Walk Through Fire Page 16

“Mornin’,” he greeted casually, then lifted the mug and took a sip.

  “Are you kidding me?” I asked.

  “Nope,” he answered after lowering the mug.

  I looked to the back door, then to him. “You broke in?”

  “Yup.”

  He broke in.

  To my house!

  I didn’t have time for this.

  Further, it was time to end this.

  Now.

  Intent on doing just that, I tossed my hair, feeling the loose bunch of it wrapped around a ponytail holder at the top back of my head wobble around and Logan’s eyes went to it.

  I felt my thighs start tingling.

  Damn it!

  “You need to leave,” I informed him.

  He looked from my hair down my body, then back up to my eyes.

  His were grinning when he noted, “Nice jammies,” before he took another sip of coffee, his gaze never leaving mine.

  Rough, edgy, biker, bad boy, hot guy Logan “High” Judd saying the word jammies was both hilarious and a total turn-on.

  Though he was right. They were nice jammies. Petal pink with ivory lace, another cami and pants that were so awesome, they should be illegal. This pair had lace edging the hem and sides of the pants—sides that were cut in overlapping slits all the way to my upper hips.

  Sometimes I got tangled in them when I was sleeping, but they looked crazy-awesome on, especially when I was walking around, so I put up with the tangling.

  I’d never had anyone to appreciate them.

  Until now.

  And Logan’s appreciation worked, as it always did.

  However, I told myself firmly, I would be happy with just my own appreciation.

  And maybe the detached, feline approval of a Burmese cat.

  Perhaps a Persian.

  Yes, a Persian. A Persian would go better with my house.

  I tore my thoughts off Persian cats and focused again on Logan, repeating, “You need to leave.”

  He didn’t leave.

  He stayed right where he was, lounging against my kitchen counter like he did it every morning, and asked, “What’s the gig with your house?”

  Even though I didn’t quite understand his question, I did know he wasn’t going to catch me in this again.

  “Please leave,” I requested politely.

  He ignored me and threw out his hand holding the coffee mug toward my kitchen/living room.

  “Babe, this place looks nice, but it’s not you.”

  “It’s one hundred percent me,” I retorted, doing it wanting to kick myself because I should not engage. I should instead ask him to leave (again).

  I knew this to be even more true when he took in the length of me again before catching my eyes.

  “New you, that getup, this house,” he muttered. “Old you, I got my dick inside you.”

  That did it, the dirty talk that was not all about dirty talk, the good kind that was sweet and fun and had one objective that was also sweet but mostly it was fun. Instead, it was dirty talk that was only partly the good kind but not intentionally so. Mostly it was meant to wound by taking more than it was giving and leaving bruises with the blows.

  Therefore I stomped to the island, put my hands on it, and didn’t share I had a busy day and I needed to prepare for it because he’d proved yesterday he didn’t care about that, which was another indication he didn’t care, at all, about me.

  Instead I stated, “I’m not doing this again. This is over, this game we’re playing. You need to leave. And I’m being serious, High.”

  Humor lit his brown eyes when he returned, “You’re bein’ serious?”

  I tried to tamp down my annoyance, something else that didn’t work, in fact, the effort only fanned the flames, and I replied, “Very.”

  He lost none of his humor and actually looked more amused when he rejoined, “You’re cute when you’re very serious. ’Specially bein’ very serious in those jammies.”

  I stared at him as panic hit me.

  He was changing the game and the way he was changing it this time, teasing me like that, I knew I was going to lose.

  And if I lost to that, I’d lose it all.

  Again.

  Oh yes.

  Panic.

  And staring into his playful eyes, that panic went extreme.

  “Please leave,” I whispered.

  He heard my tone, maybe read my panic, the amusement fled and he got serious and I knew it was deadly serious even though he didn’t move a muscle.

  “What’s the gig with your pad, Millie?” he whispered back.

  “It’s my home,” I answered, hoping an answer might get him moving on. “It’s how I like it. I worked hard on it. It’s perfect. Now, I answered you. Will you please go?”

  “It’s not you,” he told me.

  “It’s all me,” I told him.

  “It’s not the you I know.”

  “You knew me twenty years ago, Logan,” I reminded him. “Things have changed.”

  “Yeah they have,” he readily agreed.

  I leaned into my hands on the counter, my body tipping his way, my hope that he’d read that body language and see my sincerity.

  “While we’re like this, not angry, not being stupid and crazy, I hope you’ll listen to me,” I began. “I need you to leave, Logan. I need it. This isn’t healthy. Not for either of us. We have to stop.”

  “Crate’s gone,” he shared, and my head twitched in confusion when he did.

  “Crate?” I asked.

  “Photos of us,” he told me.

  He’d searched my house.

  Not a surprise.

  Invasive and annoying but with no rules to this game, not a surprise.

  “I took it out to the Dumpster,” I told him.

  And I had in a moment of fury.

  The garbage men didn’t come until the next day. I still had time to go out and drag it back in.

  I was fighting the urge and hated the fact that part of me knew I’d lose that fight. But that crate totally would be back inside, tucked in my closet by day’s end no matter how busy I was.

  “Crate’s gone,” he repeated, and when I started to say something, he went on, “Someone took it.”

  I snapped my mouth shut against a pain that felt like someone had punched me in the throat.

  “Rode around your house,” he told me. “Saw it yesterday afternoon by the Dumpster. It’s gone now.”

  Oh God.

  It was a nice crate. They didn’t cost a fortune but they also didn’t cost pennies.

  And crates like that were useful for a variety of things.

  I could see someone taking it. I hadn’t thought about it when I’d dragged it out there and set it beside the Dumpster, not too puny or lazy to throw it in, just knowing I’d never dig it out if I actually did that, so I’d set it by the side because I knew I was weak and I’d be back for it. Still, I was making a statement to myself even if I knew it was lame and I’d take it back.

  “It’s gone?” I asked, my voice husky.

  “Nice crate, you dumped it, someone can use it. They’ll do that and to do that, they’ll dump the pictures.”

  Oh God, that hurt.

  God, it killed.

  Why had I taken it out to the Dumpster?

  Why?

  “Threw us away, Millie,” he told me conversationally, then took a sip of coffee, his gaze still on me. When he was done swallowing, he continued. “My count, this is twice.”

  That blow was so true, it caved in my throat and I had to fight for breath.

  I struggled past the pain, dragged in air, and begged, “Please don’t do this. Just let it go and then go. If not for me, for you, High. This isn’t healthy for either of us.”

  “Man’s gotta get off and works for me I do that with a guaranteed good lay. Seems healthy to me, and when I’m buried deep, definitely feels healthy.”

  I didn’t hide my wince and he didn’t show he cared even minutely that he’d c
aused it.

  In fact, he didn’t show that he cared much anytime I made it clear he’d wounded me.

  No, he didn’t care at all.

  He was playing with me to cause hurt to get back at me for what I’d done.

  But he’d already done that, in spades, and the more I took, the more I allowed him to dish out, the more I made it so I deserved it.

  In other words, if only for the sake of self-preservation, if not self-respect, this had to end. I knew it even before it began. I never should have gone to look for him in the first place.

  I should have let it lie.

  Now it was in my power to make it be over and I was going to do that.

  He was not going to get it all.

  Oh no.

  But I would give him enough to get him gone so I could try to find it in me to stitch up the new lacerations I’d given my own damned self and get on with my life without him in it.

  “I saw you at Chipotle,” I announced.

  That got me something. I watched his body visibly tighten.

  “I heard you on the phone. I heard what you said.” My voice dropped. “I know you have girls.”

  His stare intensified but he didn’t say a word.

  I did.

  “You looked…” I threw a hand his way, “good. Healthy.” I shook my head, knowing my lips were curving in a sad smile but I didn’t try to stop it. “And as ever, handsome. You were wearing your Chaos cut, so I knew you still had your brothers. I saw you, heard you, and I knew you had it all. So I knew it was time to say I was sorry. To find you and say I was sorry for ending things the way I did. I know I hurt you and I thought, you having everything you need, all you ever wanted, your brothers, a family, I should find you and give you that closure. I should give you the words I should have given you years ago and didn’t. So I went looking for you.” I drew in breath and finished, “And I found you but it didn’t go as planned.”

  “You don’t know shit,” he stated the minute I quit talking.

  “I—” I started, then stopped, letting out a sharp cry of surprise and jumping away from the island when he all of a sudden swung an arm out and let his coffee mug fly, the mug shattering against the cupboards across the room, the coffee spattering cabinets, countertop, and floor.

  “You don’t know shit,” he snarled, and my eyes flew back to him.

  “You… you…” I licked my lips nervously, taking another step back to retreat from the wrath pouring from him and pounding into me but stopping when his eyes narrowed in warning at my movements, “don’t have girls?”

  “Cleo and Zadie.”

  Oh God.

  Cleo and Zadie.

  Cute names.

  Probably cute girls. I could picture them in my head, female versions of him.

  Beautiful.

  “Lights of my life,” he bit out.

  “I… that’s good, High,” I told him quickly. “I’m happy for you.”

  “Knocked up their ma. Didn’t love her,” he shared, and with each word he said, I sustained new wounds. “Fuck, didn’t even really like her at the time. But she got pregnant and didn’t wanna take care of it, so she gave me Cleo. I gave her a ring. We both didn’t want Cleo to grow up with no brothers or sisters, so we gave her Zadie. Then we gave them both a crap home with two parents that didn’t give much of a shit about each other until we decided we were doin’ more harm than good and we ended it.”

  Outside of the fact that he had two daughters he loved, none of the rest of that sounded good.

  I didn’t want that for him. I’d wanted so much more for him. So, so much more.

  I’d walked through fire to give it to him.

  And I felt a new gash opening, knowing he’d never had it.

  “I’m sorry, High,” I whispered.

  “I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, Millie,” he clipped.

  “Okay,” I said immediately.

  “Lived thirteen years with that woman and our babies knowin’ each day…” He shook his head. “Fuck, each fuckin’ second what I wanted outta my life, what I wanted for my babies, what I thought I’d have with you, what I’d have to give to our kids, doin’ that with you, and knowin’ you tore that away. And you saw me and thought I wanted closure? You thought I wanted your ass back in my life so you could say you were sorry for takin’ away the only thing that gave me joy? To tell me you were fuckin’ sorry for takin’ away the only shot I had at givin’ that joy to the babies I made?” His eyes narrowed dangerously. “What the fuck’s the matter with you?”

  “I told you I fucked up,” I reminded him carefully.

  “Yeah,” he growled. “You fuckin’ did.”

  “Now you know how,” I went on.

  “Now I know how,” he ground out.

  We stared at each other, me anxiously, him angrily.

  When I could take no more, I assured him, “When you walk out of my house, I promise, High, swear, you’ll never see me again.”

  “You lied to me,” he declared.

  I shook my head in confusion. “I—”

  “I got Cleo and Zadie. Where’re your kids, Millie?”

  I took another step back and did it wondering how I managed it. Truthfully, his words caused so much damage it was actually a wonder I was still standing.

  Breathing.

  Living.

  “Told me,” he continued. “We talked about it all the time, you told me you were all about family. Worked your ass off to finish school early so we could start. And I know you got no kids. So that was a lie too. Like your love. Like your commitment to us. Like everything that had shit to do with you.”

  “I made a mistake back then,” I forced out, the words weak, pained.

  “You sure as fuck did,” he returned, and threw out a hand. “Payin’ for it, in your perfect house with your fancy-ass pajamas and killer investment portfolio.”

  Killer investment portfolio?

  Shit, he’d looked into me.

  “Got money, babe,” he sneered. “And you think you got it all. Worked your ass off to get it. Gave me up to get it all. That’s what you wanted, not a life with a biker who had no future. You wanted it all.”

  He took a step toward me, his eyes locked to mine, and it took all I had left (which wasn’t much) not to shrink from him.

  And then he kept at me, inflicting his last wound.

  A mortal wound.

  Slaying me.

  “But I’ll tell you, bitch, what you don’t got, what you won’t ever get, what you lost when you lost me, is the most beautiful thing you can have. Your kid sayin’ your name. Every fuckin’ time Cleo or Zadie say the word ‘Daddy,’ even if they’re whinin’ or pissed about somethin’, it lights up my world. So keep warm in this fuckin’ joint.” He threw out a hand again, then used it to indicate me. “In your sexy threads. But you’ll never get warm to the bone, knowin’ you changed the world, created a miracle, bringing beauty from between your legs that’s got fuck-all to do with an orgasm.”

  On that, he grabbed his cut and walked right out of my house, slamming the door behind him.

  And I stood still, staring at the door, the curtain over the window still swaying with the power of his slam, eviscerated, the life force flowing out of me, streaming across my gleaming wood floors, evaporating into nothing.

  It took some time, a good deal of it, before I moved. Got myself a cup of coffee. Cleaned up the mess Logan left of his. Went to my bathroom to take a shower and get ready for the day.

  But I did it knowing I was back to going through the motions.

  Oh, I’d pretend.

  For Dot.

  And Mom and Dad. Justine. Kellie. Claire.

  And I’d breathe until there was no breath left.

  But that was all life would be for me.

  I knew it because it had happened twenty years earlier, my life leaking away as Logan walked out of it. Then I went through the motions.

  Now I’d do it again. But with practice, I’d do it better
so those left who cared about me didn’t worry.

  That’s all I’d give.

  That’s all I’d get.

  Until the day I died.

  And I was good with that because once I had it all with the promise of even more.

  So I’d take that because I knew that was all I’d ever get.

  And because I also knew I had no choice.

  Elvira

  “Yo.”

  Elvira looked up and saw the commando standing in her office door. His name was Mo.

  “Shirleen Jackson just walked in the building,” Mo told her. “Checked his schedule. Hawk’s not got her on it and anyway, he’s out. She here for you?”

  Elvira wasn’t expecting her but knew Shirleen must be there for her.

  “Yep,” she answered.

  He jerked up his chin commando style, which meant Elvira had no idea how he didn’t dislocate something while doing it. He then prowled off into command central, Hawk’s theater-style space with workstations that were wired to take over NATO or the United Nations or Cheyenne Mountain or whatever struck his fancy to play with on any given day.

  She took the time it took Shirleen to make the office to clear her desk of anything sensitive and she stood when Mo showed Shirleen to her door.

  “Gotta talk,” Shirleen said as greeting.

  Elvira nodded, indicated the two seats opposite her desk with a hand, and invited, “Sit your ass down.”

  Shirleen sat her ass down.

  Mo gave Elvira a look, then took off again and Elvira turned her eyes to her wall of windows that showed command central. It also showed none of the four boys out there manning stations were paying them any mind.

  But she still knew they were paying attention.

  She looked back to Shirleen, a woman she’d known a long time, a woman she’d worked jobs with, a colleague and also a friend.

  “This is a surprise,” she noted.

  “You’re lookin’ into Millie Cross,” Shirleen announced.

  Another surprise.

  Elvira said nothing.

  But she’d been doing her homework and that included the enjoyable task of pumping information from her man, Malik.

  Malik was a Denver cop. He’d been a cop for fifteen years, worked vice the last eight. Malik knew everything about the street.

  So when Elvira and the girls instigated Operation MAC (Millicent Anna Cross), she’d gone to a source she knew would be a font of information.