Out of the Ashes Page 8

  That I’m not a man impossible to love.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Presley

  Thursday is normally the night Dylan comes over for dinner. It’s supposed to be a designated time we both set aside in our busy schedules for each other. It says a lot that he rescheduled it for today—Friday—instead. I can’t deny that I find myself questioning a whole hell of a lot about our relationship lately. I can’t figure out why the two of us are together when it doesn’t feel like we’re together.

  And I’d be lying if I said Hendy doesn’t have anything to do with my uncertainty.

  Being around Hendy, a man who’s been through so much, has reinforced the fact that life is far too brief—that one should be happy. And the fact I haven’t felt that fierce pull of attraction to Dylan the way I do when I’m near Hendy seems like a huge, red flag waving warnings at me.

  “I want to talk. About us.”

  I expect Dylan to flash a worried look from where he sits across from me at the dinner table. Instead, with an unconcerned expression, he patiently waits for me to continue.

  Folding my hands on the table and ignoring the plate of food before me, I lean in. “I’m really not sure how to say this, but I…I’m finding myself wondering about things. About us. Why we’re together. Why we’re…” I trail off, losing a bit of steam, my voice faltering. “Why we’re still together.”

  With a sigh that’s off-putting and ripe with impatience, Dylan tips his head to the side, eyes growing squinty. “Just spit it out, Presley.”

  Rising from my chair, I begin to pace back and forth. “We’ve dated for years. And back then, we met because we had a class together and became friends. Now, though…is this all we’re ever going to have? Boring dinners? Boring conversations? Boring work functions? Sex that’s…” Boring. It’s unspoken, but he’s got to pick up on it. I mean, come on.

  Pausing my pacing to let my eyes fall on him, I add, “Not to mention the important events you don’t even bother to attend.” His gaze hardens imperceptibly, but I push on, pacing again. “What I’m trying to say is what if I were to meet someone I felt attracted to? Someone fun and still so full of life even though…” I trail off, realizing I’ve said too much. What I’ve inadvertently admitted to.

  And the fact that he’s not spoken.

  Turning to face him, I’m taken aback at the fact he doesn’t appear upset after I’ve basically confessed to being attracted to someone else.

  That I’ve confessed this to the man I’m engaged to marry.

  “Presley.” He releases a bored sigh which sets me on edge as he continues to eat.

  “Why are we together, Dylan? It used to make sense. But now?” I wave a hand, gesturing between us. “Why are we still together?”

  “Because of your par—” He freezes, and his eyes slowly, warily rise to meet mine. “I mean because I love you.” His attempt to backpedal is far too obvious.

  My eyes narrow on him dangerously. “Because of my parents? Because they’re what? Well-known? Is that it?” My voice escalates as my anger soars.

  Leaning back in his chair, he folds his hands together, eyeing me in an unnerving way. “Look, Presley. Your parents—your last name—gets people’s attention. The firm appreciates that. And it sets me on the track for making partner sooner. Which means a better life for us.”

  He picks up his fork, waving it nonchalantly before stabbing a piece of steak. “And of course, we’re going to be attracted to other people. I really thought we were on the same page.” Shaking his head, he lets out a tight chuckle. “We’ve been together for years. If you need to take care of things, all I ask is you do it with discretion.”

  Surely, he isn’t saying what I think he’s saying.

  He can’t be.

  Gaping at him for a beat before shaking it off, I pose my own million-dollar question. “Wait a minute. So, you’re saying that you’ve been ‘discreet’ all these years?”

  And I’ve been loyal to you the entire time—like a damn idiot.

  He chuckles again, the sound grating on my nerves because absolutely nothing is humorous about this conversation. “Presley.” His tone is similar to what one might use on a small child.

  Condescending.

  And suddenly, I see Dylan in a new light.

  The always impeccably dressed accountant who has never once shown excitement about any of my achievements. When I’d decided to open my own practice and wanted his thoughts and ideas; when I’d wanted to share my success in gaining a following of patients in such a brief amount of time; and when, over dinner, I’d wanted to tell him interesting or funny stories about patients over dinner—he’d redirect the conversation to himself and his own career.

  I’ve been doing this for ten years.

  “I’ve been taking care of my needs for a while. When you were swamped in med school, when you were getting acclimated to working in your first practice, and when you were prepping your new place.”

  I’ve been taking care of my needs for a while.

  Wrapping my fingers around the top of the wooden dining room chair, as if to steady myself, I stare at him. “Taking care of your needs,” I repeat slowly.

  Attention back on his meal, he cuts another piece of steak. “Presley. Come on. You surely did the same when you were away at med school.”

  “I didn’t.” My words come out clipped as I continue to stare at him. As he chews, his eyes meet mine, and I see surprise edge into his expression. He clearly thought I’d been sleeping around as well.

  Swallowing while taking a sip of wine, he stutters with what sounds like disbelief. “Y-you mean you…weren’t?”

  “No.” And I’m considering stabbing you with that steak knife.

  In the freaking junk. The same junk that’s apparently making the rounds.

  My eyes lower to my hands, still clenching the chair. My diamond engagement ring sparkles in the light, mocking me.

  Moving over to where he sits, I grab the fork from his grasp as my other hand lifts his plate from the table.

  “Hey—”

  Grabbing the steak knife and dropping it onto the plate, I move quickly to the kitchen and dump the food into the trash.

  “Presley! What the hell are you doing?” He’s incensed, and I’m faced with the dawning realization that he’s never gotten this heated or been this passionate about me before. But the prospect of losing the clout he believes my name offers him and food will incite this kind of emotion.

  Swinging around to face him, I point at the door. “Please leave.”

  He stares incredulously. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Twisting the engagement ring off my finger, I thrust it at him, and caught off guard, he clumsily grasps at it.

  “Take this.” Disgust drips from my tone. “Not like it means anything, right? To honor? To cherish? Exactly how were you planning to do that while you were sticking your dick in other women?”

  “Pres—”

  “Don’t.” I cut him off abruptly. “Don’t say another word.”

  He finally appears to recognize where this is going. “That’s it? You’re going to have a tantrum over something like this?” His sneer has me strongly considering grabbing that steak knife from the plate and hurling it at him.

  Strongly considering it.

  I walk over to the door with a much calmer demeanor than I could ever imagine possible, unlocking it, and swing it open. “Bye, Dylan.”

  The moment I slam the door closed behind him, shutting out his muttering that I’ll be calling him once I come to my senses, I lean back against it, flooded with emotions. Anger. Hurt.

  One of them stands out, though, and it’s telling.

  Relief. Like somehow, deep down I knew all along something wasn’t quite right. That Dylan and I weren’t right for one another.

  Letting out a long breath, I let my eyes fall closed with my head against the door. Vaguely, I register the sound of Dylan’s protests fading, which means he’s making his w
ay to his car.

  And I see one image in my mind. The person I wish I could call, the person I know would comfort me if he were to take me in his arms right now.

  Hendy.

  Instead, I pick up the phone and call someone else.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Hendy

  “What is The Renaissance period?” I say to the television, nearly to the final round of Jeopardy.

  Lowering my gaze to my girl, Izzy, my new, specially trained service dog, I pet her soft head. She’s a beauty, too—a unique mixed breed of Labrador Retriever and Boxer—with dark fur the color of chocolate and a white patch on her chest and the top of her nose.

  I finally finished going through the lessons with a foundation located in Ponte Vedra Beach, which places rescue dogs in threat of being euthanized with veterans in need. The dogs go through intensive training, and I’ve been receiving instructions and attending classes as well. I’d been able to bring her home the other day, and it’s like the entire place became brighter with her around.

  Not to mention, she’s already proven her worth when she’d noticed my anxiety the other night. My mind had drifted into the throes of a nightmare from the past, but with her wet nose pressed against my cheek and her low whimpering echoed in my ears, she roused me from my sleep.

  “What do you think, girl? Should he bet it all on the Daily Double?” I murmur, referring to the one contestant on television.

  “How much money do you have so far?” Kane’s coming home a bit late after training at a work site down in south Jacksonville, setting his keys down on the kitchen counter.

  “Only about twenty grand.”

  “Damn. Losing your mojo, darlin’?” I hear the smile in his tone.

  “Nope. Just stumped me in the boy band category.”

  Kane walks around to settle his large frame onto the oversized leather sectional with a chuckle. “You mean to tell me you don’t know your Backstreet Boys from *NSYNC?” He tsks at me.

  “Yeah, can’t tell one from the other. But as you can see, it’s not exactly ‘Tearin’ up my Heart’ that I didn’t know many answers in that category.”

  Kane throws his head back in a laugh. “And all that money went ‘Bye, Bye, Bye,’ huh?” Looking over at Izzy, he holds out his hands. “Baby girl got no love for Uncle Kane?”

  She raises her head to look over at him as if to scoff and say, “I’m good right here with my guy,” before lowering her head for me to continue petting it and closing her eyes in doggy bliss.

  Grinning back, my lips part to answer the next clue Alex Trebek announces, but my cell phone vibrating on the coffee table next to where my feet are propped interrupts me. Dropping my heels to the floor, I lean forward to grab my phone and see I have a new text message.

  Lucia: Code rojo. She’s going to that microbrewery on 3rd Street. And it’s not going to be good. I’m stuck in Saint Augustine at a quinceañera for my niece, and with traffic, it’ll take me a while before I could get up there and rescue her. Do you think you could check on her, por favor?

  I’m still trying to figure out what the hell Lucia’s trying to tell me when her next text message makes me grow still.

  Lucia: She broke things off with Dylan.

  Holy fuck. I don’t even know how to process this new development. There are warring emotions; I’m thrilled she’s single for selfish reasons, obviously, but I’m also sad for her. Because I’m sure she’s hurting. And the idea of Presley hurting—of her being in pain in any way—guts me.

  Which is why my fingers fly over the keys, my response quick, as I rush to my bedroom to change.

  I’m on my way.

  * * *

  She wasn’t hard to find. At all. If there would’ve been an alert to be on the lookout for a woman itching to break free and drown her sorrows, Presley would be the poster child.

  I pause just inside the door of the microbrewery, adjusting the brim of my ball cap lower over my eyes. I make it two steps toward the bar before I’m stopped by a brunette. Her hand on my arm causes me to instantly tense.

  Looking down at her, I see she’s got curves for days, massive tits, and the perfected I-practice-this-in-the-mirror pouty lips.

  “Hey, handsome,” she practically purrs. The cynical part of me realizes she only sees the right side of my face.

  She’s attractive, sure, and she’d likely be fine in bed. I would have tapped that ass without hesitation before. I would’ve eaten up the usual attention women have given me for most of my life. I sound like a dick, I know. But when a guy’s over six feet tall with a mug like the one I used to have, it’s one of those things. I didn’t choose my looks or my stature. That was the luck of the draw—genetics. And I absolutely milked it for all it was worth.

  Now, though, things are different. I’m different. This—this type of chick—just doesn’t do anything for me. I’d be lying if I said it has nothing to do with the woman currently attempting to drink away her sorrows at the bar.

  As politely as possible, I excuse myself from the brunette, allowing her a quick view of my entire face, but for once, the flash of dismay in her eyes doesn’t have such a lasting effect on me. I’m more intent on making my way to where Presley sits at the end of the bar with two empty shot glasses in front of her.

  Leaning in, I whisper in her ear, “Clue: Fastest way to get alcohol poisoning.”

  She jerks in surprise, nearly falling off the barstool, and my hands fly to her shoulders to steady her.

  “Hendy! What are you doing here?” Her eyes narrow with teasing suspicion. “Are you stalking me?”

  “The secret’s out.” I pause before crossing my eyes. “Does my stalker look give me away?”

  Presley lets out a peal of laughter. “Oh, you’re funny tonight.” Turning toward the bartender standing a few feet away, she raises her voice—far louder than necessary. “Ryan!” She tosses a thumb in my direction. “Watch out for this guy. He’ll make you laugh so hard.”

  Then she turns to me and hugs me; the unabashed way she throws her arms around my neck and embraces me is a testament to how much alcohol’s in her system. Because as nice as this is, this isn’t the Presley I’ve come to know.

  Gently backing away from her and pulling her arms from around me, I peer at her closely. “How much have you had to drink?”

  Her shoulders instantly slump, scowling as if I’ve reprimanded her. “Not enough.”

  Tugging the available barstool beside her closer to her and sliding onto it, I lean an arm across the back of hers. “What’s going on? This”—I wave with my other hand, gesturing to her shot glasses—“doesn’t seem like you.”

  A flicker of hurt crosses her face before she appears to stiffen. “Maybe I’m turning over a new leaf. Maybe I—” She abruptly stops, head whipping toward me, eyeing me suspiciously. “Wait a minute. How did you know I was here?”

  I might as well be honest. “Lucia.”

  “Traitor,” she mumbles under her breath.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  She doesn’t immediately answer; reaching for her drink, she’s grasping it like it’s a lifeline.

  “Clue: Number one reason a woman drinks herself into oblivion.” I wait patiently for her to give me the answer.

  “Answer: What is a dirtbag fiancé who confesses to cheating on her repeatedly?”

  Oh, fuck no. My fists clench so tightly it’s a wonder my knuckles don’t splinter into shards.

  “And I decided I should celebrate my emancipation with drinks.” Nodding as if to affirm her words, she adds, “Lots of drinks. To help me forget all the years I’ve wasted on him.”

  Shit. Running a hand over my face, I let out a slow exhale. “So you’re planning on getting shitty tonight, huh?”

  “Yep.” She takes a long swig of her drink before setting it down on the lacquered wooden bar top. I snag the glass for a taste. As I take a sip, I nearly choke on it.

  Long Island Iced Tea. A strong one, at that.
I’ve known hardcore SEALs who turned into major shit shows from that cocktail alone. And here’s Presley, who’s not even half their size or muscle mass, downing them. Which means it’s safe to say, I know what I’ll be doing this evening.

  I’ll be holding back her hair.

  * * *

  “I love you, Ryan! Do you know how much?” Presley flings out both arms, nearly putting out my eye and simultaneously knocking the guy who’s taken the seat beside her in the face. “This much!”

  Presley Cole is an affectionate drunk. The only saving grace is I managed to get Ryan, the bartender, to start watering down her drinks about an hour ago.

  Swaying in her seat, her head comes to rest on my shoulder. “Hendy?”

  “Presley?”

  Tipping her head up, she speaks, her breath washing against my neck. “Why are you here?”

  Peering down at her, I furrow my brows. “What do you mean?”

  Leaning away, she focuses her gaze on me, and for a moment, she doesn’t appear quite as intoxicated. “Why are you here? With me right now?”

  “Because Lucia sent me a text.” My words are automatic, and I notice the immediate slump in her body as if the answer disappoints her.

  “Then you’re just here out of duty.” Her tone is dull, and she speaks this not as a question but a statement.

  And I make the decision right then to lay it on the line.

  “No.” Her eyes snap up to mine. “I’m not here out of duty. At least,” I admit, “not completely.” Pausing, I search her expression, and detecting a trace of hope in her eyes, I press on. “I’m here because there’s no place I’d rather be.”

  Her face brightens, and the smile she gives me is breathtaking—literally robbing me of air. “Even if I’m sloppy drunk?”

  With a laugh, I nod. “Even if you’re sloppy drunk.”

  Suddenly serious, she lets out a long, dramatic sigh. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” I answer slowly, wondering where the conversation’s going next.