After the Storm Read online

  “Willow, honey,” Blaze jumps in. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re fired.”

  “What?” Willow and I shout in unison.

  Blaze walks off laughing and I have every right mind to excuse myself and knock him out. Instead, I stay put with Willow practically in my arms, confused as all hell.

  “What’s he talking about? Fired? Did I do something? We were just talking about how good I am with tools!”

  Taking that as the perfect segue to get me out of the mess Blaze was trying to create, I push her for more on the handy-girl topic. “Don’t listen to him. He’s drunk and you’re right. You did mention that. What, were you a tomboy or something growing up?”

  Removing her hands from my chest, she grabs the ice cold glass of water that’s been waiting for her and takes a long gulp. When she’s composed, she answers me. “Nah, I wasn’t a tomboy. I was just really close with my dad. He and I built a treehouse one summer. My brothers were really young and Mom had her hands full with them both in diapers at the same time. So Dad and I got to spend a lot of quality time together. It was nice. He never took control and did things for me. He always showed me how and allowed me to be hands-on. He had so much patience, still does.” She trails off and I wonder how his living in Oregon affects their current relationship.

  “You get to see him a lot?”

  “Not as often as I’d like, but we talk almost every day. He’s a great guy. His wife . . . not so much, but he’s happy so I’m happy. He and my mom were not the right fit.” There’s a fakeness in her smile. She’s trying to mask her real feelings. I can’t empathize with her because my parents just celebrated their thirty-eighth wedding anniversary, but I know too well how loving someone isn’t always enough.

  “I’m sorry. The whole situation must suck, but you seem to have a great head on your shoulders, so those statistics about children of divorce can’t all be true.” It sounds stupid as it comes out of my mouth. What am I, some commercial for family counseling? Talking about her is easier than talking about myself, but I probably come off as a total dork for speaking so factually.

  “Eh, it is what it is. I’d like to think I’m a better person for having been through some not so great times. I’m a realist. I know it can’t be peaches and sunshine all the time, I’m okay with that.”

  Peaches and sunshine. If only . . .”Yeah, I have a few years on you. Plenty of grey skies. I get what you mean.”

  She leans closer, yet again, her lips mere inches from mine, her shirt shifting to reveal the rounded tops of her fantastic tits. “Who was she, Noah? And what the hell did she do to you?”

  I stiffen at her boldness, but then I remember. She’s drunk. The alcohol is doing the talking for her, but even still, how can she know anything about who I am or why I am this way? She doesn’t know anything. “Wrong, Willow. I was merely pointing out that I have a little more life experience than you do, sweetheart.”

  My bark must not have the bite I was aiming for—she doesn’t even flinch. “It’s okay. I don’t expect you to open up to me. I can tell the kind of man you are—the wounded hero.” She points her fingers in the air, singing the last part while she shimmies in her seat. Her giggles do nothing to improve the sting of her words.

  Yes, I am wounded and based on the discomfort from the blood roaring in my veins, I’m clearly not ready for anything she has in store—friendship or otherwise. I was wrong to let my guard down. I hop from the stool so abruptly it wobbles. I need to be done with this night and all its temptation. I reach into my back pocket for my wallet to leave one last tip for our drinks. “I think I’m gonna call it a night. I have a shipment coming into the warehouse tomorrow and I should be there to make sure everything arrives.”

  “Seriously?” Willow’s eyes go wide and her posture slumps. “What did I—”

  I interrupt before she can put the blame on herself. “I hate to say this, but it’s not you, Willow, it’s me. See you Monday?”

  She blinks rapidly and straightens up. “Um, okay. I guess so.”

  “Good night,” I say. I give a nod in her direction and turn my attention to search the bar for Blaze.

  “I’ll tell him you left,” she says. “Good night.”

  And that’s that.

  “Come on, Noah. Just this once. I won’t tell.” It’s so tempting. She’s fucking hypnotic—her intense eyes remind me of a beautiful sunset mixed with the breaking dawn. Surprisingly poetic for a guy with a hard-on that could cut through stone.

  I grab her shoulders to keep a safe distance between us. “It’s not a good idea, Willow. We shouldn’t do this.”

  “Sometimes what seems like the wrong thing is actually the right thing in disguise.”

  My resolve dwindles to practically nothing when she leans in and steals a sensual kiss, nipping my lower lip between her teeth.

  I should say no, remain strong . . . I can’t have this woman changing me back to the way I used to be. It won’t end well, but fuck me if that one tiny kiss doesn’t have me craving much more.

  “Oh, fuck it,” I growl, and grab her at the back of her neck and pull her toward me. My mouth claims hers, our tongues tangling and dancing in a heated rhythm.

  Her hands travel down my torso and she hooks her fingers around the hem of my T-shirt. I give in to what I know is wrong. This is just a disguise, like she said. As I lift my arms so she can remove my shirt, we’re stopped by the maddening interruption of the phone ringing, ringing, ringing . . .

  The blaring of the phone startles me from my sleep. I catch my breath as I wake, groggily shaking off my nearly wet dream. Great! Now she’s infiltrating my subconscious. This is no bueno, and wait—is it even daylight, yet?

  I groan, cursing the phone for waking me in the middle of the night—and for interrupting me and Willow.

  “What!” I shout into the receiver.

  “Noah? It’s Sloane. You need to come to the hospital. It’s Blaze. There’s been an accident. Please hurry.”

  Shit! “Is he okay?”

  “A few broken bones, maybe some ribs, but—please, just come as soon as you can. I’ll explain it all when you get here.”

  “Okay, I’m on my way. Just stay with him for me, please?”

  “Of course. I’ll see you soon.”

  I hang up. What the hell happened? Did he drive drunk? Is Willow there too? He must’ve tried something stupid with Sloane and gotten his ass kicked. The possibilities are endless, and making me worry. I should hurry up and get to him to figure this all out.

  I drag on a pair of faded jeans, and find a Matheson’s Contracting T-shirt from the floor by the bed. It’ll have to do. I brush my teeth, run my fingers through my hair, and wash the sleep out of my eyes before jetting out the door.

  I hate to think it, but if one good thing comes from Blaze being hurt, it’s that I have no time to analyze the dream I just had.

  “What the hell, man. Who did this to you?” I gawk at a broken Blaze. His face is bloody, his body a mess of bruises. Sloane’s pacing by his side, but Willow isn’t here. Hmm, where is she? Didn’t she and Sloane come to the bar together?

  Wincing through a swollen eye, Blaze moans. “He was waiting for me outside the bar. I didn’t . . . ouch . . . see it coming. The pussy caught me by surprise. I think he had a bat.”

  “Who?” Who could have done this to him? And why? Unless—“Sloane? Does this have anything to do with you?” I focus my attention on her. Maybe she can give me some answers.

  “No,” Blaze answers for her. “It was . . . William Fitzgerald.”

  Fuck! If Blaze wasn’t a pathetic sight right now, laid up in an ER hospital bed for his mistakes, I would give him a great big ‘I fucking told you so, champ.’

  “Sorry, Sloane,” I apologize. “I just assumed—”

  “Don’t worry about it.” She waves me off with a genuine smile. “I only wish I had come outside sooner. Maybe I could have stopped the psycho, but he was already gone and Blaze was lying on the groun
d, barely breathing, when Willow and I left the bar. She called 911 immediately and I rode in the ambulance with Blaze. Willow needed to get home so she called a cab.”

  Okay, at least she’s safe and sound. And Blaze and Sloane didn’t leave together? That’s a surprise! I’d like to get all the details, but tending to Blaze comes first. “Are you one hundred and ten percent positive it was Fitzgerald?” I move closer to his bed and search for the truth in his swollen eyes.

  “One thousand percent. Ouch!” The pain is evident on his face. He squirms, probably trying to find a comfortable position, but obviously failing as he hisses through his teeth.

  “Sloane, can you see what’s taking them so long?” He definitely has some broken bones and his face doesn’t look so great. He needs medical attention ASAP. What the fuck is taking so long?

  Sloane exits through the flimsy curtain, leaving Blaze alone with me. I rest my hip against his bed, staring with concern for my friend.

  “Noah, he was out to kill me. I really fucked up this time, didn’t I?” Blaze rolls his eyes in his head, biting his lip. The poor bastard is in a shit ton of pain.

  “Yeah, but the asshole could have killed you. You have to press charges.” I scan his body, mentally assessing the damage. From what Sloane’s told me, the doctors haven’t done a full work up on him yet. “And where the fuck are these doctors already?”

  Just as I’m about to go ape shit on the buzzing staff caring for less critical patients, the curtain swings open with a loud scraping of metal dragging against metal and a white-coated doctor appears.

  “About time,” I growl.

  The doctor ignores me and heads straight for Blaze. “Mr. McKinley, we’re going to take you up for a CT scan. Nurse Adams estimated at least three broken ribs and the radius bone in your right arm seems to be fractured, as well. We’ll also want to check brain activity—the injuries to your face are extensive.” The doctor scribbles on a chart and then narrows his eyes toward his patient. “We’ve called the police and filed an assault report. Do you know who did this to you?”

  Blaze nearly levitates off the gurney. “No. No police. This is my fault. Just . . . just patch me up . . . ouch! Fuck . . . and get me the hell out of here.”

  I shake my head and give the doctor a look as if to say, just appease him and I’ll fill you in later. There’s no way that asshole Fitzgerald is getting away with this, even if Blaze was in the wrong. My right-hand-man will be out of commission for God knows how long because of this bullshit. It all could have been avoided, but there’s no use dwelling on the what-ifs. Once I know Blaze is out of the woods, I still have to figure out who the fuck can replace him on such short notice.

  Shot down again! I’m broken. I have to be fucking broken. But broken or not, I’m drunk and for the life of me I can’t remember half of what I may have said to Noah.

  I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror, erasing all evidence of a good time. Make-up gone, hair piled high in a messy bun, yoga pants back in their rightful place—this is not how I imagined I’d be spending my nights as a happy, smart, successful twenty-five-year-old. No, I had plans. We had plans. But now there’s just me and that’s my biggest problem.

  I’m lost without his guidance and I hate that I’ve let being the other half of a duo define me. This is a solo gig now, and I’m finding the adjustment hard—even if it has been two years. Unfortunately, it might always be a solo gig, I remind myself.

  Getting back into the swing of things hasn’t exactly been easy. Dating was easy in high school—the horny guys told you straight out what they wanted and the nice guys tried to woo you with a few pizza/movie dates. I knew what I was getting myself into either way back then, and I chose him. Or rather, he chose me. But that’s neither here nor there, because this isn’t high school, or college. This is the real world. And dating in the real world, after all I’ve been through, is a different breed of monkey on my back.

  Single men today are wolves in sheep’s clothing. All out for the same thing, but going about it in various sneaky ways. And then there’s the guys like Noah—the unattainable.

  I should’ve known from what little Blaze told me that he wouldn’t go for me. But I thought: Hey, I’m a pretty girl. A nice guy like him and a good girl like me might actually have a chance in this shitty cesspool of dating. Let me show up where I know he’ll be and make it all seem like a coincidence. Or so I thought. The look on his face when I walked in was like a Butterball turkey on Thanksgiving Day.

  I had no idea I gave off that potent of a repellant. Do I have a neon sign across my chest that says “damaged goods?” If not, I might as well. Because that’s what I am. My ex made that point blatantly clear. It’s the only way I see myself, and if I have that kind of negative image engrained in my brain, how can I convince anyone else to see otherwise?

  I replace the cap on the toothpaste and take one more pitiful glance at my reflection. “There is a Mr. Right for you somewhere. Just stop looking for him. Let him come to you.” And stop getting drunk in front of your boss, you twit. You’re better than that.

  I do my best to assure myself that being alone is better than being unhappy, but curling up in a bed of cold sheets with no one to keep me warm kind of makes that hard to do. I succumb to the silence, and rest my head against my pillow, letting images I wish I could forget flash through my mind.

  Before I allow them to make me nauseous and panicked like they usually do, I decide to check in with Sloane to see how Blaze is doing.

  Me: Hey, What’s going on? Sorry I bailed, but I was seeing double and I have an early appointment tomorrow morning.

  As in hair appointment. I left a beaten man on the dirty concrete floor and in the arms of my best friend because I have an appointment to get my hair cut in the morning. Nice friend I am. Karma’s probably laughing her ass off right now. That bitch and I have some serious talking to do. She owes me a few.

  Sloane: No worries, chica. You home safe and sound? The room spinning?

  Me: Like a tilt-a-whirl. I’m all tucked in and ready for dreamland now. How’s Blaze?

  Sloane: In bad shape. Getting a CT now. Noah’s keeping me company.

  That shouldn’t make me jealous, but it does. Sloane has a way with men that I envy. And Sloane doesn’t work for Noah—which seems to be the number one deal breaker for him. If it weren’t for my best friend knowing what I think of Noah, I would put money on the two of them hooking up. But Sloane wouldn’t do that to me. Noah might hit on her¸ unknowingly, but—why am I going there?

  Me: Really? Is he with you right now?

  Sloane: Ah-ha. Want me to say hi for you? *winky face*

  Me: Um, no! Leave it alone.

  Sloane: Said no crush sick girl ever. He really is hot, Lo. Hotter than you described. I can totally see what you’re drooling over all the time.

  Me: Is there a point to this?

  Sloane: Yes. Don’t give up hope.

  Too late for that, Sloaney-poo. That ship has sailed and it didn’t get very far.

  Me: You’ve met me, right, Sloane? You do know I’m like the poster child for hopelessness?

  Sloane: Oh, honey. I hate when you get like this. Just because your dumb, hot boss didn’t go home with you tonight, doesn’t mean he’s not into you.

  I hate the pity party shit. I don’t want to do this right now. I don’t want to be the friend who needs constant reassurance. That friend gets old—neediness is not a pretty trait.

  Me: You’re right. I’m just tired. Long week at work. And I’m worried what Blaze’s injuries will mean for his clients. Noah must be shitting bricks.

  Sloane: Yeah, he’s pretty unhinged. I’m sure things will seem brighter in the morning. *smiles all around*

  Even emoticons don’t have anything on her. Sloane has her own personal text repertoire of happiness.

  Me: Well, let him know he can count on me to help wherever I can.

  Sloane: Like in the bedroom? *wiggles eyebrows*

  Me: Like in the
office, biotch.

  Sloane: Oh, shit. Gotta go, Lo. The doctors are paging Noah. Lemme go see what’s up. Sorry for all the drama tonight. I felt bad leaving him. He’s a good guy underneath all that assholishness.

  That’s my Sloane—always seeing the bright side. Why can’t I be more like her?

  Me: K, go. And please wish him a speedy recovery for me. Text me tomorrow after you get some rest. Love you, sweets.

  Sloane: Night, love. xo

  Maybe I can be more like Sloane—optimistic, glass half full, happy go lucky, and patient as all get out.

  Ah, fuck that shit. I don’t know how to be any of those things. I wear all the opposites the way Buffalo Bill in Silence of the Lambs wore his human-hide attire—like a raging psychopath.

  It’s time I play a different game, the game of indifference. Noah doesn’t want me, so now he can’t have me. I can be patient. I can be optimistic. I can dream of something better than this lonely bed. But I can hold on to my dignity while I do it. Even if I did embarrass the shit out of myself tonight.

  Even a ten minute massage and blow-out wasn’t enough to smooth away my hangover headache—or to wash that man right out of my hair. I spent the rest of my lonely weekend texting Sloane about Blaze’s condition, consoling myself with retail therapy, and worrying about how awkward it would be to face Noah again in the office.

  So this morning I put extra care into my appearance—concealing the puffy weekend-partying circles with extra cover-up, dressing in the turquoise silk blouse I bought, and styling my freshly cut hair to perfection. On the outside, I look the part—on the inside . . . not so much. I’m nervous to see him today. The last time we were together I flirted like a shameless teenager. I insinuated brazenly. And worst of all I prodded about his personal life with no abandon. What a mess!

  I muster as much confidence as I can while walking through the foyer and approaching the glass paned doors with the MC logo. Before I even open them I spot Noah standing at reception, in conversation with Angela. His hands are animated, his mouth running a mile a minute. He must be overwhelmed because of Blaze’s absence. There’s still no telling when he’ll be back on his feet. Sloane mentioned in her texts that Noah was on the phone pacing the hospital room most of the day on Saturday. Knowing his busy workload, I’m sure he was making his client rounds and giving them a heads up about what’s to come with his foreman out. I take his distress as a positive—it’ll be a way for me to help out and prove my worth. And maybe redeem myself for crossing that invisible line at the bar the other night.