High Reward

by Brenna Aubrey

  “Dark,” Xander speaks the word aloud as if it is right out of my head. We aren’t tethered. We’re drifting out. Station is getting smaller and smaller. “You never used to be afraid of the dark. Why are you now?”

  And before I can answer him, he belts out another question.

  “Why are you so afraid—all the time?”

  “Please. Forgive me.” My voice comes out as nothing more than a strangled whisper.

  He shakes his head. “Stop all this bullshit.” Then his jaw tenses and his face flushes. He jerks a hand up toward me. “What did I die for, Ty? Huh?”

  There’s a vise around my throat and I can’t breathe, though I’m gasping. We should be dead already. I look around. Station is another speck among the stars, and Earth is a distant, blue sphere.

  “Don’t look away. Look at me.” But when I do, I see that he’s having trouble breathing. His voice is hissing, gasping, the way he sounded over the comms when it was near the end. When he said goodbye forever.

  He coughs violently. “What did I sacrifice my family for? I gave up everything for you to live, so you could come back and, what, fuck around?”

  Xander’s words and behavior, the stare in his haunted eyes, are so unlike him and yet so much him at the same time. The eyes are hard as rock and devoid of emotion.

  Dead.

  Dead like him.

  I sucked in a frantic breath and came awake coughing, gasping as if I really had just been floating through a vacuum with no protection. The room spun as I sat up, trying to figure out why there was no moisture in my mouth. I stared at the far wall and his eyes stared back at me like an image burned into my brain.

  Sweat dripped down my forehead as an arc of pain stabbed through my head, pulsing in sync with the beat of my heart. Without hesitating another second, I fought through the covers on the bed and pulled myself out, stumbling to the bathroom where I first splashed an inordinate amount of cold water on my face.

  And as I did so, the words ran through my head. Just a dream. Just a dream. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

  What are you doing, Ty? That question cut through all the rest of the noise. That question, asked in Xander’s accusatory voice. If anything, the pain in my head blossomed into a full-blown migraine headache—the kind I only got when I was on orbit due to the carbon dioxide air scrubber not functioning properly on the station.

  As if in reality I had been there, the headache was a reminder.

  I jumped into the shower and cranked the heat up to skin-flaying lava temperature—high as I could tolerate it. Squeezing my eyes shut, I shoved my face under the direct spray.

  What the fuck was I going to do?

  Barrett’s narrowed eyes. His single question. His threats.

  Everything you touch breaks, turns to dust. Dies.

  My heart was still racing from seeing Xander again—a mixture of joy at being there with him, like the dream from the morning before, but blended with the obvious disgust in his voice. The same disgust I felt for myself.

  I pulled my face out of the spray and leaned my head back. The pain drilled its way into my temples. I grabbed the soap and worked rotely through my hygiene routine while I thought.

  I was putting off the inevitable. The decision.

  I wanted to ask her what I should do, but doing so would only be passing the buck. I’d be dropping the responsibility on her.

  And it would throw a bomb into the middle of her relationship with her father. I’d already been responsible for destroying one father-child relationship—Xander’s and AJ’s. I couldn’t do it again.

  Because in the end, she would hate me for leaning on her. For passing along to her the hard choice that had been thrust at me.

  I was alone in this decision. And Xander’s eyes accused me every time I closed mine.

  Since I couldn’t stand being in the dark anymore, I wondered how long it would be before I wouldn’t even be able to close my eyes. Could a man die of self-imposed sleep deprivation?

  I pressed my hands hard against my eyes.

  Was I man enough to do what needed to be done?

  Quick and dirty. Rip off the bandage, Tyler. Just fucking rip it off in one sharp tug.

  The thought of how much it would hurt to tear off that particular bandage left me gasping for air. It wouldn’t just sting for a few minutes. It would fucking eviscerate me.

  Dark dread pooled in the pit of my stomach, where indifferent, stony determination congealed.

  I couldn’t do it.

  But I had to.

  Yes, I knew I would do this, but I’d fucking hate myself forever. Even more than I already did.

  Probably more than humanly possible.

  Fuck.

  Chapter 4

  Gray

  I was almost ready to bring my mad-genius plan into fruition in the kitchen. A thrill zinged through my heart as I took the bowl over to the heated pan on the stove and ladled in a small amount of batter. I’d learned this trick while recovering from my last surgery in the rehabilitation center. My nurse had given me a few cooking lessons.

  I flicked my wrist, smiling at the perfectly heart-shaped pancake. Yes!

  Repeating my feat, I made a whole stack, perfectly sized and shaped, and loaded them on a plate. Then I turned to the breakfast tray I’d prepared earlier, set up perfectly and ready to go.

  I folded the cloth napkin into a U-shape and set it on the breakfast tray to the right of the plate, smiling at my work.

  And, as I’d heard the shower going, I knew he was awake.

  Picking up the tray, I crept into the bedroom and balanced it on its stand atop the comforter, angling it to optimize how he saw it the first time he looked.

  Faster than you could say HolyShitThisIsScary, Ryan opened the bathroom door and entered the bedroom again wearing only his underwear. Perfect timing. Like I’d choreographed it.

  “Hey,” he grunted at me, then turned to go into his closet—presumably to grab some clothes. I frowned. What the…?

  He was supposed to walk straight toward me, come take me in his arms adoringly and gaze over my shoulder at the breakfast I’d so painstakingly prepared for him.

  I frowned, folding my arms over my chest. Then I positioned myself directly in front of the tray, waiting.

  Minutes later, he reentered the room fully clothed in jeans and a t-shirt. His hair was wet and disheveled. I doubted he had even brushed it after he got out of the shower.

  Typically, he didn’t shave on the weekends, so his whisker growth from Friday morning was now dark on his cheeks and jaw.

  But beneath that, his skin was pale as paper and he looked exhausted.

  Like he hadn’t slept at all.

  I frowned. “Did you have a rough night?”

  He blew out a breath and ran a hand through his wet hair as if to flatten it. “You could say that.”

  “Hopefully you can be cheered up with a nice fat stack of…” I moved aside to throw my hands out, waggling them jazz-hands style, indicating the tray. “Pancakes! As promised.”

  He was silent as he took in the place setting, blinking several times. Meanwhile, my heart thumped a mile a minute.

  Because with this gesture I was saying a whole lot more.

  On the tray, using the pancakes as the center piece of my message, the utensils and the folded napkin, I had spelled out the words I (heart) U.

  I’d done it. There would be no doubts now.

  Gray, the girl who always played it safe, was jumping out of the plane, trusting that her parachute would open at just the right time.

  I clenched my fists as he studied the tray, digging my short nails into my palms while I waited for his reaction.

  When it came, it was a study in the expressiveness of his handsome features.

  First there was uncomprehending amusement. Then sudden realization. Then shock, his jaw dropping, brows raising. He swallowed, his mouth closing, thinning.

  “I don’t…” he shook his head.

 
; “It’s a message. From me, of course. It shouldn’t be hard to figure out.”

  Still studying the tray, he went a shade paler, if that was possible. His features clouded but not enough to conceal the clear internal struggle.

  And that’s when I realized I’d screwed up.

  Gray had jumped out of the plane, and now she was yanking the ripcord to her parachute.

  It wasn’t opening.

  Ryan’s eyes closed, and his own fists clenched at his sides.

  I gulped at the air. So, he didn’t feel the same way. It wasn’t the end of the world, was it? I held out an imploring hand. “It’s okay, Ryan. You don’t—I mean, I wasn’t expecting you to say it back. I just thought—”

  He took in a deep breath and opened his eyes to look at me. And what I saw there…

  What I saw there sent my innards into a full plummet. Falling. Down. Down. Down.

  My breath hissed out of my lungs. I blinked, feeling slightly dizzy.

  “We can’t do this,” he rasped, jamming his fists into his pockets. “This is over. I’m sorry. It’s not—”

  I shook my head, holding out a hand. “Do not say ‘it’s not you; it’s me.’ Don’t…”

  Those blue, blue eyes of his held mine in a vise grip. I couldn’t tear them away, even as my own threatened to fill with tears.

  “Gray. I’m sorry. But this has to end. And it has to end now.”

  I would not cry. I was the expert at keeping my tears in. I’d grown up perfecting the technique. I could do this…

  I tore my eyes from his, swallowing the bitterness at the back of my throat and turned. Calmly picking up the tray, I turned and walked out of the room and back to the kitchen. Without a word, without a thought, I dumped the pancakes from the plate straight into the garbage as his words turned around and around in my head.

  I wanted to argue with him, but that look in his eyes had made it clear.

  There would be no changing his mind. And I should have fucking known better. Well at least he didn’t do it over the phone, so I guess I was a very wobbly and miserable one-up on Suz, the trainer-with-benefits.

  Pari had warned me weeks ago as if she’d been able to see what was coming, see what I couldn’t. Maybe because she was a player herself, she could identify with Ryan. She had some special insights to what made him tick that I did not. However, I doubted Pari would be so cruel as to string someone along for weeks and allow them to develop feelings for her.

  But she’d known this might happen and she’d warned me.

  And I hadn’t listened.

  I cursed my own past arrogance and stupidity. My vain belief that I, Gray the almighty psychotherapist-in-training, had all the answers.

  I stood staring down into that trash can for way too long, the plate and fork frozen in the air above. What the hell should I do now? My mind was numb, like I’d just been hit and was trying to recover. What were my options, really?

  Well, it was obvious. The first thing I needed to do was leave.

  Sucking in a deep breath, I put the dishes in the sink. He could clean up the mess, for all I cared. Then I went to the guestroom where most of my things were and pulled my suitcase out from under the bed.

  My insides twisted into a familiar deep freeze as I gathered my things and robotically packed them into the case. My mind, however, was a thousand miles away.

  And the only question it was asking—on repeat to the beat of every movement I made—Why? Why? Why?

  I don’t even know when he appeared in the doorway. I just turned my head slightly to grab a new pile of clothes and spotted him out of the corner of my eye. I jerked my head in his direction and our gazes met. He looked…

  What was that look? Partial hurt, partial relief? Was he relieved?

  I stepped back from the suitcase and turned to face him, my arms folded over my chest, my chin high. My eyes sparred with his deep blue gaze.

  I wasn’t going to grovel.

  No matter what my heart wanted me to do, he’d never see me beg. A girl had to keep her pride.

  I drew in a long breath through my nose. He tore his eyes away first, nodding to the suitcase. “I’ll help you out with your stuff when you’re ready.”

  It was delivered in a low, flat voice, but it hit me like a slap. My throat seized, and I could hardly even breathe. I wanted to scream, cry, fall on the floor, and punch his face all at once.

  Fuck emotional maturity. Fuck it all to Hell.

  I wanted to stomp my feet and have a full-blown tantrum. Instead I just stood there, my arms locked in the grip of each of my hands.

  “This is what you want,” I finally muttered in a small voice. It wasn’t a question.

  He frowned. “I’m sorry?”

  “No, you’re not.” I shook my head and cleared my throat, speaking in a more forceful voice so that he could hear me. “This is what you want. What you wanted my reaction to be.”

  His features froze, and they reminded me a bit of a blank wall. His blue eyes hardened, and silence rang out between us, clashing through the air like the cacophony of church bells.

  He finally took a deep breath. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “It’s exactly what you want. What better way to get me out of the way? To stop this whole babysitting thing? You start something between us and then end it just as abruptly. Push me aside as easily as you did Suzanne the trainer—”

  I cut myself off when he visibly stiffened, his hands once again clenching so hard that the veins on his forearms bulged. He took one step into the room and stopped. “That’s not what this is.”

  “Do you mind telling me exactly what this is, then? Because from where I sit, it seems like a very concerted effort to get rid of me. I mean, what better way to eliminate me as someone you’ll ever have to work with directly?”

  His brow crumpled, and his gaze intensified. “I wasn’t using you. I wasn’t—” He shook his head, muttering to himself as he ran a hand through his hair.

  “But you want to take my things to the car. You want me to go.”

  He closed his eyes and then opened them again, looking deeply into mine. “Yes. You need to go.”

  I stood frozen for a moment, hardly able to collect my thoughts, hardly able to work around the fresh hurts he heaped right on top of the slightly older ones. Like a compost pile.

  But if I did this, if I walked away, I’d be compromising everything. I’d be quitting the work that had been important to me in the first place. Ryan Tyler had succeeded in getting under my skin—in more ways than one—and getting into my brain. Perhaps it had been a concerted effort to try to control me.

  Or maybe it had been a game, and he was just the player who had let something go too far and now had to end it.

  I went back to my suitcase, grabbed the stack of underwear, and put it back into the drawer I’d just emptied, following suit with my t-shirts and socks.

  “What are you doing?” he asked after quietly watching this production for a few minutes.

  “I’ll tell you what I’m not doing,” I grabbed three pairs of shoes and plopped them back on the floor of the closet. “I’m not leaving here.”

  He blinked a few times before reacting. “You have to. I’m asking you to.”

  I turned to him and jerked my hand in his direction, pointing a stiff finger at him. “It’s not up to you. I’m here because XVenture and the future XPAC have a vested interest in me being here. In making sure you behave yourself. I’ve obviously screwed up big time over the past few weeks, and that’s on me. But I’m. Not. Leaving.”

  His chin came down and his eyes narrowed, his hand gripped the doorjamb until his knuckles whitened. “Under the circumstances, it’s best if you don’t stay,” he said in a low, almost dangerous voice.

  I reached into my back pocket, whipped out my phone, and held it out to him. “How about I dial Tolan’s number and you explain that to him right now? You have my permission to tell him all about the circumstances.”

  His br
ow trembled again as if he was completely confused by my behavior. Nevertheless, he did not touch—nor did he even look at—my phone. Instead, he just watched me, frowning. As if I confused him.

  Fine. Let him be confused. With a disgusted sigh, I stuffed the phone back into my jeans. “Since I’m not going to need your help taking this to my car, you don’t really need to stand and wait for me to finish. I’m sure you have work and things to get done today.”

  With that declaration, I pulled out the last bit of my remaining things, threw them onto the bed, and then very pointedly shoved my suitcase back under the bed. Then I turned my back on him and began to refold the clothes I’d dumped out.

  When I turned and looked minutes later, he was gone.

  I fell onto the bed with a soul-rending sigh and stared unseeing into the open closet for a long while, replaying that entire conversation in my head. And then rewinding to the previous conversation in his room and the moment he’d seen the pancakes. And then rewinding to the conversation before that, lying in bed beside him, staring into his eyes.

  Him telling me that looking into my eyes was like losing control.

  I blew out a long breath, pleased with my strength, that my ability to hide the tears was still intact. It was my superpower, really, honed from a childhood where I’d been determined to keep my parents calm, keep them from panicking.

  Even when I felt the keenest of fears, the deepest of sorrows that I couldn’t go out and run and play with the other kids, or even when I was hurting, physically or emotionally, I’d kept it in for the sake of my parents. To keep them happy. To keep them from falling apart.

  I may have been the sick one, but I was never, ever the weak one.

  And Ryan would find that out too.

  One of my modern psychology idols, Elizabeth Kubler-Ross, defined grief in five stages. And when you lose someone, whether by death or rupture of a relationship, a person suffers all of them at one point or another. Sometimes many times over.