Even though his fighter spirit yearned to pin River down, shove their chests together until she heard the identical beats, common sense had apparently decided to show up. They were adults now, and irrational actions could hurt his chances. He needed to give River time. Time to prove he was the man she’d always needed, but had never gotten. Looking at her now, he could see River’s withdrawal, the uncertainty in the way she moved. And while that reaction to their intimacy—intimacy so vital to Vaughn—seared him in agony, it was warranted.
He didn’t move right away, but eventually stood, guiding his semi-erect manhood back into his boxer briefs, zipping over the swelling ridge with a barely concealed groan. “I can see you starting to regret letting me touch you, and Jesus, I hate it.” He swiped a hand over his mouth. “I want more…time with both of you, Riv. More than anything. But I need time with just you, too. To talk. Can you give me that?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, a shiver of hope dancing across her features, giving him some in return. “Depends what you want to talk about.”
Vaughn shifted in his boots, aching to go forward, to lay everything on the line and accept his sentence. But he staved off the urge, knowing he had a long way to go. So much to prove. “Just think about it.”
As he walked out River’s front door, he threw one final glance over his shoulder, memorizing the way she looked hugging her elbows, so beautiful, so unsure. I’ve got to win her back. I’m done seeing her unsure of me. Vaughn trudged to his truck beneath the harsh glow of the streetlights, but his heart remained in the house, his identical cut out brushing his teeth alongside River, breathing in the scent of her hair as he fell asleep.
Chapter Twelve
Vaughn’s hand shook around the glass of Jack Daniels. It hadn’t stopped shaking since Afghanistan. Since the day he’d lost a dozen friends—good men, better soldiers—lost some of his hearing, hell, lost his mind, too, maybe. The sound of a stool scraping back sent Vaughn’s heart shooting up into his throat, but he disguised it with a cough and drowned it in whiskey.
Yeah, some of his functioning brain must have shaken loose in the explosion. Why else would he be sitting in the Third Shift while River waited for him at the motel? River. Honest, loving, beautiful, pure white sunlight River. How could he touch her with soiled, shaking hands? How could he look at her without cracking in half? She deserved more than a rotting corpse of a man. Christ, he’d been a shitty choice for River since the beginning, but trying to keep her now—with his head so fucked up—would be a criminal act. He couldn’t, could he? Could he?
She would make it all better. He knew she would. Two years she’d waited for him while he completed his tour. That had to mean something, right? Maybe he wasn’t a waste of oxygen if River would wait, even though he’d left in the first place hoping she wouldn’t.
Go. Just go to her. She’ll heal you.
Vaughn didn’t know where the permission had sprung from, but he couldn’t move fast enough once it had been issued. He threw money onto the bar, all but diving from his stool—
“Vaughn. Welcome back.” River’s father appeared to his right, a strange expression on his face, as if he was forcing himself to be polite. But how the older man felt—how he’d always felt—was right there in his eyes. “Where are you headed?”
“You know where.” Familiar defensiveness stabbed Vaughn from the inside, but it was dulled now by greater tragedies than merely being disrespected. Life and death tended to put things into perspective, so he forced himself to soften. Even though River’s father had clearly loathed him from day one, almost to a confusing degree. Almost as though it went beyond Vaughn dating his daughter. “Look, I thought your daughter might move on if I left. She didn’t, though. She didn’t. And I can’t…I’m not a bastard who can leave her sitting somewhere, wondering where I am.” God, just picturing it choked him. “I’m going to do better by her—”
“You can’t.” River’s father picked up a cardboard bar coaster and tapped it against the worn wood. “You’ve burned all your bridges in this town. There’s no way for you to provide for her. You’re holding her back by not ending it, dammit.”
Vaughn’s lungs were on fire, but he had no choice other than to stand there and take the verbal beating. In some sick way, maybe he even wanted to hear it, knowing the sentiments were well deserved.
“I’m not a rich man, either, Vaughn. But I can give her something you can’t.” He removed a stack of folded papers from his jacket pocket, the top piece stamped with a county seal, just above an address he recognized well. A deed? “When she finally sees sense and goes to college, the way I never did, she’ll have a house to return to, if she chooses. A house. Can you give her that?”
Jesus. No. He couldn’t. In this town, you didn’t get handed property. It was passed down—if you were lucky—or earned through sweat or blood. He’d lived above an abandoned stationary shop with his uncle, sleeping on a pull-out couch. A safe, warm house was a dream to him—something to aspire to, but unrealistic. Could he take that opportunity away from River?
No. Never. Vaughn fell back into the stool and signaled for another drink, the world having gone dark around him. My life ends here.