At least until he was selfish and brutal by killing himself.
Irritated at the direction of my thoughts, and recognizing that today has been full of old triggers I normally control better, I’m ready for a break. After careful consideration, I decide my lists are all public record and therefore safe to e-mail. I punch in Shane’s address and shoot them off to him in the hopes they help in some way. Task complete, and trying to shake off the uneasy feeling clawing at me, I stand up and stretch. Still uneasy, I exit the office to find Cody in the kitchen, his back to me as he makes coffee, which allows me a quick escape upstairs. Once there, I shut the door and walk into our room, where I find two cases sitting on the bed. Gun cases. A familiar—but long ago extinguished—fire in my chest starts burning, and with it, my hesitation to walk to those guns.
No. No. No. I have been past this for a long time. This doesn’t make sense. I cross the small space between me and the bed and reach for the smaller of the two cases. Inside is a shiny new Luger, a compact weapon with a limited recoil, which makes it a top choice for women. I pick it up to sample the weight, and that burn in me intensifies, and images long put to rest begin to flicker in my mind. My father. Blood. Heartache. That burn again that I know as heartache, which takes me back to blood and vivid images long suppressed. I all but drop the gun on the bed, which isn’t a smart thing to do, but my hands go to my hips—not it. It sucks this is happening. It sucks big-time, but I remind myself that I know how to manage this.
I reach for the gun to put it away, but I think better, leaving it on the bed, and turn to walk into the bathroom. The room is never fully dark, natural moonlight entering from two overhead panels, so I don’t turn on the light. I just strip off my clothes, turn on the shower, and step inside. Once I’m there, I angle the showerhead toward the corner and sit down, pulling my knees to my chest. The water is hot and it pours over me, and I try to think of it, just it. It works for a few minutes, but then I’m seeing blood. Dripping. Running. Pooling. So much blood.
“Emily? Sweetheart?”
I blink and Shane is standing in the shower door, his jacket and tie gone. “Shane. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Why is the gun lying on the bed?”
“I should have put it away. I’m sorry.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I just needed to escape from everything for a while.”
He begins to strip, and in a matter of moments, he’s a gorgeous naked distraction, and that burn in my chest eases. He steps into the shower and, to my surprise, sits down next to me, then pulls me between his legs, facing him. My knees go back to my chest, and his hands settle on top of them. “Talk to me,” he orders.
“You talk to me. Have you talked to Adrian?”
“No. But I will tomorrow.”
“What about Ted? I never got to find out what happened on the call.”
“His wife cried. It gutted me. I made financial promises Seth is going to solidify for them tomorrow.” He pauses. “Emily. Sweetheart. You’re avoiding what brought you to this shower. If this is getting to you—”
“No. Or yes. Of course it’s getting to all of us. It’s not that.”
“The gun is for your protection. I know it’s hard to think—”
“I’ve carried for years, Shane. I couldn’t take my weapon on the plane when I left Texas, so I ended up without it. Guns used to be a problem for me though. I took lessons and bought one to overcome that.”
He strokes my cheek. “Why was it a problem?”
I inhale, and that burn is back. “It just … was. And I saw someone, a therapist, and he said to use the water to mentally erase my bad thoughts.” I shove away from Shane and sit under the direct spray, my legs still at my chest, eyes closed, my face to the water. “And so that was what I was doing.”
“What bad thoughts?”
“He said to imagine it washing away the blood.”
The minute I say the word “blood,” he drags me to him again, cupping my face over my knees. “What blood, Emily?”
“This is not the time for this.”
“It can’t be your stepfather. You haven’t seen a therapist since then. What blood?”
“Shane—”
“Oh shit. Your father. Did you find your father?”
I swallow hard. “Yes. I found my father after he shot himself. I tried to save him and I was covered in it. You know. It. In his blood.”
“Holy fuck. You were a teenager.”
“Yes, which means I’ve had lots of time to deal with this. It’s honestly not logical that I’m thinking about this now.”
“Tell me what you were thinking about tonight.”
“Your mother is so different from what mine was, and yet they are alike. Our brothers are…”
“A mess,” he supplies.
“Yes, but we both still want to save them. And our fathers.” My eyes burn. “Your father … I like that he’s real. He’s mean. He’s underhanded. He’s dying. But my father. He was kind and sweet. He was alive and had so much ahead of him, and he just quit.” Realization hits me hard and fast. “I know why this is affecting me.”
“Tell me,” he urges.
“It’s not about me. It’s about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. All night, all day, I’ve known that I have to make you think about tomorrow morning. Really think about it, Shane, and I’ve dreaded that. I hate it now.”
“You mean that I may never see my father again.”
“Yes,” I say, the word rasping from my throat.
“I know. I drew that meeting out with him today because of that. I knew I was doing it. Derek knew I was doing it. My father knew too. Pops knew.”
“Pops?”
“The name we called him as kids.” He laughs without humor. “And he was still a total dick today.”
I give a sad smile. “He is what he is.”
“I guess we can never say he wasn’t true to himself. Come.” He stands up and takes me with him. “The water is getting cold and we’re both in need of rest.”