Читать книгу Bring Me to Life - Kira Sinclair - Страница 9
ОглавлениеTHROUGH THE RAINBOW slivers of colored glass, Tatum Huntley watched soft, fluffy snowflakes drift down from the darkened sky to blanket the dead grass surrounding the church. The scene was beautiful, just like everything else about Hope’s wedding day had been.
She wanted that for her friend, the perfect day to celebrate the love she’d found and fought for with her husband, Gage.
Behind Tatum, the background noise of her friends’ chattering voices was both soothing and a little abrasive. They were helping Hope gather the last of her things so she and Gage could head out on their honeymoon.
Any other time, Tatum would have been right in the middle of the laughter and friendly ribbing, making an inappropriate comment or slipping a sex toy into Hope’s luggage as a joke—anything to have her friend blushing.
But tonight Tatum couldn’t muster the energy to pretend everything was okay.
There was no way for her friends to know how much this day ripped at raw emotions. Hell, she hadn’t realized it would affect her this much.
It wasn’t as if she and Evan had had a perfect, white, church wedding. They’d gone to the courthouse with a handful of their friends gathered around as witnesses. Sure, she’d worn a white dress, but it had been off the rack and nothing like the confection Willow had designed for Hope. And her bouquet had been a simple mix of spring flowers they’d picked up at a local florist on the way.
Far from Hope and Gage’s extravaganza. Although, she probably should have assumed...she’d loved Evan with every single cell in her body, just as Hope loved Gage. Their days definitely shared that.
But Hope, Lexi, Willow, Macey, none of them even knew she’d been married. And that was the way she wanted it.
No one in her current life knew her past—it was the whole reason she’d bought Petals, become a florist and moved to Sweetheart, South Carolina. Here she could pretend her life was okay, that her heart hadn’t been ripped from her body and stomped on by fate and some military mission she didn’t have the clearance to know the details about.
Her floral business gave her a purpose, a reason to get up every morning and keep going.
Tatum’s focus shifted to the reflection of her friends in the window, and she tried to pull her emotions back from the brink of melancholy. Hope didn’t deserve her moping.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the sad memories deep beneath a layer of false bravado. Later. She could wallow later.
Willow was fussing with Hope’s train, repositioning the long layers of silk she’d pulled up into a bustle. Even now, after the ceremony and a large chunk of the reception were already over, she couldn’t seem to keep her hands off the dress.
Reaching behind her, Hope grasped Willow’s arm and pulled her back onto her feet. With exasperation, she said, “Will you please leave it alone? You aren’t supposed to be working. You’re my bridesmaid not my dress designer.”
A frown tugged Willow’s dark brows. “Can’t I be both?”
“Not if it means you’re on your hands and knees while the rest of us are sipping champagne.”
Willow sighed, looked longingly at the folded edges of the train—that from Tatum’s point of view looked perfect—and then studiously turned her back on it, taking one of the glasses of sparkling wine.
“Hope, are you ready to go?” Gage’s deep voice came from the other side of the closed door.
“Just a minute,” she called, twirling with a swish of material against the floor.
She grabbed the last two glasses of wine, and thrust a cool flute into Tatum’s empty hand.
Flinging an arm around her shoulders, Hope beckoned everyone close. They crowded together, a tight circle of people Tatum hadn’t known existed a few years ago.
Now they were her best friends. Her strength.
Hope’s gaze traveled around the circle, her eyes going misty. “I love you guys. Thank you for being part of my day and making sure it was perfect.”
There were murmurs and answering tears, glasses clinking and gulps of champagne.
And then Hope was gone, folded beneath Gage’s arm and ushered out into the chilly December night.
Tatum trailed slowly behind the other girls as they rushed to watch the newly married couple race for the waiting car ready to drive them into Charleston to catch their flight.
Hope and Gage rushed through a gauntlet of bubbles mixed with snowflakes and ringing good wishes. Tatum stood at the top of the steps, watching the scene below, unable to fight the sensation that she was on the outside looking in.
When she’d first moved to town, that sensation had been pretty much constant. As a transplanted Yankee—from Detroit, no less—arriving in Sweetheart had felt a little like landing on another planet. But that’s what she’d needed. A fresh start. Something completely new.
In the last two years, the out-of-place sensation had faded to little more than an unpleasant memory. Until tonight. Something about tonight had made her feel off-kilter.
Grasping the edges of the black velvet shrug that accompanied her deep burgundy dress, Tatum hugged herself. She thought she was alone, everyone else focused on Hope and Gage’s escape, until a soft hand landed on her hip.
Startled, she gave a little jerk as Willow’s arm settled around her waist.
“Hey, chickie, you’ve been quiet tonight. Wanna tell me what’s up?”
For the briefest moment, Tatum thought about unloading on her friend, telling her every second of anguish and anger she’d dealt with over the last three years. But that wouldn’t exactly be fair.
She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
Willow squeezed, pulling her in tighter. “You know I’m not buying that lie, right?”
“It isn’t a lie.”
“Oh, it is. But I’ll let you get away with it. For now.”
Below them, Hope folded into the backseat of the car, yanking the voluminous layers of skirt in after her. Willow cringed, making a small, wounded whimper.
Tatum’s mouth twitched. Finding something to smile about was a gift she hadn’t expected, even if it had come at Willow’s sense of affront as the dress’s designer.
It was her turn to wrap a comforting arm around Willow’s shoulders. “Maybe it would be better if you didn’t watch.”
With a resigned sigh, Willow said, “No, I want to see them leave.”
The driver closed the car door and ran around to the front. Trails of steam hit the cold air and billowed from the tailpipe, leaving a hazy cloud behind as he finally pulled away.
The minute the car disappeared, people streamed past Tatum into the reception, rushing for warmth, another slice of cake and a chance to enjoy the DJ waiting to crank the party up another notch and let them dance into the wee hours of the morning.
But Tatum couldn’t move to follow them.
Her body was frozen, her eyes trained on the vision of a ghost, propped against the sleek chrome of a badass bike parked against the curb across the street.
He couldn’t be real. It must be her imagination. Memories. And possibly too much champagne.
Although, that didn’t stop the frantic pace of her heart as it picked up inside her chest. Her body turned hot and then cold. She couldn’t breathe. Tears pricked the back of her eyelids, just as painful as the day she’d learned he was gone.
Why would her imagination play such a cruel joke?
She’d forgotten Willow was beside her, until her arm tightened around Tatum’s waist. “Who is that guy?” her friend asked.
Tatum’s mouth and tongue wouldn’t work.
Willow grasped her hand. “Are you okay? You’ve gone seriously pale.”
Somehow, she found the power to whisper, “You can see him?”
“You mean the guy with the bike staring at you like he wants to throw you on the back and race away? Yeah, I can see him. Why wouldn’t I be able to?”
“Because that’s my husband...and he’s dead.”
* * *
SHE LOOKED AS though she’d seen a ghost, which was pretty much true.
No, she looked amazing, but then Tatum always had. Different, but that was to be expected. It had been three years.
They’d both changed.
Evan watched her, waiting. Beneath the lie of his relaxed posture, his body was strung tight.
There was no way to anticipate her reaction. Although he’d sure as hell tried.
In the dark moments, the ones where he thought it might have been better if he had died on that night three years ago, she had been the only thing that had drawn him back from the brink. When he’d watched men, women and children killed in front of him. Hell, when he’d done the killing, trying to justify his actions by remembering the men dying deserved what they had gotten.
The memory of her had kept him going—her rasping laughter, the rare times when her eyes danced with delight and the feel of her body rubbing against his, reminding him there were good things in the world. And that once, before his life had turned to shit, he’d been a part of them.
Evan desperately needed her now. Needed the connection to what he’d left behind.
Without it, he was afraid the darkness would swallow him for good.
Tatum stared at him, a jumble of emotions melting one into another—shock, relief, anger, resolve.
A woman, wearing the same long burgundy dress and velvet wrap as his wife, stood beside her. Tatum murmured something he couldn’t hear. The other woman rocked back on her heels as if she’d been hit, her eyes going wide. She sputtered, wrapped her arm around Tatum’s waist and pulled her tight into the protective shield of her body.
He had no idea who the woman was, but it was obvious she cared about his wife. He was glad. He’d worried about Tatum so much. Hated that his choices had hurt her. Left her alone. But there was no way he could have prevented it.
In true Tatum fashion, she allowed the comforting embrace only for a moment before pulling out of the hold.
That was his wife. She hid her soft, gooey center beneath a steely hard shell. Life had taught her how to protect herself.
It hurt knowing his “death” had only reinforced the lessons.
Tatum’s feet shuffled. Was she going to head back into the group of buildings behind her and pretend he didn’t exist or walk across the street and deal with him? He wasn’t entirely certain.
Apparently, neither was she. Her body hesitated, moving forward and then pulling back several times before she actually took a step toward him. One led to two and three and then a rush of a handful more. She raced across the pavement, her heels clicking against the ice-slicked asphalt.
Evan straightened, spreading his feet wide and dropping his arms to his sides.
Her long dress spun out around her legs, fluttering in the breeze caused by her flight. He braced, thinking she was going to launch herself at him. His heart stuttered, hope and happiness—the first he’d allowed himself to indulge in for a very long time—bubbled up through his chest.
But she didn’t throw herself into his waiting arms.
Instead, she reached back, put every ounce of power behind her shoulder and slapped the shit out of him.
The ringing crack of palm against cheek broke through the night. His head snapped sideways. Evan groaned, an involuntary sound that tore through his throat.
“Bastard,” she hissed.
Cradling his jaw with a hand, Evan slowly righted his body.
Tatum shook out her fingers as she glared at him through tempting, flashing green eyes. Eyes that had haunted both his nightmares and dreams. The worst had been the nightmares where he was certain the enemy had found her, torturing her as revenge for the lies he’d told.
Evan barely registered the other woman hovering behind them. He knew she was there, but he couldn’t drag his gaze away from Tatum long enough to notice her. He’d hoped not to have an audience for this reunion.
“I buried you,” Tatum said. “I stood beside your sobbing mother and father and buried you. For months, I visited your grave, bringing flowers and talking to you, sharing how hard it was to move on and let you go.”
“I know,” he whispered. The anguish in her voice and eyes killed him. What he wanted to do was hold her close, offer her the comfort of his body. Something told him that wouldn’t go over well.
Her eyes flashed. “Where the hell have you been for the last three years?”
“Colombia.”
“And I don’t suppose they had cell phones, or email or, hell, a post office in Colombia?”
He thought the anguish was bad, but the caustic rage was ten times worse. It made his chest ache with helplessness. He didn’t like to feel helpless.
“Let me explain.”
“Oh, you’re definitely going to do that. But not now. Not here. This is my friend’s wedding and I will not ruin the rest of their party with your drama. You’ve waited this long, one more night won’t hurt.”
Evan wasn’t entirely certain of that. The moment the Army had released him, he’d hightailed it to Sweetheart, not even bothering to stop for a change of clothes.
He’d been in the States for a little over a week, relating the specifics of his deep-cover mission to some arrogant prick who’d never seen a dirty, dangerous day of battle in his life. Not to mention helping tie up the loose ends after single-handedly dismantling one of the most bloodthirsty and ruthless drug cartels in Colombia. And going ape-shit crazy because the bureaucrats in charge were taking their sweet time and wouldn’t flippin’ release him.
His wife had been so close, and he hadn’t been able to get to her. Beyond frustrating.
The other bridesmaid stepped up beside Tatum, her voice soft and soothing as she said, “I’m sure everyone would understand if you needed to leave, Tatum. Hope and Gage are already gone.”
“Maybe, but that’s beside the point, Willow.” His wife’s hands fisted at her sides.
Evan shifted away, putting a little more space between them just in case she decided she needed to use them on him.
It struck him as hilarious that he’d spent the last three years rubbing elbows with some of the most hardened criminals in South America, constantly wondering if today was the day he’d end up with a bullet in the back, and taken the inherent danger in stride.
But a pissed off Tatum? She scared the shit out of him. Always had. She didn’t hesitate to fight dirty. It was one of the things he’d always loved about her. And hated, since life had taught her the need and skills to do it.
Her gaze darted from him to Willow and back again. Her mouth thinned and her eyes snapped. Finally, she growled, “Dammit!” She poked a finger into his chest. “Stay here.” She wrapped a hand around Willow’s arm and dragged the other woman behind her.
Willow didn’t turn, not right away, but let her gaze trail down his entire body as she walked backward. In heels several inches high. Over ice-covered pavement. He might have been impressed, if he hadn’t been so conscious of the fact she was weighing and measuring him while she was doing it.
And her dark, calm eyes gave no indication just how he’d scored.
Evan watched Tatum and Willow disappear inside, heavy doors slamming shut behind them.
It was entirely possible she was screwing with him and had every intention of letting him freeze his ass off waiting on her while she whooped it up at the party.
But he didn’t think so. Tatum was the kind of woman who faced problems head on, always had been. She didn’t hide her head in the sand or pretend something wasn’t happening in the hope the problem would disappear. She made a decision and took action.
It was a trait they shared, something he’d always admired about her.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Evan leaned back against the seat of his bike. His gaze wandered up and down the street. It was quiet, just like the rest of the small southern town.
He had to admit, Sweetheart, South Carolina, was the last place he’d expected to find Tatum. She was a big-city girl. Growing up in Detroit, her family had lived paycheck to paycheck, close enough to the edge of disaster to make life a little unpredictable.
Her senior year of high school, her dad had lost his manufacturing job, sending her family into turmoil. Her dreams of college were crushed, at least for a little while.
Evan had watched her struggle that last year to hold everyone together. She’d been the glue keeping her mother and father moving forward.
He’d joined the Army right out of high school. They’d married a few weeks later, mostly to give Tatum his benefits, although he’d known for years he had wanted to marry her. The timeline had just been bumped up by circumstances.
He’d gone off to basic training and she’d stayed behind, working and trying to keep things going back home with her parents. Her mother being diagnosed with ovarian cancer was just one more blow. Without insurance, they couldn’t afford treatment. She did get some, but it wasn’t enough, and she died a year later. Her father, snowed under beneath the weight of grief and debt, had committed suicide.
Tatum was the one who’d found him, walking into a bloody mess.
Evan would never forget that phone call. By then, he’d been stationed in Iraq, living apart from the wife he loved, unable to comfort or help her the way he had wanted.
She hadn’t been hysterical, not his Tatum. Although, no matter how strong she’d tried to be, she had been unable to hide the pain locked deep inside. Or the relief, guilt and anger. Not from him.
She’d been carrying such a heavy burden at so young an age. And Evan had wanted more than anything to be there for her, to hold her and shoulder some of that weight.
He’d taken leave, come home and helped her deal with the financial mess her father had left behind. And he’d immediately moved her to North Carolina where he was stationed at Fort Bragg.
They had been happy. Sometimes she’d fought the guilt of that, but he could always shake her out of the melancholy.
She had been the perfect military wife, independent, strong, with plans and goals of her own. Unlike some of the wives, she hadn’t struggled when he was gone for long stretches of time. She had missed him, a lot, but they had plenty of experience dealing with separation. She had taken it all in stride, relishing the time they were able to spend together.
She had started college, eventually earning a business degree and going to work for a tech company. Special Ops had recruited him. Things had stabilized. They had been happy, had even started talking about kids.
Then, in the middle of an undercover drug op, their informant screwed his team and any hope of a future had crumbled. Their cover had been blown. Well, everyone’s but his. The resulting shitstorm had descended so quickly there had been no way to prepare.
One minute they had all been fine and the next, several of his buddies lay in pools of blood, with him the only one left standing. He’d thought he was dead, too.
He shivered. This little trip down memory lane wasn’t helping his mental state. He needed to be clearheaded for the conversation that was coming.
Purposely turning his focus back to his surroundings, he surveyed the town Tatum had chosen to call home. He could see the appeal of Sweetheart, even if it wasn’t what either of them had grown up with. The place was like the background for a Norman Rockwell painting—everywhere he looked there were Christmas lights, fragrant garlands of evergreen and shiny red, green and gold hanging balls. With the light layer of snow blanketing everything and the huge flakes drifting slowly from the sky, the town looked perfectly ideal.
What had surprised him almost as much as the fact that Tatum had chosen Sweetheart was the reason she’d moved here—to buy the only florist shop in town, Petals.
Try as he might, he couldn’t picture Tatum patiently arranging brightly colored flowers. She’d never been the overly romantic type.
But according to the info the Army had given him, she’d been doing it for about two years, using his insurance money to make the purchase.
One of the first things he’d done when he’d finally made contact was ensure no one would be able to come after her for that money. The company had paid out and the Army, who’d eventually known he was alive even if it had been several months later, had let them.
He’d been assured Tatum was protected. Surprisingly, he wasn’t the first soldier to rise from the dead.
The front door squealed, old wood against old wood, and Tatum slipped through the opening. The dress was gone, replaced by a dark pair of jeans, boots with tufts of fuzz shooting from the top and a heavy coat that enveloped her body, hiding everything else from him beneath a wall of shiny, quilted blue.
A plastic bag that most likely held her dress was draped over her arm. Another bag was slung over her shoulder, smacking against her thigh with every second step.
Her steps were deliberate and silent. She stopped several feet away from him. Evan felt the space between them like the gulf of a river, the swirl of their history, her anger and his hope threatening to pull them under if either of them tried to bridge the gap.
Snowflakes clung to her dark lashes, sparkling in the scattered light from the lamppost close by. She stared at him for several seconds before shaking her head. “Where are you staying?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t stop long enough to figure that out, Tatum. The first chance I could, I hopped my bike and rode here.”
She sucked in a deep breath. “The resort isn’t open yet. You could stay at the B and B, but it’s full of guests for Hope and Gage’s wedding. I suppose you could drive back to Charleston.”
“What about staying at your place?”
He watched Tatum’s tongue sneak out and sweep across her parted lips. The vein just beneath her jaw pulsed with tension.
“Dammit,” she muttered, so quiet he almost missed it.
“Tatum, we need to talk. I’ll sleep on the couch if that’s what you want.”
Her mouth thinned. And then trembled. “If that’s what I want? What am I supposed to want, Evan? You’ve been gone for three years.”
Swallowing the huge knot lodged in his throat, he opened his mouth to ask the question he’d been dreading since the moment he knew he was going to make it out of Colombia alive.
It was the one thing he’d tried not to think about at all while he was down there—because any time he lost the battle, it would make him want to throw up. Even now, his stomach churned.
He knew she hadn’t remarried. According to the intel he’d browbeaten a friend into getting him while he spun his wheels in Charleston, he knew no one lived with her. But that didn’t mean she hadn’t moved on.
“Is there someone in your life?”
“What?”
“Are you dating anyone?”
Her head snapped back. Her deep, emerald eyes widened. And then they narrowed.
“I’m not sure you have any right to ask me that, Evan.”
The slimy reptiles slithering through his belly began to quiet. He took a single step toward her, and when she didn’t counter with one backward, he took another and another until he stood right in front of her. Toe to toe, he stared into her upturned face.
Her creamy skin was warm when he reached for her, running the pad of a single finger over the slope of her cheekbone.
“What I want is to kiss my wife. What I want is to pull her into my arms and taste her mouth. Feel the silky, smooth texture of her skin beneath my hands. To finally experience the memories that kept me alive for three long, hellish, frustrating and devastating years.”
Neck bent, straining toward her, waiting for the first sign she wanted the same thing, Evan watched a myriad of emotions flash through her eyes—longing, desperation, love.
But then they were gone, replaced by a blank stare that was worse than even her anger.
She brushed his hand away. “Well, what I want is to not have been lied to. To not have buried the last remaining person who mattered to me. I want to not have been left devastated and broken. So I guess we’re both going to be disappointed.”
