Page 51 of Only for Love

CHAPTER TWENTY

Grayson

Highway lights dully glow in summer’s twilight sky as I drive down Interstate 95, heading from Maryland to Virginia. Sometimes the military network pays off. After just one phone call from my hospital room to my buddy Parker, I’m pushing down the highway in a two-ton dually pickup truck that growls when I floor it. It’s blacked out, decked out, and almost tactical in the way it’s been outfitted.

Nothing identifies the truck other than an emblem pressed into the center of the leather steering wheel, the same emblem on the title and registration in the glove box. One word is on all three: Titan.

Uncertainty grows in my chest. I don’t know who Parker works for, but I do know Titan Group.Everybodyknows Titan exists, but that’s about it. They’re a special ops, post-military outfit. I asked Parker for Emma’s phone number and access to a set of wheels. When I’d walked out of Walter Reed, after shooing Mazie away, there sat this truck with keys in the ignition, a wad of cash in the glove box, and cell phone programmed with one number.

It took me less than a minute to call her. That conversation, even with her hesitations, did more for me than the weeks of PTSD therapy bullshit I had to sit through to get released even after the docs gave a green light to my healing ribs and wound.

Her voice. Damn… I still can’t shake it, replaying her words in my mind as I fly down the interstate with no idea where I’ll end up. A radio station is on, and rock pours through the speakers. My thumbs drum, my heart pounds. Cold sweat spikes on my neck and shoulders. The closer I come to passing Summerland County, the more anxiety kills me.

I’ll call her back. But not now. Not when I’m pulled toward Summerland as if the county’s got my ass on a leash.

My head pounds, and I rub my temples. Before anything, I need to get a hotel room and get my head on straight. I’ve got nothing. No home. No Army contract. No team to shoot the shit with. Nothing.

The only shit I’m holding on to right now is survivor’s guilt. That’s what the nurses at Walter Reed called it. A social worker stopped by with pamphlets and a stern warning that no one could help me if I didn’t admit that I needed help. Even Mazie, queen of mental what-the-fucks, nodded.

They warned me about triggers. They said I wouldn’t be able to handle letting people down, disappointing others. That it would freak me the fuck out, sending me into some kind of PTSD tailspin if I thought I’d left someone hanging again. Well, newsflash, fuckers—there isn’t anyone else to disappoint. I’ve hurt and abandoned, loved and left everyone there is to leave.

What I need is Emma, which means I need a plan. I might be uncertain about where I’ll work, where I’m going to live, how I’m going to eat after I spend the money in my wallet, but I am suddenly and unquestionably confident about her and me. We just need face time.

Step one’s complete, thanks to Parker and Titan hooking me up with a phone number.

Step two: find out personal details and adapt. She’s got a boyfriend? Fixable. A husband? Harder to fix, but still it can be done.

My determination surges. It all starts with a call back that I can’t make while driving, heading past my hell. A sign ahead reads Summerland County line in five miles.

Damn, that fuckin’ place. Nothing there for me, but it’s as if I can’t stay away. Unwilling to go another mile, I jerk the wheel, hitting the shoulder. Gravel spins in the wheel wells. The smell of burnt brakes filters into the truck. My hands strangle the steering wheel, and I press my forehead onto the Titan emblem.

Can’t get the future if I avoid the past. I grab my cell and hit redial. Forty-five seconds later, no answer. Shit. Okay. New plan. Grab a burger and a bed somewhere, wait until first light, try again. And again. And again. Until I get what I need. Her.

***

Emma

After a quick cab ride to my new home, I’m alone and harboring a serious cocktail buzz. I bypass the kitchen and living room, heading straight for my room. After checking for accidental missed calls a thousand times, my phone died sometime during the drive home. I’m going to flip out if it doesn’t charge ASAP.

I plug the phone into the charger and watch it for a few seconds to see if it will turn back on. Nope. Shit, shoot, shit. What if he’s calling right this second?

Ugh. I’m going nuts and need to get out of these clothes. One last look at the phone, and I head into my bedroom. It’s lonely now that I’m home with no Cally to make dinner for, no two-year-old’s stories to keep me entertained.

I chuck my purse across the bedroom and flop onto my bed. But the combination of throwing and flopping while buzzed doesn’t sit well, and I need to change anyway. What’s a girl to wear when tipsy and home alone the night of her birthday celebration? Definitely something comfy. I change into my jammies and pace.

I unpack a box then check my phone. Still dead. I head to Cally’s room, certain the box of her toys is in there and needs to be unpacked first. After ripping it open, I line up all her stuffed animals and dolls against the wall, making her favorite one the center. Packing that well-loved one was a mistake—grinning, I totally blame Uncle Ry-Ry—and I’m not sure how we’ve made it all week without that doll.

Okay, that’s done. Now what? Back in my room, I take off my makeup then check my cell again. Five percent. I shrug, biting my lip. That’s gotta be enough to at least turn it back on.

I press the button, and it lights up. I could unpack another box or just stare at my phone, willing it to ring. Damn Grayson. I can’t stay away, can’t stop thinking about if he called. Maybe it will… now.

Nope. Not a peep.

What if he called, and I missed it? No voicemails… but he wouldn’t leave one, would he? I unplug it and move to another outlet before it dies again. Now I can sit on my bed and stare, wishing for it to ring.

Still doesn’t. Seriously, he could’ve called when it was dead.

I scroll to my earlier incoming calls. His number is just sitting there, begging me to hit him back. My thumb hovers. Oh, this is such a bad idea. Nervous excitement rushes through me, and I hit SEND.

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