Crank Page 3

  Her blazing eyes snapped over. “Yes. I did. What happened to him?”

  She popped out of the car, letting a wash of cold air surround me. She slammed the door before I could say a word, leaving me speechless. I wished I knew the answer.

  Delilah

  I woke up the next morning with a raging headache and wretchedly nauseated. Damn Sex on the Beach.

  But I had a Saturday client at the clinic, so I lugged my sorry hungover ass out of bed, downed some aspirin, and took the longest hot shower in history. I slipped on a pair of stretchy track pants and my McCollum’s Sports Rehab polo, feeling only slightly better. I yanked my hair into a quick ponytail, slid on my tennis shoes and jacket, and stepped outside.

  Where my shiny red Corvette was sitting in the driveway.

  Damn it.

  I’d forgotten that Blake had driven me home last night from the bar. In my car. I hadn’t given it a second thought or considered that he’d need to get . . . wherever he was spending the night these days. He must’ve driven back to the Funky Monkey and had someone follow him to bring it back.

  A fresh pang of pain hit me as I considered where he could be.

  I love you. I’d never, ever cheat on you.

  Then where was he? Where had he been every night for the past month or two? Definitely not with me.

  But, as I eyed my car, his thoughtfulness sliced through me. Could he be telling the truth?

  I wilted into the driver’s seat, inhaling the old leather as well as the subtle remnants of Blake’s ocean clean scent. I just wanted to cry. Emotion was clogging my throat, making me ill. How was I going to get through this? Blake Travers had been my everything for the past ten years. Everything. Now I had nothing.

  I gunned the engine and drove straight to Starbucks, loading myself up on carbs and sugary caffeine. That helped a little.

  I parked outside the clinic and saw Mrs. Henderson had beat me there. I grabbed my pack of oils from the tiny compartment behind my seat and jogged inside.

  Mrs. Henderson glanced up with a smile from her Woman’s Day magazine. “Good morning, Delilah.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late, Cathy.” I dropped my bag at my feet and sat next to her, sipping my caramel macchiato with extra cream.

  Her grin widened. “It’s no problem. Leta here kept me company.” She tilted her head toward our receptionist—Blake’s best friend, Jesse’s, little sister. She was far from the sweet little girl I’d met back in high school when she was a wide-eyed freshman. Life had slapped her hard, and the cruelest of all was that her big brother was in prison.

  Leta looked up from her computer screen and gave me a little wave before picking up the ringing phone.

  I glanced back at Cathy. “Ready?”

  She slapped her magazine down and stood. “Of course.” She followed me down the hall toward my private work room.

  I studied her over my shoulder. “The limp looks better.”

  “Yep. Dr. McCollum’s therapy and your massages have done wonders for this old knee.”

  “I’m glad.” I unlocked my door and ushered her inside. While she sat, I pulled out my oils.

  “So, how’ve you been, dear?” she asked, sitting and positioning her knee for me to work on.

  “Good,” I answered by rote, though I felt like a liar. But I wasn’t going to bog my client down with my personal crap. Even if she’d confided things in me and was sweet as pie.

  I worked in silence for a while, only making Cathy grimace a couple times with my massage.

  “So,” she finally said, “my daughter filed for divorce from her husband.”

  My head shot up, my hands still on her knee. “What?”

  She nodded, her expression grim. “Yes. They just couldn’t work things out.” Her wise eyes met mine. “She’s moving out this weekend. Just can’t stand to stay in the house they shared anymore.”

  “That’s terrible,” I murmured, my hands sliding back through the warming oil.

  “I know. But he needed a place, too. He’s been sleeping at his friends’ houses or in his office. She wanted to be fair.”

  I mumbled some further commiseration as I worked, my mind humming. Should I let Blake have the house and move out? He’d bought it with money from his business, after all.

  After our session, I saw Mrs. Henderson out. When I spun back, Leta was staring down at her hands, looking shell-shocked.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She glanced up at me with glazed green eyes. “Jesse.”

  My heart sped up. “What about him?”

  “He’s been granted a parole hearing.”

  “What?” Lightness filled me for the first time in months. “That’s great!”

  A slow smile spread across her face. “Yeah. It is.” Her smile dimmed a little. “I seriously never thought this would happen. The DA was so . . .”

  Yes. I remembered. It had been traumatic for all of us when Jesse was convicted of aggravated assault. He’d beat Leta’s then boyfriend to within an inch of his life after he found out he was abusing her. He’d gone overboard, his protective instincts in full force, but not one of us blamed him. Especially not Leta.

  But it ended up hurting him the most. Affected his whole life.

  And Blake’s.

  Other than when he and his dad got into it, I’d never seen him more downtrodden. Well, until last night.

  Blake

  I shaved and trimmed my beard in the small garage bathroom, last night heavy on my mind. Had I made a bad move going all caveman on Delilah and that douche she was dancing with?

  No.

  She was my wife, damn it! Mine.

  Those divorce papers meant nothing to me. Other than they’d broken my damn heart.

  Rinsing my razor, I debated what to do next. Should I go after her? Give her space? Heck, hadn’t I been giving her too much space already? Wasn’t that what caused this shitstorm?

  I can’t be married to a ghost.

  Is that what I’d become? A ghost?

  I dabbed my face with a scratchy towel and left the bathroom for my office, my father sliding into my mind. He’d been a ghost, too. Working himself to the bone, he provided for his young family, but left my mom to pick up all the slack. Then, when she died, we were . . . lost. He and my brother, Brent, had gone off the deep-end. Drinking, violence, anger. I’d simply rebelled against any and everything I could. The school. The law. My own conscience. I thought I’d saved myself from that when fate handed me Delilah Jackson. My perfect rose. I’d known from the start we were like fire and gasoline, but I’d never been able to stay away. She became my healer, my savior, in those dark days.

  The bay doors slid open with a metallic rattle, yanking me from my dark thoughts. I popped my head out the door. “Hey.”

  Micah glanced up, his nearly black eyes still sleepy. “Mornin’. Trace is right behind me. He brought donuts.”

  I nodded and rifled through my duffle bag for a clean shirt. Sliding it on, I found Micah and Trace huddled over a dozen glazed with Trace’s six-year-old son, Ryder, already halfway into a chocolate frosted with sprinkles. I ruffled the kid’s hair then yanked a donut out of the box and took a hefty bite.

  “Seen your dad lately?” Trace asked, eerily echoing my earlier thoughts.

  I shrugged. “Nope.” Didn’t want to, either. I’d hightailed it outta his house as soon as I graduated and married Delilah. Working my way through school had been rough, but so worth it when I was able to open Jack ‘Em Up. It was my first taste of feeling worthy. Like I’d accomplished something . . . become somebody. But what had I accomplished if I let Delilah go?

  “Huh,” Trace added, sipping his coffee. “Saw him at the donut shop. Looking haggard.”

  When hadn’t he?

  I ignored this and offered Ryder a pint of milk from the fridge when I grabbed a bottle of water.

  “Hey, Uncle Blake?” he said, his mouth ringed in chocolate.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you know what Sa
nta is bringing me for Christmas? Daddy says he doesn’t.”

  I shot a glance to Trace, who was stifling a grin, before crouching to get eye-level with Ryder. “No, dude. What do you think?”

  He grinned, showing me the gap where his front tooth used to be. “I think a big, huge Lego set. With castles and dragons and lots of pieces!” He spread his hands wide, arcing his donut precariously.

  His excitement was contagious and I tweaked his freckle-covered nose. “Sounds awesome. Think I could get one, too?”

  Ryder giggled. “You’re too big, Uncle Blake.”

  “Ah. Too bad.” I stood and dusted off my fingers. I snagged another donut, fighting the jealousy wanting to eat me up. I should’ve had a child by now, too. I should’ve been planning Santa’s deliveries with my wife, enjoying the bright-eyed excitement of Christmas through a child’s eyes. Life was so fucking unfair sometimes. But I didn’t envy Trace the road he was on, single father to a little guy, the mom gone on her merry way. I didn’t think any of us had seen Kristi since the week after Ryder’s birth. Including Ryder. Poor little dude.

  Trace knelt and wiped his son’s face with a napkin. “Ready to go, buddy?”

  “You’re leaving already?” I asked. “You just got here.”

  He stood, his son in his arms. “We just stopped by to bring you breakfast. Ry and I have football practice.”

  I waved as they headed out, then slid my gaze to Micah. He was already hunched over the Ford that had been brought in yesterday. Already in his own world, as usual. When he wasn’t at home or the gym doing his martial arts thing, he was here. Working.

  My eyes raked the garage. I couldn’t help the stupid grin when my eyes landed on my pet project. My pride and joy. The rebuild of this original 1955 Porsche Spyder was the key to giving Jack ‘Em Up a name for itself as a top notch classic car restoration shop. And the hefty chunk of change I’d get when I sold it wouldn’t hurt either.

  I approached and slid my hand over the glossy silver racing paint. She was nearly finished, just a few final touches left. Trim the interior, tires, rims, some last minute tweaks on the engine, and this three year project would be my masterpiece.

  Unable to help myself, I popped the hood and took in her shiny engine and brand new tranny that I’d built myself. Hard to believe the horsepower that was hiding under there. This car was a work of art.

  I tinkered with the distributor for a while, then closed the hood before I overdid the love.

  Then it hit me. Hard.

  I probably should’ve overdone my wife with love.

  After we called it a day, Micah and I shut up the garage and slid down to the Burger Shack for dinner. Not like I had anywhere else to go anyway.

  We sat in a booth with our bacon cheeseburgers and dug in without a word. About halfway through my basket of fries, I glanced up and caught Micah lost in thought, his eyes glazed over and his hands clenched around his burger. He did this a lot since coming home from Afghanistan. I wondered what he’d seen over there, but I never pushed for details. He could talk whenever he had something to say, and the only time it had come up, he said he’d seen some awful shit that no one should have to see. Ever.

  I let it go at that.

  He finally snapped out of it and dropped his sandwich, grabbing up his soda. I continued to eat, acting like I hadn’t noticed anything when he glanced up at me.

  “So, did you hear that Jesse is getting a parole hearing?” he asked, shocking the crap outta me.

  “What? No. How did you hear that?”

  He snagged up a fry. “Leta called the shop. Said he wanted us to know. It’s pretty soon, I think.”

  “Where was I? Why didn’t you tell me then?”

  “You were busy making love to your Porsche. I know how you get when you’re interrupted.”

  I ignored the jab. “Trace know?”

  “Yeah. I called him.”

  I stared him down with a narrowed gaze.

  “What? I’m telling you now.”

  “Huh.” About damn time. Jesse was no felon and didn’t deserve to be locked up. He’d done what any of us would’ve done in his situation. Defended someone he loved. He might’ve gone just a little overboard, but who could blame him after what that piece of shit, Joel Mackie, did to his sister. I sure didn’t. Well, now, maybe he’d get out and be able to get back to the life he left behind. But, man, five years was a long time. He’d changed, but so had the world.

  Micah and I talked between bites about Jesse, the Porsche, the shop’s upcoming holiday hours . . . I paused and looked up at the bang of the restaurant’s glass door. Fuck me standing.

  I tossed down my napkin and stood, my jaw tense. “Ready to go?”

  Micah shot a glance over my shoulder then looked back at me. “Yeah.”

  He followed me to the door, and as I shoved it open, inhaling a relieved breath of the crisp November air, the voice stopped me cold.

  “Boy!”

  I stood a moment, then slowly pivoted. Micah was studying me with inscrutable eyes, but I let my gaze track behind him. To my father.

  “Dad.”

  My dad stepped away from the counter and approached us, giving Micah a cursory nod. “You just gonna waltz outta here like you don’t know your own father, boy?”

  I sucked in a deep breath as years of anger bubbled under my skin. Just like his voice, his skin was leathery; whiskey-coated. He’d lost more weight and was practically a skeleton other than a small paunch. Mean gray eyes scalded me. Like always.

  “No. Guess I didn’t see you,” I lied.

  He sucked his teeth and studied me as if to determine the truth. His face relaxed a fraction. “So, how’s business?”

  I shrugged one shoulder stiffly. “Good.”

  “And the wife?”

  He might as well have thrown a thousand knives at me. We both knew he didn’t care about Delilah and had done nothing but berate me for marrying Sheriff Jackson’s girl. Like somehow I’d embarrassed him by picking someone so above us.

  Well, as far as I was concerned, he could go to hell. He didn’t get to say her name any more now than back then.

  “She’s good.” I spun away before he could say anything else. “Gotta go.”

  I strode out to the parking lot and heard Micah behind me mumbling something to my dad before he followed me to our cars.

  It killed me.

  The same insecurities, the same ugliness, was still there. My dad could sure stir it up in me. It was like looking into one of those carnival funhouse mirrors. He was a distorted reflection of myself and I could see every ugly scar, every painful and disgusting thing that made us alike.

  And, just like old times, I found myself needing the comfort of my girl’s arms to erase some of that ugliness.

  Delilah

  Sunday morning was dark, rainy, and gloomy. Kinda like me.

  I rolled over in our king-sized bed and automatically reached for Blake. My fist clenched in the cool sheets where his body should’ve been. No matter our differences, no matter how much he worked or pulled away from me, no matter what, I used to be able to count on Sundays. Lazy mornings, waffles for breakfast, movies . . . making love.

  It was our day.

  Not anymore. Not for a long time.

  Tears flooding my eyes, I turned and jumped up, making myself dizzy from the rapid movement. I stood still a moment and gained my bearings before padding to the bathroom. I studied myself in the mirror. Dark circles ringed my eyes, declaring my lack of sleep. I was pale as a ghost, my hair limp. I think I’d lost weight.

  “Yuck.”

  I finished my business and yanked on my robe, heading for my lonely kitchen. I stopped short when I spied my grandmother’s crystal vase on the table. How had that gotten out? Moreover, why was it currently filled to overflowing with pristine white roses? My mind ripped back to high school Government class when Blake had left one white rose for me in my seat. Had he . . . ?

  Heart thumping in my throat, I slowl
y walked over and picked up the card.

  I love you. Always.

  B.

  Fresh tears filled my eyes and overflowed onto my cheeks. I glanced around the open kitchen and living room. He wasn’t there.

  He was breaking my heart. Again. Where was this husband a few weeks ago? A few months ago? When I needed him?

  Why now?

  I collapsed into a chair and clutched my stomach as sobs wracked my body. I loved him, too. Desperately. But I just . . . couldn’t. Not anymore.

  The shrill ring of the phone startled me and I jumped. I collected myself for a moment then stood and picked up the receiver, half hoping to hear Blake’s voice on the other end.

  “Hey.”

  Partly deflated, partly relieved it was my sister, Danielle, I leaned against the wall with a ragged breath. “Hey, yourself. How’s school?”

  “Eh. It’s school. But it’s all right. I’m so glad it’s Thanksgiving break.”

  I wiped my face, shocked to remember Thanksgiving was this week. God.

  As Danielle chattered on about school, I tried to imagine how my life would’ve been different if I’d followed my parents’ carefully laid plans and pursued law. Like my sister. Hell, even my best friend was a lawyer. It just wasn’t for me.

  “Well, that’s good,” I replied. “Dating anyone?”

  “In my vast amounts of spare time?”

  I smiled at the snark in her voice. “Yeah.”

  “The guys at school are idiots.”

  “All of them?”

  “Yup.”

  I smiled. “In pre-law, they’re all idiots?”

  “Yes.” She sighed. “But premed guys are pretty smart.” She giggled and I got the hint. There was a guy, but she wasn’t ready to talk about him. “So, you guys coming over Thursday for the big dinner?”

  I wracked my brain for plans made with my parents. “Uh . . .” Nothing was coming to mind, but then again, I had been pretty preoccupied.

  “Delilah! It’s Thanksgiving. Plus Mom and Dad’s anniversary. Ring any bells?”