Crank Page 5

  “Because we care about you, fucker. And Delilah.”

  Micah nodded in agreement when I glared at him.

  “Sure. Whatever.” I picked up my sandwich and didn’t say another word. How could I ever explain to them, much less my shattered heart, that it was truly over . . . and it was probably for the best?

  My princess deserved better than me and she’d finally figured it out.

  Delilah

  That night, with Blake’s white rose wilting in the front seat of my car, I drove to the cemetery. I’m not sure why I went, but as I trudged through the cold air and occasional droplet of sleet, I figured it out. There were dead roses at her site, too. White roses.

  MOLLY YVONNE TRAVERS

  May 14, 1963 – September 30, 1998

  BELOVED DAUGHTER, SISTER, WIFE AND MOTHER

  I stared at Blake’s mother’s grave, overcome with grief. Yes, my marriage was over, but it felt like so much more than that. It felt like I’d cut out half of my heart.

  This woman’s death—a woman I’d never known—had altered my husband’s entire life. More than losing a mother, he seemed to have lost his compass. His hope.

  Why?

  What had she been like? He barely spoke of her, but when he did, it was with love.

  I sunk down to my knees, ignoring the cold wetness seeping through my pants, and traced the letters of her name. I was swamped with emotions from every angle, overcoming me. I bit back a wave of nausea and sucked in a deep breath. I’d been such a wreck since I filed for the divorce. When was I going to get over it? I couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. I was making myself sick.

  I bowed my head, fancifully imagining that I could sense his mother’s presence, and let the tears come. Until they stopped.

  Back in the car, I blasted the heater on high. I still didn’t have myself together, but I was getting there.

  I shivered, knowing I was stalling because I couldn’t bear going back to my parents’ house. Not tonight.

  I pulled my cell phone out of my purse and dialed Rachel.

  “Hey, girl,” she said, her voice lighting the dreary day.

  “Hey.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  I wiped at the tears on my cheeks, wondering when I’d started crying again. What was wrong with me? “Nothing.”

  “Liar. Where are you?”

  I kept my gaze glued to Mrs. Travers’ headstone. Instead of answering, I croaked, “Can I come over?”

  “Aw, honey, sure.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  We hung up and I drove straight to Rachel’s apartment. She opened the door and I smiled. She was already in her blue flannel pajamas, her red hair loose and curly around her shoulders, not a stitch of makeup. She looked like a kid.

  She waved me in and the scent of something baking filled my nose. “I’ve got chocolate chip cookies in the oven.”

  I shrugged off my coat and sunk into her couch. She offered me a glass of wine, but I waved it away. The thought of alcohol made my stomach turn. Especially Sex on the Beach.

  She sat next to me and flipped off the TV, which had been on her favorite channel with some kind of documentary about historical crap. Her chocolate brown eyes filled with concern. “What’s up?”

  I dropped my head back on the couch and fought off the tears. “I’m just . . . I . . .”

  “Aw, come here.”

  Rachel collected me into a tight hug as I let myself sob again. It was so much more therapeutic with someone’s shoulder there to soften the hard edges. She finally drew back and offered me a Kleenex from her coffee table. “Hold that thought.”

  She popped up, and a few minutes later, returned with a plate of steaming cookies and two glasses of milk. “Here we go.”

  As we ate, I stumbled through telling her all my current events, starting with finding Blake with Candace at the garage and ending on my parents’ weird anniversary dinner then asking to move home.

  “Wait a minute.” She put up a hand. “I’m stuck back on Candace the whore. Are you sure?”

  “Her hand was down his pants, Rach. I’m pretty sure.”

  She slammed another cookie in her mouth, her brows furrowed like she was searching for another explanation for my husband’s behavior. But there wasn’t one and her sympathetic ears were helping me more than anything else.

  I nibbled the edges off another cookie and took one sip of milk, but it didn’t sit well. I put them back and lied down with a deep sigh.

  “Don’t feel well?”

  I shook my head, my eyes closed. “I think I’m giving myself a stomach ulcer or something.”

  She was silent a minute and I heard her empty cup clink down on the table. “Are you pregnant?”

  My eyes shot open and I stared at her. “What? No!”

  She tilted her head. “You’re nauseated, emotional, and you’ve been super tired.” She gave me her ‘duh’ stare.

  “I . . .” My mind spun rapid-fire. No. No way. I’d had a period . . . uh, maybe I had? “I’m not pregnant,” I reiterated. “It’s an ulcer or nerves or something. That’s not possible.” My husband had barely slept with me the last few months.

  Well, except that one night. His birthday. It had been like old times. Like a dream.

  But, no.

  Seriously. No.

  “Whatever you say,” Rachel said, propping her feet up. “But if you don’t start feeling better soon, get to a doctor, okay?”

  I nodded and tried to ignore what she’d said. Another baby? Could it be? More importantly, what if it were true?

  I woke up with a crick in my neck. Slowly, I pried my heavy eyes open and glanced around. I’d fallen asleep on Rachel’s couch. I grappled for my cell phone on the coffee table and checked the time. It was early.

  I rolled to my back and placed a gentle hand to my belly, Rachel’s words still with me.

  Pregnant?

  Could she be onto something? Yes, I’d been nauseated, but that could be a bad case of nerves. So could the fatigue and emotional upheaval. Right?

  Fear and hope spiraled up through me in equal measure. I’d wanted nothing more than a family for the past several years, and it had devastated me every time I lost one of those precious babies. I felt guilty, like somehow it was my fault. My body was defective and I couldn’t give Blake a child. Or I’d done something wrong and didn’t deserve that happiness. Could I stand to lose another? Especially now, as I was getting ready to leave my husband?

  I squeezed my eyes closed and prayed. I had no idea what I was praying for, only that I was desperate. I needed some guidance and peace. But how?

  And what if I wasn’t pregnant at all? I could be worried—getting my hopes up—for nothing. I’d wait and see. Settle.

  In the other room, I heard Rachel’s alarm begin to blare and I sat up, a wave of nausea hitting me.

  I was still sitting with one hand to my stomach, one to my mouth when Rachel appeared.

  “Good morning, sunshine,” she said, her voice sleepy. “Feeling pregnant this morning, are we?”

  I glared at her goofy smile. “Shut up. Am not.” Though I was beginning to wish . . .

  “Whatever.” She padded to the kitchen and scooped some coffee grounds into her Keurig. I wondered what fancy flavor it was this morning. Rachel was something of a coffee connoisseur. Once it was brewing, she pulled out a loaf of bread. “Think you can do toast?”

  I nodded.

  We sat and ate and the toast went down well. See. I was feeling better.

  “Oh, hey,” I said, looking for something to talk about besides my fertility. “Remember Blake’s friend, Jesse?”

  Rachel’s eyes shot up to mine like she’d been caught red-handed. “Yeah. Why?”

  “Well . . . I just heard he’s getting a parole hearing. It’s about time.” I thought about Blake and how devastated he’d been when Jesse was sentenced.

  “Huh.” She glanced away and sipped her coffee. “That’s great.”

  “Yeah.”
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  It got strangely quiet and I wondered if I’d said something wrong. I opened my mouth to speak, but she beat me to it.

  “So, what are you gonna do?”

  “About what?”

  She looked pointedly down at my stomach.

  I wadded up my napkin and tossed it at her. “Nothing. I’m not pregnant.”

  “Uh huh.” She stood and collected our dishes. “Keep floating that river of denial, Cleopatra.”

  I couldn’t help grinning.

  “How’d you sleep?” She moved around, washing dishes, her back to me.

  “Fine. Great, actually.” Much better than I would have on my creaky twin bed back in my old bedroom.

  She faced me. “You’re welcome to stay here as long as you want. I’ll even let you have the spare bedroom instead of the couch.” Her lips curled up saucily.

  “Thanks. I might take you up on that.”

  “Not looking forward to living with the folks again?”

  I shrugged. She knew better than most about my house. She’d even quit spending the night when we were younger because my mom made her feel uncomfortable. I couldn’t blame her. I knew the feeling.

  She shuffled toward the hall. “I’ve gotta shower and get ready for work. See you here later tonight?”

  I nodded. “Sure. I’ll bring home dinner.”

  “Sounds great. Spare key is by the front door.” She got a few steps away, then spun. “Hey, think you’ll wanna come with me to the Funky Monkey tonight? They have killer Happy Hour specials on Wednesdays and I like to watch the dart tournaments.”

  Darts? Since when? “Uh . . .”

  “Oh, wait. You can’t.” When I stared at her blankly, she smiled. “Preggers.”

  “Shut. Up.” I stood. “I’ll be there.”

  Blake

  After Micah was done beating up shit at the gym, I met him at Trace’s place.

  “Hey, Uncle Blake! Uncle Micah!” Ryder bounded up to us, full of energy.

  Micah grinned and gave him a high five.

  I ruffled his hair. “Wassup, Buddy?”

  “Nothin’.” He sped past us toward his babysitter and they started in on a bowl of popcorn and a movie.

  I stuffed my hands in my pockets and glanced around. Trace had really made a home for himself and his son since Kristi left. His condo was clean, he’d recently bought new leather furniture, Ryder had cool toys, and the complex had a pool. Cozy.

  Trace shrugged into his jacket. “Ready?”

  I nodded and Micah toyed with his keys. “I’m driving?”

  “Sure.”

  We followed him and hopped into his Jeep, Trace calling shotgun.

  As we drove toward the Funky Monkey, I stared out the window at the passing streetlights. I was trying, really trying, to stuff my depressive bullshit away and hang with my buddies. None of us had women and we’d decided a night out was in order.

  I kicked the back of Micah’s seat. “So, you still doing that Crow Magnum stuff?”

  He glanced back, his brows furrowed. “What?”

  Trace laughed. “He’s talking about your Krav Maga.”

  “Yeah, that,” I said. “Your martial arts, Kung Fu, Chuck Norris shit.”

  “Yup.” Micah was straight and to the point, his gaze focused on the road, but I thought I caught the hint of a smirk. “Could kick your sorry ass.”

  “I’m sure.” I smiled and let it go. I’d seen him fight a guy at the gym using that stuff once and it was pretty badass.

  We pulled into the bar parking lot and I mentally prepared myself for getting shitfaced drunk. I shoved aside all thoughts of staying sober, of my dad, of Delilah. Why hadn’t she called me after I left those roses? Well, whatever. Tonight was my unofficial pity party.

  I jumped out after we parked and hiked my collar up around my ears then blew into my hands to warm them. It was a cold mother outside tonight.

  We all loped to the door and paid our cover charge then moved into the crowded bar and made our way to a corner table.

  Micah started toying with a coaster as Trace laughed and talked with the guys at the table next to us. My eyes skimmed the pool tables and dance floor.

  “Hey, boys,” a sweet, feminine voice said to my left.

  I glanced over, then down to the Funky Monkey nametag just below her cleavage. Tori. She was cute. Short, sexy haircut with a bold streak of red through the blonde, big gray eyes with long lashes, and a nice smile.

  She leaned onto a hip. “What can I get you guys to drink?”

  “I’ll have a whiskey double and a pitcher of whatever you have on tap tonight,” I said.

  She nodded. “Okay. Three glasses?”

  I shook my head. That was for me.

  She glanced at Micah, who was stifling a smile. “Rum and Coke.”

  Nodding, she faced Trace. “And you?”

  He spun away from the table next to us, a stupid grin still plastered to his face from whatever they’d been shooting the shit about. “Uh . . .”

  They stared at each other for a moment, Trace looking like a lovestruck idiot.

  “Drink?” I prompted.

  “Oh. Right. A Heineken. Please,” he added, his gaze locked on her like she was a target.

  I think she might’ve blushed, but she kept her cool. “Sure thing. Be right back.”

  “Damn,” Trace said under his breath, staring at her retreating ass. “How long has she been working here? I’ve never seen her before.”

  I shrugged, my eyes losing the waitress and tracking back to the dance floor. A full head of rich brown hair caught my eye and I honed in. Nope. Not her. Stupid.

  We thanked the waitress when she returned with our drinks and I told her to leave the tab open. I’d get it later. The guys had been working really hard at the garage and we almost had more work than we could handle. It might be time to start looking for more help.

  I picked up my whiskey and threw it back in one decadent swallow, enjoying the slow burn down my throat to my stomach. I was just pouring my first beer when I heard it.

  Her laugh.

  My eyes shot up and searched desperately. Then I saw her. Looking soft and perfect in a tight little pink sweater, her hair down and sexy. My gaze tracked to her right. She was with Rachel. Well, at least . . .

  I thunked my glass down when I saw the tall cowboy lean on their table, eye-level with my wife, saying something that made her grin.

  Jealous anger began to snake up through me, singeing me with its primal burn.

  When the guy leaned even closer and brushed a strand of hair back from her cheek, I lost it. I jumped up and headed over, stomping across the dance floor, ignoring the cursing dancers having to dodge me. I was on a mission and I had a one-track mind.

  She noticed me once I was looming over the cowboy’s back. Her big blue eyes got wide with shock. “Blake?”

  I gripped the guy’s big shoulder and yanked him back. “Excuse me, buddy.”

  He frowned at me, his fists clenched beside him. “What the—?”

  I kept my gaze pinned to Delilah.

  “Blake,” came Rachel’s surprised voice next to us. “What are you doing here?”

  I snapped her a brief glance. “Well, I think I’d like to talk to my wife.” I said the last word with enough emphasis that the big lug backed off quietly and made for the ongoing dart tournament in the corner.

  Delilah stood, her back ramrod straight, giving me a delicious whiff of her flowery shampoo. I followed her as she darted for the front.

  “Dee.”

  “Go away, Blake,” she said over her shoulder.

  I gripped her elbow, desperation and love flooding out my stupid anger. “No.” I drew her to a stop a couple of feet from the dance floor.

  She stared at me silently.

  “Did you get my roses?” I traced the inside of her elbow with my thumb.

  “Yes.” Her voice was softer now, breathy.

  I offered her a half-smile. “I’m glad.” I stepped closer
, heartened when she didn’t step back. I took a chance and used my free hand to cup her jaw. God, she was so soft. “Dance with me, Princess.”

  I watched the indecision float across her features.

  “Please.”

  She sighed then looked up into my face, her emotions tucked away. “Fine. One dance. Then I’m leaving.”

  “Okay.”

  I led her to the dance floor as the next song came on. A fast two-step, but I guided her to the outer edges of the dance area and tucked her into my body, starting a slow, gentle sway. Just us. Hypnotic and rhythmic. Perfect. Like it always was between us.

  I laid my cheek against her temple and inhaled her familiar scent.

  The longer we swayed, the more I felt her relax into my embrace, until her fingers were clutching my shirt. Could she possibly be as desperate for this as I was? For us to find our way back to each other? I pressed a kiss to her crown and she pressed her body further into me. I’d swear we were sharing breath, becoming one person.

  How could I have ruined this?

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered into her ear as I let my hands drift to her hips. “I’m so fucking sorry, Dee. Please . . .”

  She drew back and stared up at me. “Please what?”

  It seemed she needed me to say something . . . but what? What did she need? I’d give her anything. My blood. My soul. My life.

  “Please don’t leave. Come home.”

  She stopped moving, tears filling her eyes. “I can’t. You know that.”

  “Why not?”

  Her eyes squeezed shut as if she was in pain. “I just . . . I can’t go back to what we were before, Blake. We’re dying.”

  No.

  In a desperate, reckless move, I kissed her. She didn’t move at first, then, just like I prayed she would, she gave in. Her mouth opened and she kissed me back like I was all she needed in the world.

  I knew the feeling.

  Breathless, I drew back and speared my fingers through her hair, holding her face to mine. “Does that feel dead to you, baby?”

  I kissed her again. And again. And again.

  Until I felt her tears on my cheeks.

  When I pulled back, she stepped away, swiping at the tracks on her face. “I’m . . . I can’t do this. I’ve gotta go. I’m sorry.”