Swinging his legs up and around, he propped his feet on the far arm of the couch and reclined on the other one. Bringing his drink to his mouth once more, he extended his arm for the remote on the table and aimed it at the television mounted on the wall. Because, of course, one of the first things we did was connect the eighty inch monstrosity.
Snorting, I jerk my chin up. “And you wonder why you can’t take me.”
“Twenty-three percent, muthafucka. I said a twenty-three percent chance.”
I turn around, laughing under my breath when the sound of my name stops me. Pivoting, I face my best friend again.
“I might’ve been teasing earlier, and yeah, I probably took it too far. And you’re my brother in every sense but biology, so trust that I recognize your addiction is a disease not to be made light of. And I admire the fuck out of you for staying sober. We all do. But I’m dead ass about you being so hard on yourself. You need to give yourself a break. And grace. You deserve it.”
He switches his attention back to the TV and immediately becomes engrossed in an episode of60 Days In, acting as if he hasn’t left a drummer’s fist-sized hole in my chest.
Not that he’s looking at me—not that I can speak—but I nod and head for the hallway and the stairs the lead to the second level of the old farmhouse. Within moments, I climb the steps and stride down the hall.
As I pass my son’s doorway, my feet slow. A soft, golden glow spills from the cracked door, and I can’t resist the pull. Not of the light, but the small human being whose presence levels my life, rendering everything but him unimportant and insignificant.
In moments, I cross the large room decorated in soft blues and yellows in aJack and the Beanstalkmotif. Once I bought the house, I had a local interior designer come in and ready the room so Gunner would spend his first night in his own crib with a mobile of beans, miniature Jacks and geese circling over him.
Quietly approaching the crib, I’m not even aware of holding my breath. Not until my lungs start to burn and scream for mercy. Only then do I release the pent up air, low and deliberately. I’ve had him for three months now. Eighty-seven days, to be exact, since his mother—a woman I’m ashamed to admit I can’t remember since I was most likely lit when we fucked—dropped him off at my agent’s office.
And in those nearly three months, there hasn’t been one time that I’ve looked at him and my breath didn’t catch in my throat.
Including now.
I stroke a hand down his soft, dark blond curls, my palm settling on his back, savoring the rise and fall signaling his steady breathing. I quietly smirk. At least I no longer put my finger under his nose. Underneath my hand, Gunner snuffles, squirming a little, then sticks his thumb in his mouth. I wait several moments for him to still, and then I lift my arm and back away from the crib, leaving my son to sleep on. Seeing him like that, so peaceful, I’m almost convinced everything will be okay.
And a half-hour later, as my feet pound the pavement and the late October night air whispers over my sweat dampened face, I try to hold on to the residue of that certainty.
But I might’ve miscalculated venturing out so soon. Even though the silence is disturbed by the occasional dog bark, the call of nocturnal insects and the random muffled voice behind the curtained, dimly lit windows, the memories crowd in on me, suffocate me.
The hood of my sweatshirt covers my bent head, and I stare down at the sidewalk, purposefully not staring at my surroundings. But I don’t need to. I know where my feet took me without my conscious permission.
This is my hometown after all.
This is—what had Kade called it?—Bumfuck, Washington. Otherwise known as Pike’s End. The place that had only ever seen me as John Sullivan, the town drunk’s, delinquent son. Didn’t matter that the worst crimes I’d ever committed were shoplifting out of Walden’s Drug Store when I was twelve and a couple of speeding tickets years later. This town and its residents never really accepted me, but waited to see just how rotten and twisted I would turn out. I didn’t feel wanted here. Wasn’t happy here.
And yet, I’m back…here.
Rich beyond even my imagination. More fame than money. And still, I’ve proven every one of them right about me.
Tucking my chin, I deliberately blank my mind and focus on nothing but the stretch and pull of muscle. Drawing air in through the nose and pushing it out through my mouth. The sweet ache singing through my body. It all but drowns out the noise.
It almost smothers the sly, slick craving that slinks in the back of my brain. Sometimes, it’s quiet. But at moments like these, when I’m on edge and doubts and emotions roil in my chest and head, it’s a little bolder, greedier.
Gritting my teeth, I run on.
And next time I glance up, I have no idea how I ended up in Cedarbrook Park, standing by the edge of the creek that runs through the rear of the park. Have no idea, but I’m not shocked. A sort of…resignation weighs on my chest because this was inevitable. My mind might not have acknowledged the urge or permitted the need, but the raw, primal part of my subconscious? It overrode all of that and brought me to the place where me and Lennon used to meet in secret.
The place my heart had thrown itself to the ground to lie at her feet, a willing sacrifice.
The place I’d promised to love her forever, to never hurt her.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, my eyes closing. Air rushes in and out of my lungs, but not because of my run. Because I can no longer outrun myself, the memories. They bear down on me like a speeding car, and staring into the headlights, I freeze, can’t move. Instead, memory after memory slams into me.
God.
My fists clench, my body damn shivering against the impact. I can even smell her. That scent of violets—sweet and earthy—with notes of a sensual musk weaving around it like a vine. That scent followed me into my dreams, into my waking hours for years, haunting me. Even now, standing here in this sacred place of ours, it’s headier, more tangible…
Wait.