhood, rather than looting it. Mitch couldn’t tell, and he wasn’t going to push his luck. Heart racing, he crept closer to the side of the house, keeping his shoulders low. He tripped on a stack of loose bricks and almost fell into a recycling bin. Cringing, he crouched in the bushes.
It smelled like cats.
Ugh. He hated cats.
He also hated clutter, and there was a lot of it piled near the house. He’d grown up in a place like this, full of clutter. His mother was a collector. He’d called her right after the earthquake, and she was fine. It was a good thing she didn’t live here in San Diego; she’d be buried in her own junk. The last time he’d visited he’d found a desiccated kitten beneath an old wardrobe.
Shaking his head at the memory, he waited in the shadows and tried to ignore the stench. When the baseball bandits were out of sight, he rose from his hiding place.
“Help me.”
He froze at the sound of a woman’s voice. It was coming from inside the house. There was a broken window about five feet off the ground. He stepped closer, trying to peer inside. “Hello?”
“Help me,” she said again. “I’m stuck.”
He found another window with a busted screen. Tearing it loose, he shoved up the window pane and climbed inside.
It was very dark. And very crowded.
He hadn’t thought to bring a flashlight on this excursion, which was his mistake. The living room appeared to be loaded with boxes and bags of clothes.
Just like Mom’s.
“Here,” the woman said. “By the TV.”
Mitch made his way toward the weak voice, skirting around stacks of books and magazines. His eyes began to adjust to the meager light, and he spotted an elderly woman on the floor. She was lying on her side with her right leg wedged between an old television and a storage cabinet. The furniture must have fallen over during the earthquake, and she’d been trapped ever since.
He wasn’t sure how to proceed. Picking up the TV was no problem, but what if freeing her did more harm than good? He wasn’t a doctor. She might have a broken leg or crushed artery or something.
“Lift this thing off me,” the old lady said.
“I don’t know if I should.”
“Of course you should.”
“I can get bring someone to help you.”
“How soon?”
Mitch couldn’t give an estimate. It might be days or it might be hours. Instead of answering, he moved around to the other side of the TV and inspected the damage. “Can you wiggle your toes?”
“I can wiggle your ears.”
He laughed at her response, dragging a hand down his face. “What’s your name?”
“Louise.”
“I’m going to touch your foot.”
“Be my guest.”
Trying to be gentle, he palpitated her orthopedic shoe. “Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
He figured the circulation wasn’t completely blocked off. That was a good sign. After a short deliberation, he righted the television set.
She pulled her leg free. “Thank you,” she said weakly. “Thank you, thank you.”
Mitch nodded, relieved she was okay. She maneuvered into a sitting position, but she didn’t try to stand up. He didn’t think she could walk.
Now what?
He was going to have to carry this old lady to the evacuation center. He couldn’t leave her here, so his plan for the night was screwed. He’d have to wait to see Helena. His heart sank at the realization. She probably thought she didn’t need him. He wanted to prove her wrong. He wanted to win her back.
He wanted to win.
With each passing moment, he felt her slipping out of his grasp.
But unless he found someone else to take care of Louise, she was his responsibility. He couldn’t abandon her, the way his father had abandoned him and his mother. Mitch was struck by a fresh wave of guilt for abandoning Helena.
So he picked up Louise, with some difficulty, and headed toward the door.
CHAPTER FOUR
GWEN STAYED UP all night again.
She figured she could sleep during the day, after the new volunteers arrived. So many people needed a friendly face and comforting hand. Although the work was exhausting, physically and emotionally, she felt good about it. She liked helping people and serving her community. San Diego was a happy place, known for beautiful beaches and perfect weather. The downtown area had been hit hard, but they would bounce back. They would support each other and come out stronger. Gwen was proud to contribute.
She tried not to think about Mitch. She was so busy that she succeeded, for the most part. But every so often her cheek would tingle from the memory of his kiss, and her breath would hitch in her chest.
Why had he done that?
Mitch Stone wasn’t a kisser. He wasn’t even a hugger. He avoided handshakes, small talk and pleasantries. If she remembered correctly, she’d never seen him kiss or hug Helena goodbye. They gave each other curt nods.
Helena was just as aloof as Mitch, but that didn’t mean there was no passion between them behind closed doors. She’d told Gwen that he was a “hard worker” in bed. Gwen had laughed at the time, asking if he clocked his hours. Now she pictured his sweat-dampened shirt and felt an illicit thrill. He was a hard worker, all right.
Helena had confided in Gwen about their problems, too. She’d said that Mitch had stopped initiating sex well before he left for Denver.
“Why didn’t you initiate it?” Gwen had asked.
Helena had just sighed, shaking her head.
Gwen understood her reluctance. Helena wanted to feel wanted . She didn’t need to beg for any man’s interest. Life was too short to waste on an ill-fated, long-distance relationship. Gwen had encouraged her to move on. Helena wasn’t happy with Mitch, but she hadn’t done anything about it. Maybe she still had feelings for him. Or maybe she was just reluctant to deal with the emotional fallout of a difficult breakup.
Gwen was relieved of her duties around dawn. She used the restroom and washed her hands, grimacing at the sight of her reflection in the mirror. Her tank top and dark jeans had bloodstains on them. There were circles under her eyes. She looked like hell. She needed a shower, a hot meal, and a soft bed. In that order.
She wouldn’t get a bath or a bed until she left the shelter, so she went in search of sustenance. There were drinks and snack bins set up by the tables, and they’d be serving breakfast soon. She grabbed a bottle of water and stood in the breezeway, waiting for daybreak. Smoke clogged the horizon and stung her ti
red eyes. All of the horrors she’d witnessed over the past 48 hours seemed to crowd in on her, overwhelming her senses. She wanted to see her mother’s face. She needed to get some rest before she collapsed.
Her attention shifted to an approaching figure. Another new arrival. It was a man, carrying an injured woman.
It was Mitch.
Her spirits lifted like the sun breaking through clouds. She hadn’t realized how alone she’d felt without him. The woman in his arms was about seventy, with frizzy gray hair. Her right leg was discolored and swollen.
Gwen rushed to his side. “What happened?”
He didn’t answer. “Where can I set her down?”
She led him toward the triage area and helped him lower the woman to an available cot. Then she got them both water. The old lady seemed confused, and Mitch was exhausted. A medical technician took the woman’s vital signs and started an IV. The woman had a broken ankle and she was dangerously dehydrated. According to the tech, she wouldn’t have survived another night without fluids.
The woman reached out to grasp Mitch’s hand. “Don’t leave me, Bobby.”
“I won’t,” he said gruffly, glancing at Gwen.
“I gave her a sedative,” the tech said.
It didn’t take long for the lady to drift off. Only then did Mitch release her hand and rise to his feet again. He accompanied Gwen to the breakfast line, where they accepted a hot meal and ate in silence. She didn’t ask Mitch about the night he’d had. She was glad to see him, glad to be sitting down. Glad to be alive.
After breakfast, another volunteer approached them. “There are some tents open now, if you two want to rest.”
Gwen collected her backpack and headed to the opposite side of the stadium, where the tents were set up. Most had been filled with survivors overnight, but families with young children were being transported now, along with injured residents. Single, healthy adults like Gwen and Mitch would have to wait until this afternoon.
The tents weren’t spacious, but they were private and blessedly dark. There were sleeping mats, small pillows and blankets on the floor. Gwen collapsed on a mat, removing her boots with a groan. She’d love to take off her bra and jeans, but she settled for unfastening the top button. Mitch stretched out beside her.
“Sorry,” he said, tucking his hands behind his head.
“For what?”
“I smell bad.”
She inhaled, detecting the odor of male sweat and smoke. It wasn’t unpleasant. Then she sniffed her own armpit. “Maybe I smell worse.”
“Impossible.”
“I have armpit stubble.”
He looked at it and arched a brow. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I’ll bet my feet stink.”
“If I took off my shoes, we’d both pass out.”
She laughed weakly, surrendering. “Okay, you win.”
He made a sound of agreement.
“That was nice,” she said softly. “What you did for that lady.”
“Anyone would have done it.”
“Most people couldn’t have lifted her up, let alone carried her for miles.”
He shook his head in denial. “I didn’t want to help her. I wanted to leave her there and keep going.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know.”
Gwen waited for him to explain.
“Her house was cluttered with junk.”
“What kind of junk?”
“Books, clothes, old magazines.”
“And that bothered you?”
“Having so much stuff is a hazard. People can’t get in, you can’t get out.”
“You got in,” she pointed out.
He sighed, staring up at the ceiling of the tent. “My mother…collects things.”
“Ah.”
“Useless things.”
“You worry about her.”
His mouth twisted with displeasure. “I’ve tried to help her organize. She won’t get rid of anything. It drives me crazy.”
“Why do you think she keeps things?”
“I think it makes her feel less alone.”
Gwen nodded. “How long has she been this way?”
“As long as I can remember. She got worse after my dad left.”
“When was that?”
“Twenty years ago.”
“Where did he go?”
“Northern California.”
“Do you still talk to him?”
“Not really.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “Neither one of us makes the effort.”
“Isn’t it his job to make the effort?”
“I’m not a kid anymore.”
“You’ll always be his son.”
His eyes shifted to meet hers. Her parents had moved back to Hawaii five years ago, but they talked every day. She couldn’t imagine not having them in her life by choice.
“Is this why you don’t get attached?” she asked. “Because your mother won’t let go, and your dad can’t hold on?”
“I get attached,” he said in a clipped voice.
“Not easily.”
He acknowledged this as truth. “I might not get attached easily, but I can hold on. I can hold on forever.”
She leaned back against the pillow, wondering if he wanted to keep Helena because he loved her, or if he had other reasons. Either way, Gwen hadn’t given him enough credit. He wasn’t cold or remote, just guarded. “I told Helena she should break up with you,” she said, feeling guilty.
His brows drew together sharply. “Why?”
Gwen didn’t answer.
“When did you tell her that?”
“Months ago.”
“She didn’t do it.”
“She has a mind of her own.”
“So she didn’t agree with you.”
Gwen wasn’t so sure. “If you want her back, you can’t be so disconnected. You both have to reach out.”
“You don’t think I can make it work?”
“Not by yourself. It takes two.”
He fell silent for a moment, contemplative. “Are you a tattoo artist or a shrink?”
“Tattooing is very therapeutic,” she said. “People tell me their stories while I work. Talking to someone can help ease the pain.”
“So I need a tattoo, is that what you’re saying?”
She smiled at his joke. “It can’t hurt.”
“Where should I start?” he asked, touching the underside of his arm.
His biceps were impressive. She could do beautiful things with that firm, supple flesh. “Maybe a tribal band.”
“Shouldn’t I belong to a tribe before I get one of those?”
“I’d put myself out of business if I believed that.”
“Will you tattoo anything?”
“No. I draw the line at hardcore pornography and racist stuff. I don’t work on private parts, either.”
“You get customers who ask for that? Dick tattoos?”
“Sometimes.”
“Jesus Christ. You need a bodyguard.”
“I have coworkers.”
She worked with two other artists, both male, so she was never alone at the shop. Jeff and Ian took care of the drunks and weirdos for her. Not that she couldn’t remove an unsavory character from the premises herself, but it was nice to have backup.
It was nice to feel Mitch’s protective vibe, too. And his strong physique, so close to hers. He was an intriguing blend of tough and tender. She couldn’t believe he’d opened up to her about his parents. He hadn’t seemed offended by her advice about Helena, either. He wasn’t dumb—but she’d known that already. She’d mistaken him for a man with too much brains and brawn, too little heart.
“I’m glad you’re here with me,” she said.
“So am I,” he replied, sounding surprised.
CHAPTER FIVE
MITCH WOKE UP in a state of acute discomfort.
Every muscle is his body felt strained. His arms
and shoulders throbbed from overuse. His calves and thighs were tight. Dull aches had settled into his joints and permeated into his bones, reminding him of his age.
Despite these complaints, or perhaps because of them, his dick was rock-hard.
He’d had this experience before. A few years ago, after participating in a triathalon he’d suffered from a condition he called perma-boner. He was too tired to fuck or even jerk off¸ but apparently not too tired to get hard. One of life’s little cosmic jokes.
His fuzzy brain registered his arousal and overall weariness along with a flood of more exciting sensory details. There was a pretty female neck under his lips. Soft skin beneath his palm, and a curvy ass pressed against his stiff cock. He groaned, moving his hand lower. She gasped at his touch, and he startled fully awake.
Oh fuck. This was Gwen. And he had his hand in her pants.
Somehow he’d unzipped her jeans and slid his fingertips into the wedge. He could feel her heat radiating through a tiny scrap of damp lace. Warning bells sounded inside his head, telling him to get out of there now. But his damned hand listened to his cock instead. It stayed right where it was, stroking that sweet cleft.
She made a strangled sound, like a moan. But she also gripped his wrist to still his motions.
He didn’t misinterpret this signal; she wanted him to stop. Letting his fingers go slack, he waited for her to release his wrist. When she did, he removed his hand and eased away from her, his heart thumping in dismay.
What the fuck had he done?
He’d felt up his girlfriend’s best friend, knowingly. While she was sleeping. That’s what he’d done.
“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his senses reeling. “I was…”
She rolled over to study him. Her dark eyes were swollen and her ponytail was askew. “Dreaming?”
He didn’t answer. He hadn’t been dreaming. His gaze drifted down to her unzipped jeans, which revealed the soft skin of her belly and a hint of black lace. Those panties just barely covered her pubic hair. If she had any. His fingers flexed at the memory of her damp warmth. He closed his hand into a fist, hating himself.
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