Page 28 of Huge Dynamite
If only there was something—anything—I could do to stop thinking about Dr. Holly Boling, even for one minute.
Turning off the shower, I shake my head to get the water out of my hair, and then grabbing my towel, I wrap it around my waist and step out onto the cold tile floor. After toweling off, I walk to my bed and plop down onto my back, staring at the ceiling fan spinning overhead. I know how that fan feels, going around and around in circles and never getting anywhere.
Enough. Covering my face with my hands, I decide what I’m going to do. I’m going to head to the clubhouse early tomorrow and get to work finalizing the plans for the build—including the new bunker Nick wants included—before Monday and my meeting with the construction company. Then, I’m going to find Colt and take him out for lunch to get some bonding time in. I am going to bury my thoughts in work and bonding with my brother because one thing is for sure: I cannot waste one more second thinking about Dr. Holly Boling.
Because the sad truth is after tonight, her one night of breaking all the rules, she’ll go back to her life of saving lives withRobertand dinners at the country club with her parents, and she’ll probably never think of me again.
Chapter Seven
Holly
“Oh, my gosh.” Standing in my bedroom in front of my full-length mirror in a pair of panties and a T-shirt, I stare at my reflection and my new tattoo. I have been waiting all day to see it without the wrap on. To keep my mind off of it and Robert’s incessant texts, I volunteered for a double-shift at the soup kitchen where I work every Sunday. Every time I step into that soup kitchen, I’m reminded how desperately these people need healthcare, and how important it is to offer them free, accessible care in the outskirts of Phoenix. That’s why I have to get my clinic going.
Looking myself in the eyes, I nod. “Here goes.” It’s been twenty-four hours, so I peel off the plastic wrap and run a finger over the skin. It’s smooth and looks… amazing. It’s a solid silhouette of a bird in flight, and it’s so elegant but freeing. I need to wash the area with soap and water to keep it clean and healthy, but first, I take a moment to just look at it. I can’t believe it. I have wanted a tattoo since I was twelve years old. “I have a tattoo.” Covering my mouth with my hand, I stifle a chuckle. “Oh, my gosh, I have a tattoo!”
Grabbing a hairbrush off of my vanity, I turn to my smart speaker. “Play hits from the sixties, please.”
As soon as the beat of the first song starts, I begin singing along—loudly—using my hairbrush as a microphone. “Hey, where did we go? Days when the rain came—” Shaking my head and lifting my hands, I do one of my old routines from high school cheer. Amazingly, I remember it. “Woo!” Tossing my hands up in the air when the routine finishes, I shake my brush like it’s a pom-pom. “Damn, I used to love cheering.”
Dancing around more, I cross to the mirror and shake my hips, watching the bird that looks like it’s taking flight whenever I lift my hip. “In the misty morning fog with you—”
Then, Van Morrison blares, “—my brown-eyed girl.” My body freezes. How could I forget? My father used to play that for me all the time when I was little, back when George was still alive. George was just an infant, but whenever that song played, my father would pick me up in his arms and as we danced, George would laugh and gurgle.
Plopping down onto the edge of my bed, I slump forward. “What the hell am I doing?” Tossing my hairbrush onto the vanity, it lands with a thud. “I owe them more than this. All three of them.”
Staring at my reflection again, my heartbeat starts thumping in my ears. “Oh.” Holding my stomach, my world feels like it’s turning upside down. “No, no, no…” Glancing at my nightstand and my prescription of benzodiazepine tranquilizers, I take a deep breath. “They’re there if you need them,” I tell myself, drawing my feet up onto the bed and rocking myself. The thing is, I don’t want to take them. All they do is dull everything and make me fall asleep. I don’t want to live my life in a fog. Not when I’ve just finally started living it.
“Stop,” I command my smart speaker, and it cuts off, leaving me in suffocating silence.
As I sit here holding myself, the walls begin closing in on me. “Shit.” Lifting my head, I squeeze my eyes shut as fear washes over me. It’s like a million prickly thorns are attacking me all at once, and it feels like my body is upside down. Holding my head, looking for something to ground me, I go through my mantra that I use whenever the anxiety gets to be too much. “I will not have an aneurysm. I will not have a stroke. I will not die. I can breathe. I am strong and healthy. If I do die, they will be okay. They are not my responsibility. I am okay. I am not alone.” It’s always this last one that’s the hardest to believe.
Taking deep breaths in and out through my nose, I press my thumb and the tip of my middle finger together in a mudra, the way my yoga teacher taught me. Of course, I couldn’t tell her that I needed something for anxiety—who wants their doctor, orsurgeon, to have panic attacks? So, without mentioning why I needed it, she taught me this mudra to bring a feeling of stability. After a few more deep breaths, I’m calmer.
Reaching around, I feel for my tattoo, and although I was raised to believe everything about getting a tattoo is completely wrong, it also calms me. “How can anything that feels so right be bad for me?” I mumble as I sit hunched over into myself.
Lifting my head, I catch my reflection. I look tired, but despite the memory of George and the thoughts of my parents, I look happy. That’s because, for the first time in a very long time, I am happy.
Blink!Another text comes in. Crud. It’s either my mother asking again why I didn’t make it to dinner at the country club last night, or it’s Robert again. Standing, I make my way to my vanity and glance at the text. It’s Robert. Again.
Hey, kid! You and me. Catalina Island. 52-ft Beneteau sailboat. Next weekend. Bring a bikini.
“Screw you, Robert. I don’t even like to sail!” Anger churns up from my core, battling the anxiety, and suddenly, I can’t sit still.
“I don’t even like sailing, Robert,” I mumble, tossing the phone onto the bed. Closing my eyes, I take another deep breath. With every inhale and exhale, I calm my sympathetic nervous system and find a greater feeling of peace.
“Screw this.” Standing, I know what I have to do and who I need to see. Stripping out of the remainder of my clothes, I rush to my bathroom and hop into my shower, carefully washing the tattoo. So what if I’m making an appearance at Hoppa’s Taphouse two times in two days? The worst he can say is no. Besides, I owe him a thank you for yesterday.
No, asking him, Seth Hardy, out on a date may not be something the old Holly would do, but it is somethingnewHolly would. Besides, Seth Hardy is the only person who seems to understand this new version of me—and he likes me for it.
***
“What the hell?” Driving into the parking lot of Hoppa’s Taphouse, I glance at a large group of men, many wearing their Steel Knights jackets, standing outside the bar. Even from here, I can tell from his stance and build that one is definitely Seth. He’s standing next to a couple of other men I recognize from the hospital that first night we met. One is sweet, kind Nick. He’s just fun to be around, and just looking at him brings a smile to my face. Two of the other men I recognize as well—Bullet and Bullseye, I think they were nicknamed.
Gripping my steering wheel tighter, I freeze for a moment. “If Seth is nicknamed Dynamite because of his outbursts, then why they hell are these guys named Bullet and Bullseye?” I mumble.
I know I should be scared of this world and these men, but I’m not. It’s like I have this inner pull bringing me closer to them rather than pushing me away.
Thanks to the packed parking lot, no one has noticed my car yet. Although I’ve been enjoying the heck out of my convertible, right now I’m happy I decided the night was chilly and it was best to keep the top closed. It offers me some protection. Still with my gaze glued to Seth, my attention is pulled away for a moment by four other men, all wearing jackets with dogs in broken chains on them. I recognize the emblem from that night in the hospital—they’re the Unchained Dogs—and from what I understand, they are the rival group of the Steel Knights. I’m too far to see exactly what’s happening, but there seems to be animosity between the men. More and more members of the Steel Knights come out of the bar, including one who is tinier than the rest—the woman, Seneca. I remember being here the night she left and how worried Bullseye was. It’s good she’s back.
