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  “Yeah,” I draw out the word on a sigh, shifting so I’m on my side facing him, my legs still up on the dash. “But I’m really looking forward to the Grand Canyon and California, especially the redwood forest, though I’m bummed about missing Yosemite.” He looks over at me, raising a questioning brow. “I’m a total national park slut.”

  He laughs out loud. “Really? And to think I could have taken advantage of that this whole time,” he shakes his head like he’s put out. He’s not. “When did this begin?”

  “When I was a kid with my dad. He was big into history, so he took me all around New England, and into Pennsylvania and New York to see landmarks and old battlegrounds. That sort of thing.”

  “That’s pretty cool.”

  I nod my head against the seat. He looks over at me quickly, debating whether or not he wants to ask his next question. “How old were you when he died?”

  “Sixteen. It was a fatal MI.”

  “MI?”

  “Heart attack.”

  He nods. “That had to have been rough.” His hand reaches over, covering mine, and that small gesture of comfort is incredible. How he knew to do that, that I needed it, I don’t know.

  “It was. We were close.”

  “What about you and your mom?” His hand continues to rest on top of mine, and I let it, though I feel like I shouldn’t.

  “She’s tough. A bit emotionally detached. She loves me and I love her, but I wouldn’t say we have any real bond.”

  “I get that. My mom and I are sort of the same way.”

  I hesitate, biting my lip because I’ve wanted to ask him about his dad since we set out on this trip, but I wasn’t sure how he’d react.

  Fuck it.

  “Can I ask about your dad?”

  He looks over at me quickly and then back to the road.

  “He started drinking when Kyle was diagnosed with leukemia.” Clearly, he knew what I was getting at without my needing to elaborate. “You saw my mother with a drink in her hand, and yeah, she has a problem, but she limits herself to no more than three a day, and she’s functional. Crazy, but functional.” He looks over at me with a wry grin, but there’s sadness in his eyes too, and I know it must be hard to have not only one parent with a drinking problem but two. “But my dad never really learned his limit and refused to seek treatment for it. He likes drinking.”

  “I’m sorry.” I don’t really know what else to say. I can see it is hard for him. I can see it hurts him, so I move my hand out from under his and intertwine our fingers instead, squeezing him a little.

  His gaze casts down at our laced hands and a small shudder rises up through him. That one small reaction to my touch means so much. Because I feel it too. This connection we have.

  “He’s more catatonic now than anything. He was never violent or mean. Just isolated, which is how I think he wanted to be.”

  “Have you ever tried talking to them about it?” I ask softly, not wanting to come off as judgmental or accusatory, because I’m absolutely not meaning to be.

  “Yes. My dad said he had no interest in stopping, and my mother said she didn’t have a problem. I can’t help them if they’re not willing to help themselves.”

  I nod my head agreeing with him. “True.” My thumb runs across his hand. “Still, it must be hard.” I squeeze again, and we fall into silence after that, but our hands never pull away.

  We reach downtown Dallas and find a hotel that has a dope rooftop pool. When I initially thought out this trip, I did not intend to go first-class the entire way. I was thinking more middle of the road places, but that hasn’t exactly happened.

  I’m not so concerned about the money, and Ryan has insisted on paying for a lot of dinners, but still. At some point I’m going to need to check on how much I’ve actually spent and maybe pull Ryan back a little. I get the feeling he has a lot of money. He doesn’t discuss it much, but he’s hinted at it and spends it like he must.

  I have plenty of money; I just don’t like to spend it.

  My father left me a large chunk when he died, and then when Eric died I inherited his trust fund as well as his life insurance. The thought of spending either of those makes me a little sick.

  Whatever, for now I’m going to enjoy this and worry about the rest later.

  11

  Kate

  * * *

  I wake up early, as usual, and head for the hotel gym. Ryan and I did find our barbeque, which was stellar, but decided after two full nights out in New Orleans, our livers needed a rest. We both went to bed like good little kids around eleven.

  When I enter the gym, it is empty save for one other guy on a treadmill hauling ass.

  We do the typical gym stranger nod to each other when I hop on a treadmill a few away from him. I pop in my earbuds, set my pace, and zone out the way I normally do.

  Running is not new for me, but the way I run is.

  Before Eric and Maggie died, I did it when I could and for much shorter distances. Now I run harder and longer and with a lot more regularity. Exercise seems to help. I don’t know if it is the endorphins or the way my brain seems to shut off or what, but it’s all good.

  I’m about twenty minutes and almost three miles in when I feel like I’m being watched. Turning my head to the left, I catch the eye of the guy on the other treadmill who is smiling at me like he wants to say something. Great, I hate gym talkers. I pull out my earbud on the side facing him and raise my eyebrows expectantly.

  “You’ve got great form,” he calls out with an appreciative look, and I want to roll my eyes at that line.

  “Thanks,” I say instead and offer a tight smile.

  “Are you in Dallas long?”

  Really guy? I mean, I’m fucking running here and you want to make chitchat? Does this look like the time or the place to try and pick me up? No, it doesn’t.

  “Leaving today.”

  “That’s too bad. I would love to show you around the city a little.” Jesus, this guy. Suddenly I’m a little uncomfortable that we are the only two in here.

  “I’m all set,” I grin again and start to look away when the guy keeps going.

  “What time are you leaving? I could give you a private tour this morning. Maybe take you out for breakfast.” His tone does not suggest that he wants to take me out for breakfast, unless it is after he has screwed me. I swear the blonde hair makes men think I’m stupid and easy.

  I hate stereotypes, especially that one, but men seem to be all over it.

  My head snaps in his direction, and I’m about to go off on the guy when someone beats me to it.

  “That won’t be necessary.” I turn the other way—nearly falling off my damn treadmill—and see Ryan walking toward us. “The only person who’ll be giving my girl here a private tour or buying her breakfast, is me.”

  I smile so goddamn big. I just can’t help it.

  I would have happily laid into the guy and set down the law—something I have no problem doing, but it’s nice that I don’t have to. Men respond better to men in these types of situations for some stupid caveman-like reason.

  “Isn’t that up to the lady?”

  Really dude? Take the damn hint.

  “Then, I have to agree with my boyfriend here. He’s the only one I’m interested in,” I smile at the overly zealous guy, blow Ryan a kiss, pop my earbud back in and pick up the pace since it had slowed during this little interaction. The guy takes the not-too-subtle hint and leaves the gym.

  I look over to Ryan, who has occupied the treadmill next to mine.

  “Thank you,” I say to him. “That guy just didn’t know when to quit.”

  He shakes his head at me. “I can’t leave you alone for two seconds without someone hitting on you, can I?”

  I snort, rolling my eyes. “Don’t be ridiculous. A guy like that would have hit on anything with a pulse and a vagina.”

  Ryan gives me a look that says I’m full of shit, but I let it go and so does he.

  We sta
rt to run and begin to play the one-up game. Every time I increase my pace, so does he. Every time I add a little incline, he does too. And vice versa. After a few minutes of this bullshit, we’re both practically sprinting uphill.

  “Ryan, you’re killing me,” I pant out, barely able to keep this up. He is smiling smugly and I want to smack it off his way too-good-looking face. “To hell with this.” I wheeze and begin to slow my pace and lower my incline. My thighs, calves, and ass are burning like crazy, not to mention my lungs.

  He slows down too and after that little race, I’m done. I ran about three and a half miles and though I normally do a little over four, I cannot manage any more.

  “Quitting on me already?”

  I glare at him. “I was here twenty minutes before your lazy ass.”

  “Whatever you say, sweetheart,” he winks and I roll my eyes at him.

  “I’m going to shower. Come find me when you’re ready.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he salutes me.

  By the time I’m showered, changed, and packed up, I get a knock on my door. Ryan comes strolling in, freshly showered and smelling like his deodorant, shampoo, and his own unique scent. He’s wearing a worn, dark-green tee that matches his eyes, black shorts, and Chucks. His hair looks like he ran his fingers through it after the shower and didn’t bother doing anything else.

  “What’s our plan today, doll?” He flops down onto my bed, and for the briefest flicker of a second, I get the urge to flop onto him. What the hell? I push it back quickly, because that is not going to happen.

  “I say we grab some food, maybe walk around a bit, and then hit the road to Amarillo, though I’m not in a huge rush to get there. I figure that is more of a sleeping stop.”

  “Agreed, now come here.” He reaches out in a flash, snagging my hand and pulling me down onto the bed next to him. I squeal, squirming and laughing like crazy when he starts tickling me. “I thought you might be ticklish.” He’s lying. He knew I was ticklish. “I had to test my theory.” He’s smiling and laughing too.

  “Ah. Ryan. Stop.” I’m trying to push him off of me, but he is freaking relentless, and huge and strong, and I’m overpowered. “Please. Stop. I hate being tickled,” I gasp through my laughter that has tears streaming down my face.

  “No. You love it.” He’s enjoying this way too much. “Tell me you love it.”

  “Asshole.”

  He laughs harder.

  Giving up on trying to pry his hands away from my ribs, I reach up and twist the hell out of his nipple. “Ouch. What the fuck?” He lets go of me in favor of his smarting nipple. “That hurt like hell.” He’s still smiling, so I know he’s not really pissed at me.

  I try sitting up, but he is half on top of me, so I can’t really move. His body heat and weight feel incredible against me.

  “Sorry.” I’m not sorry at all. “I had to defend myself from your attack.”

  “Oh, sweetheart.”

  He places his hands on either side of my body, his face hovering over mine, and my heart rate begins to spike. His green eyes are sparkling, his face so close to mine—only inches separating us really.

  “It’s so on now.” His eyes bounce down to my lips and my tongue juts out reflexively to moisten them. His pupils dilate instantly, and that one small reaction sets my blood on fire. He’s a wall of muscle, so strong, all man. How easy would it be? Just a few inches really.

  But I can’t do that to him. He may skip the line, but I know he doesn’t want this with me. He was just being playful, and I turned it into something else entirely. I have to stop this now.

  “If you tickle me again, I’ll go for your nuts,” I rush out, so he doesn’t start tickling me again. Or worse, I kiss him.

  He freezes, evidently threatening his nuts is the key. “You wouldn’t,” he tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at me like I just crossed the line.

  “I totally would, so don’t try me, sweetheart,” I push him back, and this time he climbs off of me without protest.

  “Damn.” He shakes his head as I stand up, adjusting my shirt and running my fingers through my messed up hair. “You are lucky I like you as much as I do. I don’t let just anyone threaten my manhood.”

  I wink at him. “Lucky me then.” I reach out for his hand, trying to yank him up, which is just impossible, but he stands anyway, helping me along. “Let’s go feed me; I’m hungry.”

  We walk outside into the Texas sun and head in the direction the concierge told us to go. A block down, we spot a coffee shop and Ryan points to it, indicating that he wants to run in. The guy is as addicted to coffee as I am to Diet Coke. It’s sad, really.

  I turn toward the street and pull out my phone to check my email when I feel something tug on the bottom of the back of my t-shirt.

  “Mommy, Mommy.”

  I spin around, and my eyes lock on Maggie.

  My beautiful, towheaded angel is staring up at me.

  Her hair is longer, almost to mid-back, but still has the spiral curls. Her eyes are the exact same color as Eric’s. She’s older, maybe closer to four.

  I can’t move.

  I can’t speak.

  I’m staring at my little girl. She called me mommy, and I want to grab hold of her and never let go. But the rational part of my brain is cementing me firmly in place, because I know this is not her.

  My Maggie is dead. And my whole body aches.

  “Olivia,” a woman calls out, and the little girl’s head snaps to the right and then she runs off without another word, leaving me standing here without my daughter.

  The pain is unreal.

  One hand flies up to my pendant—the only piece of her I have left—and my other crosses over my stomach, trying to splint myself against the crushing agony that is taking over. I’m shaking, and just as my legs are about to give out on me, a large, strong body covers me, holding me up. I grab onto Ryan like my life depends on it, and I let out the sob that had been threatening.

  He holds me close, my fists clenching the back of his shirt, balling up the material. “She called me mommy,” I cry.

  “I heard,” he says softly as his hand gently caresses down my hair over and over again.

  “She looked just like her, Ryan. Just. Like. Her.”

  “I’m so sorry, Katie.” It’s all he can say, but he continues to hold me in the middle of the street as I lose myself, again.

  “Why Maggie? Why Eric, and why my baby?” I pull back to look up at him, his eyes so full of sorrow. “I’m so angry, Ryan. So fucking angry that my baby girl is gone and I don’t know how to get past it. I don’t know how to manage it or move on or even cope with it. Every time I think I can do this,” I wave a hand around in the air. “Think I can start to find a way to live without her, I get sucked back into the vortex.”

  His eyes bore into mine and I see the helplessness in them. He wants to fix this, but he can’t. There is no fix. Finally, after a moment, his eyes adjust on something behind me, and he grabs my hand and begins to pull.

  “Come with me, Katie. I’ve got an idea.”

  I have no idea what it is, but right now, I’ll try anything that makes this pain go away.

  After Eric and Maggie died, I didn’t take the easy road. I never drank or took pills, though both were offered to me by friends and doctors. But at this point, if Ryan pulls me into a bar and tries to get me shitfaced, I’ll let him.

  He drags me into a store with an obnoxiously loud bell over the door, but the second we step foot inside, I realize it is not a store. I’m immediately assaulted with the smell of sweat, cleaning products, and rubber. All around me men and women are hitting and kicking large and small punching bags while grunting and shouting. A few are even sparring in some sort of makeshift ring.

  Ryan leaves me standing by the entrance as he walks up to the counter. He begins talking to the very muscular bald guy there. The guy’s eyes flicker over to me, then back to Ryan, and before I can make sense of what is happening, Ryan pulls out his wallet a
nd hands him a credit card. They both make their way over toward me because I haven’t moved since Ryan released me.

  “Katie, this is Carlos. He’s going to get you set up.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about, but again, I don’t care, so I just nod.

  “Follow me, I have gloves for you.”

  Ryan takes my hand, clearly sensing that I need the help. Before I know it, my hands are forced into bright pink boxing gloves, and I’m standing in front of a hanging bag that looks huge and heavy.

  “Now, would you like me to offer you instruction, or do you just want to have at it?”

  I look up at Carlos who has very kind brown eyes, and I feel my chin quivering. “I don’t know.” Christ, I’m a hot mess.

  His expression softens and he looks over to Ryan like he has all the answers. “Come on, Katie,” Ryan cajoles. “Punch the ever-loving shit out of the bag. Give it all your anger.”

  I look at him—really look at him, and I finally understand what he’s trying to do. He’s giving me an outlet. A way to take out all of the burning aggression that is eating a hole through me.

  Ryan nods toward the bag. “You’ve got this.”

  Carlos moves behind the bag to hold it for me, and I take a step forward, rolling my neck and straightening my back. Instead of pushing everything I feel down or away, I allow it to bubble up to the surface, and a loud sob escapes my lips.

  Normally, I’d be embarrassed for doing the ugly cry in front of this stranger, Ryan, and anyone else who might be watching—but I’m not. I reach back with everything I’ve got and I punch the bag dead center. It barely moves. The thing is just as heavy as I thought it was.

  But that one punch felt so fucking good.

  I go at it again and again, switching my fists. It’s uncoordinated and sloppy. I’m yelling and grunting and crying my eyes out.

  But I’m doing it.

  I’m pushing all the overwhelming anger and heartbreak out of me and into this bag, over and over again. I even try a couple of kicks, but those don’t seem to make me feel as good as punching does.