Текст книги "Walk Through Fire"

Автор книги: Kristen Ashley

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

“This is kinda crazy,” I whispered back.

“This is all kinds of crazy,” he agreed. “Crazy good. And we’d both be fools, we don’t roll with it.”

He was right. I knew it down deep.

I slid my hands up so they were both cupped, one over the other, at the back of his neck.

“I really liked that,” I told him softly. “What we just did.”

He dipped his face closer and gave me a hint more of his weight, replying quietly, “Got that when you came for me, darlin’.”

“Does our second date involve more of that?” I asked, and watched his eyes begin to shine.

“Definitely.”

“Good,” I whispered.

More shining from his eyes before I lost that shine because I closed mine, seeing as he was kissing me.

In the end, our first date involved more of that.

I got home late.

I knew my parents worried even though they didn’t say a word.

But Logan and I had plans to go out the next night.

So I was walking on air.

CHAPTER THREE

Thank You

Millie

Present day, two and a half weeks later...

I STOOD IN front of my bathroom mirror wearing my undies and bra and holding the handle of a large hand mirror.

I turned and lifted my free hand to my neck. Sweeping aside my hair and holding it at my opposite shoulder, I raised the mirror and looked.

I forced my eyes to stay open even when I wanted to squeeze them shut.

Unless I looked, I didn’t see. And my hair was long enough that it was rare I caught a glimpse.

And if by chance I caught a glimpse, I’d pretend I didn’t.

Now I was looking.

And there it was, as it would be since it was a tattoo.

Well done, the artist a master, not faded at all.

Then again, it was all in black.

Squat words that scrolled long in a beautiful, flowing script: Only him...

And I knew the second part of that tat started on Logan’s hip bone and ran across his hip, in bold scripted black underlined with a flourish of barbed wire:... only her.

The words and memories burned through me as I dropped my hair, turned, set the mirror on the counter, and moved toward the walk-in closet in the bathroom.

It was time to get dressed and go.

It was time to find Logan.

It was time for him to know.

*  *  *

I stood removed, watching and feeling shock at all the changes I saw.

There was a blazing campfire like days gone by. Also as in years past, one of the brothers had hauled logs in his truck to the field so they were positioned around the fire. And there were tents dotted around with the requisite bikes.

But the tents were bigger, more expensive.

And there was not one but three tricked out RVs parked facing the campfire and two deluxe travel trailers set up as well.

When I knew Chaos, they did well and this well didn’t entirely come from their custom car and bike garage and the automotive supply shop they ran but other not-as-legal enterprises.

Clearly, things had gotten even better and I knew part of that was Ride becoming outlandishly successful, something you couldn’t miss even if you tried since everyone in Denver knew about it.

I just wondered if the other part also kept going.

We’d never had RVs.

Or, I should say, they never had.

I was no longer someone who could refer to Chaos as “we” and they were sticklers about that kind of thing, so I knew I shouldn’t even think that way.

I stayed removed and watching, seeing brothers I knew. Even though they’d aged, I recognized them immediately. Boz, Hound, Big Petey. There were brothers missing, including Arlo, Dog, Brick, Hop, Black, Chew, Crank, and, most surprisingly, Tack, who was one of the more intense members of Chaos, but he seemed more Chaos than the average brother and considering they were all in—blood, guts, and glory—that was saying something.

Logan had been wary of Tack, telling me when I’d asked, “Good man, good brother. But Tack’s got ideas and the way shit is, my best bet is to lay low, see if he decides to play ’em out, and if he does, how.”

Logan had not shared these “ideas” with me. That was brother business and he’d gently but definitely, firmly shared that brother business was not my business.

I was okay with that. My man was far from stupid and I knew the brothers that made up the brotherhood by then, so I knew why he was in it.

And I trusted him.

The last was the bottom line, really.

In the end, I’d needed a lot of trust.

But it had never wavered.

Not once.

Though, he didn’t know that because I didn’t share that.

I’d shared the opposite.

I set those thoughts aside and studied the rest of the Chaos crew. There were more than a few younger guys I didn’t know, some of them with women I also (obviously) didn’t know.

This shouldn’t have been surprising, even though it was. The Club recruited and did it regularly. When I was with Logan, they were looking into opening another auto supply shop in Fort Collins and only brothers were involved in that (or anything to do with Chaos).

However, the sheer number of new, younger men shocked me. They outnumbered the members I knew and that made Chaos—something that was so familiar to me, once a part of my life with me being a part of their family—unfamiliar and that caused a pang of hurt I knew was not my right to feel.

Though, one of the girls I suspected I knew except when I knew her she was a whole lot younger.

Tabitha Allen. Tack’s daughter.

Like she had back then, she looked just like her dad, except female. She was just as beautiful as he had been handsome. And she was clearly with one of the brothers, a tall, lanky, good-looking one who was also very with her.

But no Tack.

And no Logan.

This meant I had to go in search of him.

This was a daunting prospect. The rally had grown over the years. It appeared triple the size it used to be. And I knew by some of the flags flying or pinned to the sides of RVs that the clubs there were not just from around Colorado but from other states as well.

Wild Bill was likely raking it in.

But I had all weekend. Wild Bill opened it up for setup Thursday at noon with the rally officially beginning with a concert on Friday evening.

It was now Friday night, nearly ten o’clock, when all the brothers should have arrived and started kicking back and letting loose.

However, watching them around the campfire, although there were beer bottles, smoking of two kinds, whisky being passed around, this was not the Chaos letting loose I’d been used to way back when.

Chiefly, there wasn’t a single outsider approaching them to buy weed.

On this thought, I moved away knowing from the prime location of their camp that they’d either sent a recruit in the early hours Thursday morning to camp out on the road and then move in to stake claim to their space or the recruit had actually camped out by the side of the road Wednesday night to do it.

And their spot was prime. They were far enough away from the music they could hear it but it didn’t drown out conversation and you could bed down and it not bother you much, or perhaps in those RVs it was drowned out completely. Also, they were on the other side from Wild Bill’s kitchen tent (which I’d noted when driving in was now four big tents), so the smells of cooking—no matter how good they were, they were also constant—didn’t permeate the air.

However, the Chaos camp wasn’t too far you couldn’t wander to what was known as the Trench.

The Trench was the area in the middle of the activity close to the stage where you went only if you didn’t know better, were too drunk to care, you were so badass you could handle whatever was thrown at you, or you had your man with you who was so badass he could take care of whatever was thrown at you.

I’d loved being in the Trench. It was heaving. It was out of control. It was loud and crazy. And to be in it, you had to let go, give in to the flow or you’d panic and be lost because you didn’t get out until the ripples of the Trench naturally spewed you out.

You could make instant friends with a look or instant enemies with the same.

But usually, it was friends. Although fights could (and did, regularly) break out, they never got (too) out of hand.

This was because everyone loved Wild Bill, so it was rare they disrespected him by doing something problematic that could mean the cops would show up.

In fact, in all the years since he’d been hosting the rally, which by now had to be at least thirty, the cops had only shown twice (that I knew of and even not going anymore, come early October, I paid attention to the news just in case).

The Trench was just a big, crazy party and it used to be every night for three nights Logan would guide me in and stick close to my side as we had the time of our lives until the undulations spat us out. Then we’d go back to Chaos, sit around the fire, shoot the breeze, drink, neck, and end up in our tent, where we’d fuck.

It had been awesome.

And being there again after all those years, it occurred to me just how narrow my life had become.

There was a day I was up for anything and with Logan at my side, safe to do it.

So I did.

Now I didn’t.

I wandered away from the Chaos camp and edged the Trench, thinking I was glad that Logan hadn’t been with them. I didn’t want to make an approach with the guys around.

It wouldn’t be awkward, making that approach to Chaos. It would be dangerous. Not to my body, to my mental health.

I knew the guys who’d been around back then would know and feel the same way about me that Reb did. I figured the younger ones had heard the history, perhaps without names, but a whisper would tell them who I was and they wouldn’t be any more welcoming.

So it was find him elsewhere.

Which was good.

I scanned for Logan as I moved, skirting the edges of the Trench, careful not to get sucked in. As many good memories as I had in there, I couldn’t go in. Not without being three sheets, not without someone to take my back, and not in the clothes I was wearing.

I didn’t own biker chick attire anymore. I didn’t live in jeans and cutoffs and tees and tanks and halters. Dripping with silver. Wrapping kickass beaded headbands around my forehead or covering my hair in a bandana and being able to get away with it. Wearing a tee of Logan’s and belting it to make it a dress that was precariously close to showing ass cheek and not giving a damn.

I’d been all in. I’d embraced the biker life like I’d been born to it. I’d done it so thoroughly, at first my parents and Dottie were terrified, utterly, completely, so much they’d eventually broken down and shared it.

Then the weeks had passed into months and they got to know Logan.

Honestly it hadn’t taken him much time to win them around.

He loved me. Was besotted with me. Treated me like porcelain. And he showed all that.

But it was more.

He was respectful. He didn’t curse around them, smoke or drink (too much), or maul me when they were near. He called Dad “sir” and Mom “Mrs. Cross” until she sat him down and begged him not to do it because, “You’re a part of our family now, Logan. It’s time to call me ‘Mom.’ ”

In the beginning, they’d hated me with Logan.

In the end, they’d been devastated when I’d sent him away.

They didn’t understand. They’d both talked to me about it then, asking why I’d ever let go of a man who loved me that completely and wanted the things they wanted for me, a safe home, marriage, and a big family.

They didn’t know.

Only Dottie knew.

Still, to this day, no one knew but Dottie.

And if I could find him, now Logan would know.

I just hoped I didn’t have to brave the Trench to find him.

I moved around the Trench, watching the revelers, taking in their attire, and thinking about how I wore different clothes back then. I was in jeans, boots, a sweater, and a leather jacket but my whole ensemble didn’t cost me fifty bucks because I’d scored kickass threads from some vintage shop or bought my tee at a concert or from a roaming vendor at a rally.

My ensemble cost over a thousand dollars (not including jewelry), and I might be among bikers, but they’d know it.

So I kept to myself, scanning faces, peering into the outskirts of the Trench, weaving around bodies and bonfires and tents and bikes.

I was nervous, most definitely. But I’d had two and a half weeks of practicing what I was going to say. Not only that, but also practicing how I was going to get Logan to listen to me.

I had the words down pat.

So I had that part covered.

What wasn’t covered was the fact that I had no idea what his reaction would be (or what my reaction would be to his reaction, though, I’d run a few of those around in my head as well, about seven thousand of them).

I just hoped that when it was done, when I’d explained, some of the scars would heal. At least enough that I could move on. Know he understood and finally—way too late but not never—close the book on that chapter of my life, give Logan that closure, and let us both go forward without that wound damaging our souls.

On a mission, I kept looking and did it for hours. Sometimes finding a safe spot to stop and watch just in case being on the move was why I was missing him. I even hung close to Wild Bill’s kitchen, thinking Logan might come to get a brat or a paper basket of late-night, drunken-eating gravy fries (Wild Bill’s specialty).

I saw Wild Bill. He was now old as dirt and looked it, but even though it was past midnight, he was serving up fries to bikers and their babes, doing it smiling.

Finally, I realized it was time to give up. At least for that night. I was getting tired, things were getting rowdier (the Trench) or quieter (the outskirts), so people were settling in for the night one way or another, and if Logan was there, he’d be doing the same.

Therefore I needed to pack it in, go home, get some rest, and come back the next night.

I didn’t think of finding Logan with a woman (which could be possible).

From the conversation I overheard at Chipotle, it seemed he was getting divorced or was finalizing but he could have moved on (though whatever ended that relationship was not him straying—he’d never do that, not in a million years, I knew that for certain).

But I’d deal with that if it happened and when I told myself I’d deal, I also told myself that it might even be good. He’d have someone and I wanted him to be happy.

And if he had someone, it might free me to find someone. Knowing Logan was with someone (and hopefully happy this time, as a possible divorce stated he hadn’t been the last time—but I tried not to think about that) might release me from his snare and finally allow me to move on.

I thought this even knowing there would be consequences from seeing him with another woman.

But I’d deal with them if they happened too.

What I hoped was that in the next two days, I’d actually find him.

If I didn’t, I’d have to go to Chaos. I’d have to go to Ride, the store or the garage, and look for him, ask after him.

Or, God I hoped not, the Compound.

But if that happened, it would.

And that, too, I’d deal with when it did.

Night one was a bust but I wouldn’t give up.

I’d come back for night two.

This thought made me sigh as I made my way through the bikes, trucks, and other vehicles parked outside the camp areas. Apparently, going to Wild Bill’s was like riding a bike since I remembered to make note of landmarks that would lead me back to my SUV in that sea of vehicles.

Back then, Logan had taught me to have that care.

Therefore, twenty years later, I had that care and walked right to my car.

I beeped the locks and had a hand to the handle when I heard, “Lookin’ for me?”

When that deep, coarse voice came at me through the dark, my body became paralyzed, my eyes glued to my hand on the handle.

Then it kept coming at me.

“Bitch, followed you the last forty-five minutes. Reb got in touch. Told me you hit Scruff’s.” On the next, the voice was nearer. “You’re lookin’ for me. So tell me what the fuck you want so you can quit lookin’ and I can quit lookin’ at you.”

Slowly, I turned, my head going back automatically because I felt him close and I knew what close to Logan meant.

I was five-seven.

He was six-one.

He towered over me, or at least that’s what it always felt like because he wasn’t only tall, he was also a big guy with a big presence.

And right then, it felt like that, especially since his big presence was an angry one.

His face was in shadows, I could barely see it.

But I could feel him.

And I could smell him.

God, I could smell him.

He didn’t wear cologne or aftershave. His scent was all his. And I remembered lying in our bed holding his pillow to me, my face shoved into the sheets, taking him in after I’d made him walk away.

His scent hadn’t changed. Not even a nuance.

Smelling it without warning felt like walking unsuspecting into the street and having a truck slam into you. And that feeling was so strong it was a wonder my body didn’t go careening through the trucks and bikes, slamming into them, shattering every bone.

He moved forward so he was in my space, the smell strengthened and my body tightened to guard against it.

“Woman, after all this time, whatever shit you gotta hand me, fuckin’ do it,” he ordered irately. “You got two seconds to spit it the fuck out. You don’t, you won’t get another chance, and you know I’ll make it that way. So this is your only shot. Take it or get in your fuckin’ car and get your ass outta my world.”

I stared into the shadows of his face, wishing with everything that I could see it.

Apparently, I did this for two seconds because Logan bit out, “Right. See nothin’s changed. Weak. Now get your ass...” he dipped his face to mine, “gone.”

And when he did, I got up on my toes and kissed him.

It was totally crazy

But I also totally couldn’t help it.

He smelled so fucking good.

And he was Logan.

Close. Right there. His face in mine.

He jerked away, muttering a disgusted, “What the fuck?”

But the words or their tone didn’t penetrate.

I smelled him and I’d had a taste.

I was gone.

I lifted both hands to either side of his head, yanked him down to me, and went back in, going for it, giving it my all. Even when his fingers clenched painfully into my hips pushing them back to set me away, I held on tighter and shoved my tongue between his lips.

It touched his, just that, just a touch, and then I cried out into his mouth when I found my back slammed into my SUV.

But it wasn’t his way to get me to let him go.

No.

His head slanted and he forced my tongue out of his mouth when his invaded mine.

And that was when I was gone.

I was already gone but right then there was nothing to me.

Nothing at all.

Except my hands on Logan’s head, his body pressing mine into my car, his smell all around us, his tongue plundering my mouth, all this exploding fire everywhere.

He drove a hand into my hair, twisting it, the pain bristling over my scalp and I cried out into his mouth again even as I arched deeper, pressed closer, willing, like it had always been, to give it all because he was Logan, he got it all.

But also because I knew I’d get it back a hundredfold.

He swayed us forward so his other arm could lock across my back and he kept at my mouth as I rolled way up on my toes, pushing deep, wrapping my arms around his neck, consumed by the kiss and not giving that first fuck.

I was ready to ride it out.

No, I needed to ride it out.

No matter where it went.

He broke away and that was when my hand went into his hair, fisting tight in protest.

“That what you want?” he growled, his voice lower, the abrasion physical, and I shivered with delight.

I wasn’t entirely certain of the question but I answered a breathy, “Yes.”

“That’s what you want,” he repeated, a statement this time, seeking confirmation.

“Yes, Logan.”

He let me go but took my hand, his skin rough against my fingers. The feel of it back after all these years washed through me and I fancied I remembered every time, in quick succession, from the first night we met to the night before I broke it off when he’d taken my hand and guided me somewhere.

Lost in it like I’d always been lost in it, I followed blindly.

Attached to Logan, I’d go anywhere.

Even if we were walking through fire.

He wended his way through the vehicles, quickly, strides long, and I rushed to keep up, my fingers curled tight around his just in case he got any ideas of letting me go.

Finally, he pulled me down the side of an RV I knew was part of the Chaos zone, stopped at the side door, and didn’t let me go as he dug some keys out of his pocket.

He inserted one, unlocked the door, yanked it open, and tugged me up the steps as he shoved the keys back in his pocket.

I had the barest moment to look around and be stunned at the utter opulence of the place as he stopped us inside and locked the door.

Total mega-platinum-rock-star-on-the-road-mobile, including manly mess, like he didn’t give a shit about the opulence to the point it was in your face just how much he didn’t care that this thing likely cost more than many people’s homes.

I was unable to get over this because Logan finished with the door and was pulling me through the space to the back.

And the bed.

He hauled me in and around so I was back to the bed, facing him.

Then he tugged my jacket down my shoulders.

“Logan—” I began, my voice holding a tremor, saner thoughts seeping in and forcing themselves to be noticed.

I had no choice but to cry out yet again when his hand shot up and in my hair, cupping the base of my skull and jerking me to him so powerfully, I collided with him, unable even to get up a hand to cushion the impact.

“We do this, you don’t talk except to say ‘fuck me harder,” ’ he ordered roughly.

Those never-forgotten tingles shot out from my inner thighs.

I opened my mouth, my hand drifting up in order to force it between us when he bent his head slightly, his eyes—those brown eyes I loved so damned much—not warm but severe and piercing.

“And you do not fuckin’ ever say my name again,” he whispered sinisterly.

Yes, saner thoughts were prevailing.

And the biggest one of those was that this was not right.

His mouth crashed down on mine and his scent assaulted me and it again was right.

Absolutely.

I tore at his Chaos cut, forcing it down his arms.

He broke free of my mouth to yank off his thermal, then put a hand in my belly and shoved me onto the bed.

I took in the wall of his chest, its dark hair dusting across his pecs and down his six-pack, his upper body wide, his abs cut, his arms big and defined, all of it powerful, and I went for my belt.

He yanked off my boots.

Since I’d undone my belt and fly, he went after my jeans next and they were gone. My sweater went up as he put his hands to the hem at the same moment he put his knee to the bed beside me, joined me, and the sweater was gone.

I felt a moment of joy when the weight of his body hit mine and then felt something else that was still joy but a lot more of it when his mouth hit mine.

The years melted away and we went at each other like we always used to go at each other. Every day, sometimes more than once, sometimes if we had the time all day.

But there was a difference.

This was frantic.

Hungry.

No.

Starved.

Everything I could take I did with hands and mouth and teeth and tongue, rabid for it, pushing him to his back for better access and going all in. Eventually separating from him only enough to yank at his belt so urgently, his hips left the bed.

“Jesus, fuck,” he muttered, but I knew that tone. I’d heard it before.

He was gone too.

And I was going to obliterate him a different way.

I tugged his jeans down until his hard, thick cock bounded free and God, God.

There were a lot of beautiful things about Logan Judd and one of them was the perfection of his dick.

I missed everything about Logan Judd.

Including that.

But there it was, inches away, so I wasted no further time.

I bent low and glided the tip of my tongue along the underside, hearing his groan, looking up and seeing nothing but the underside of his jaw, his head digging back into the pillow.

He liked that.

I quit fucking around and took him in.

All in.

“Jesus... fuck,” he groaned.

I blew him, just like he liked it, exactly like he liked it—definitely like riding a bike, I remembered it all and gave it to him.

I took him there, in woefully little time, and he communicated this to me by shifting away and taking over. Coming up on his knees, catching my eyes, his still severe and piercing but also fired and glorious, shoving a hand in my back and pushing me face-first into the pillows.

He moved and I felt my panties yanked down to my thighs. The tingles gone, my whole body was quivering in anticipation, my moans muffled against his soft sheets.

I moaned again when he shoved my legs apart and I felt my panties stretched tight, biting into my flesh.

Then he drove in and he was mine again.

Mine.

“Yes, baby,” I whimpered, overwhelmed, undone, simultaneously feeling joy while burning with desire, my fingers clenched into the pillow and I reared back in welcome and demand.

His fingers grasped my hips and kept me stationary as he pounded in.

“Oh God, yes. Fuck me. Fuck me harder,” I begged, fighting against his hold at my hips so I could participate as he rammed hard, fast, God... God...

Deep.

My chest stayed down but my head jerked back and I tipped my ass as high as I could, took it and kept taking it until I came apart, the pieces of me flying as I exploded with a succession of sharp cries that led to panting moans.

And he kept at me.

The pieces drifted back and I smelled him on the sheets, felt him thrusting inside, gloried in having him back, and tried to push up to my hands to help take him there.

“Down,” he growled.

“But—” I started.

One of his hands left my hip and moved to my back, shoving in to keep me where I was.

“Stay the fuck down,” he bit out.

I stayed down and stilled, the pieces of me drifting started shooting together as I took his thrusts and finally felt his thrusts.

A different burn assailed me as his noises came and I knew he was close.

Then he came, pouring himself inside me, holding me still and in position to be able to do nothing but take it.

He jerked into me as his orgasm had hold over him, then he buried himself to the root, staying there.

I remained still.

As I was beginning to fear, he wasted no time pulling out.

But even in my wildest imaginings, my worst nightmares, what he did next was not something I’d ever expect.

Not from Logan.

Not from the man who had my heart.

Not from the man who’d vowed to me the first time we met that there was never a time I wouldn’t be safe with him.

Not even after what I’d done.

I felt him leave the bed and was dropping to my side, reaching blindly for the covers, listening to the sounds of his buckle being done up.

I just got the covers over my lower half, my torso up on my elbow, my head turned to him, when I felt the heavy weight of my jeans slap against my body.

My eyes shot to his.

“You got what you wanted, bitch. Now get the fuck out.”

I stilled completely as horror and agony slashed through me.

Logan did not still.

He bent to snatch up his thermal, turned, and prowled out into the hall.

I stared at the space he’d occupied as it belatedly came to me what just happened.

He’d fucked available pussy.

I threw it at him.

He took it.

Now he was done.

This came with the territory for a biker. Groupies hanging around for that sole purpose. They didn’t care who or where or how. They got off on it.

I’d known a few of them, hung with them, shot the shit with them, and it was my considered opinion that they enjoyed it more than the guys, the notches they earned on their proverbial belts. They didn’t want commitment. They wanted fun and someone to let loose with and a fabulous orgasm (if they could get it).

I was not a biker groupie. I was an old lady. I wanted what the groupies had but I also wanted the whole package.

Though, I had to admit, I’d admired them. They didn’t care what anyone thought. They lived their lives in the pursuit of what they wanted and anyone who looked down on that could go fuck themselves.

But, again, I was not a biker groupie.

Yet Logan had just fucked me like one.

No.

Worse.

And it was worse because he didn’t even show me the respect of a cuddle or a kiss or offering me a shot after he’d done it.

What just happened was a revenge fuck.

And I’d walked right into it.

Mortified, shocked, wounded, I yanked up my panties and slid out of his bed slowly but I didn’t take my time dressing.

I hurried.

I did this thinking the Logan Judd I knew didn’t have that in him.

Men needed to earn his respect.

Women, that was another matter.

My mom, my sister, old ladies, biker groupies, whoever—he gave them respect. It wasn’t earned. It was given. He did not judge. He was never a dick, much less a complete asshole.

As Reb said, I’d obliterated him.

And I knew I had.

But I didn’t deserve that.

No woman deserved that.

But he’d treated me like that.

I pulled on my jacket and headed down the hall, moving swiftly, completely forgetting why I even came to the rally, needing to get out of there before the wound opened any further and I bled out on the floor of Logan’s tricked out RV.

I knew he was still there when I made it to the front. I felt him but I also saw him out of the corner of my eye.

But I went right to the door.

“I don’t see you again,” he stated when I was lifting my hand to open the door. “Ever again. Hear?”

Hear?

Agony.

I turned to him and it felt like I was moving in slow motion, that simple movement taking years.

And then I saw him.

Yes, craggy.

No scars.

No beer gut.

Just beauty.

An older version of my Logan but with cold eyes and a curl of distaste on his full lips.

“You’ll never see me again,” I whispered.

His eyes stayed locked to mine as he clipped, “Good.”

I felt my eyes brim with tears but I didn’t move. I stood there staring at the man I’d loved and lost and mourned for twenty years but I did it knowing I hadn’t even begun to mourn him.

Because my love for him had never died.

Now the mourning would start.

Because he’d just killed it.

“Thank you,” I said.

“For what?” he bit out.

“For killing it,” I replied.

I saw his heavy, dark brows shoot together but that’s all I saw before I turned to the door, unlocked it, yanked it open, and raced down the steps, the tears flowing, the pain growing and spreading.