The Reasons to Stay (Harlequin Superromance) (15 page)

“Lemme go.”

She made herself release him. “Where were you?”

“Just walking.”

Not able to let go entirely, she ran her hands down his arms and held on to the bunched fabric of his sleeves.

“I’m fine. Quit hovering already.”

“I know. I know.” She forced her fingers to relax. “Let’s go.”

She kept a shaky hand on his neck all the way to the car. “I’m just so glad you’re okay. I imagined all kinds of...” She shivered. “If you ever do that again, I’m going to kill you. Seriously.”

The dome light came on when Nacho climbed in the back. “Hey, Adam.” He slammed the door.

“Hey, Nacho.”

Heart still hammering, Priss settled into the front seat. Now that she knew he was okay, she
was
going to kill him. “Thank Adam for driving and helping me find you.”

“It’s okay—”

“No, it’s not.”

“I’m sorry, Adam,” Nacho mumbled.

She turned and glared over the seat. “You deserve to be grounded for the rest of your life.”

“Priss.”

Adam’s calm look penetrated her anger. Was she overreacting? Apparently. But she’d been too lenient with Nacho at first, and he’d walked all over her, ignoring her rules. Now had she swung too far the other way? Tough love apparently had a shelf life. She sensed Nacho was nearing the end of it. Maybe she did need to loosen up. She rolled her shoulders. “Even though you deserve worse, I’m going to let it slide.”

A sigh came from the backseat.

“This time.”

She faced front as Adam pulled away from the curb. Easier to cave if she didn’t have to look at the kid. “I have noticed that you’re trying, Nacho. I appreciate that you didn’t throw a fit in the parking lot tonight. It was mature of you to walk away instead. Only next time, don’t walk so far, okay?”

“Okay.”

In spite of the fact that she wasn’t sure it was the right thing, she pushed the words from where they clung. “You keep trying, and I’ll look into the car-painting thing.”

“Really?”

“I’m not promising anything. If he turns out to be as badass as he looks, the answer is still no. Got it?”

“Yeah, I got it.” The little-kid happiness in his voice caught on her rubbed raw places, soothing the sting.

Adam broke in. “I know the police chief. I can ask about Bear, if you’d like.”

She smiled across the seat at Adam, grateful for his help tonight. He’d given her much more than just a ride. His solid presence and support had not only helped her keep her head when she would have panicked but it kept her from allowing her anger to make yet another mistake with Nacho. She reached across the seat, took Adam’s hand and twined her fingers with his. When he glanced at her, she mouthed, “Thank you.”

He winked.

Things were changing. And for this moment anyway, it felt good and right.

* * *

A
DAM
STRODE
THE
sidewalk. Step one in his plan to take back his life had been a hard one, but it sure was turning out all right. He remembered the afternoon sun falling on the tawny skin of Priss’s thigh, and the feel of the firm muscle beneath it. When Priss loosed the tight rein on herself, she undid it all the way. She showed him something about sex that day that he’d never experienced before. Priss didn’t
have
sex, she immersed herself, wallowing in it until sated.
Whew
. His body reacted just thinking about it.

Sharing the pain of their pasts had brought them even closer. He now understood better Priss’s hard terrain, and knew the volcanic explosions that had formed the woman she’d become. He sensed there’d been even more volcanic eruptions back then, each forming a layer of flinty rock, making her shell harder and harder.

And he wanted to mine them all. To dig down to the soft woman trapped beneath those layers of rock. He hadn’t yet glimpsed that woman but knew she existed by her actions. Priss had reached out to befriend his mother. She took on Nacho, and she may work hard not to show it, but last night he’d seen in her fear and in her anger that she loved her half brother.

It’s pretty pathetic for a grown man to be jealous of a punk gangster-wannabe.

Step two in his plan was an even steeper one. He pulled open the glass door to the gym and stood in the two-story glass-walled reception area as the bass beat of the music from the kickboxing class reverberated in his chest.

He walked to the towering rock wall; his stomach buzzed like a paper bag full of bees.

Don’t look up. You can do this.

Reaching out, Adam grasped a handhold level. A heavy hand fell on his shoulder and he started.

“Not without a harness you don’t, Hoss.”

He turned to Chris Sagway, the owner of the gym.

“Been watching you eye this for weeks, Adam. Looks like today’s the day, huh?” Chris held out a harness made of webbed straps.

“You know I’m not going to get high enough to hurt anything if I fall.” Chris had been a year behind Adam in school; he knew about the accident.

“Now, that’s not the right attitude for rock climbing. You’ve got to aim for the top.” He pointed up. Way up. “See that bell?”

When Adam raised his eyes, the bottom of his stomach dropped out from under him. Swaying, he looked down, fast. “Yeah.”

“That’s what you’re shooting for. We’ll have you ringing that bell in no time.” Chris’s confident smile probably reassured most beginners.

Instead, Adam considered how to construct a semigraceful retreat.

“Here, let me help you.” Chris showed him how to step in and buckle the harness around his waist, and then tightened the straps around each leg.

It pulled his shorts tight, displaying his package. “Are you sure this is right?”

Chris threaded a nylon rope through the loops at the front of the harness, then winked. “Why do you think the women hang around the rock wall?” He laughed when Adam glanced around. “One of the advantages of the sport, dude.”

The nylon rope snaked up high...somewhere Adam chose not to look.

Chris snapped the other end to a clip on a device on his own belt. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Adam glanced at the sympathy in Chris’s eyes, then away.

Dammit,
I’m done being the guy that deserves sympathy. Just because I didn’t know that when I finally decided to grab on to life that it would turn out to be a nylon rope...

“Belay on. Up you go.” Chris tightened the rope. Adam felt a tug at his crotch.

He tightened his stomach muscles, his sphincter and his resolve. Then reached out for the first handhold.

Just don’t look up. Or down.

Fear echoed from the deepest of dark caverns inside him. He focused on slowing his breathing, then pulled himself up. His foot found an outcropping. Blocking the roaring fear in his mind, he reached for the next handhold, a foot above his head. Sweat made his fingers slip and he froze for a few heart-stuttering seconds, trying to decide if he should take his hand off to wipe it on his shorts.

He decided not to chance it.

Two handholds later, his focus slipped to the floor, farther away than he’d thought. The room spun.

The harness jerked and his nose smacked the wall with an explosion of pain. He snatched the lifeline in front of his eyes and held on.

“No worries, I’ve got you.” Chris lowered Adam until his feet touched the thick pad on the floor.

He just barely managed not to sink down to kiss the blessed surface. His nose throbbed with the drumbeat of his heart and when he touched it, his fingers came away bloody.

Chris unhooked himself from the rope and stepped to the reception desk, grabbed a box of tissues and handed a few to Adam.

He used them to wipe his face, then leaned against the wall and tipped his head back, making sure to keep his eyes closed. He pressed the bridge of his nose to staunch the flow.

“Ten feet isn’t bad for the first time.” Chris clapped him on the arm.

“Felt like fifty.”

“Next time you’ll do twenty.”

He opened his eyes to look at the wall, upside-down, towering over him. It was intimidating and he’d been terrified. But this hadn’t been nearly as scary as scaling the walls of a petite female he knew. And he hadn’t run from that.

Maybe there’s hope for a coward yet.

* * *

“I’
M
NOT
PUTTING
down the Tigers, Barn. I’m just pointing out that Cleveland has a deep enough pen to take the pennant,” Porter said.

It was a typical day at the bar. The regulars perched on their stools, watching the game like vultures waiting for something to die. The last of the lunch crowd lingered over dessert at a table across the so-called dance floor. Priss poured the last drop of Porter’s martini, set the glass in front of him and put the shaker in the sink.

“Excuse me,” a lady called from the table. “Could I have another cup of coffee?”

“Sure thing.” Priss lifted a pot from the back of the bar and ducked under the waitress station.

Where is Gaby?

“I just don’t know why you guys are so down on the Tigers. Didn’t they wipe the floor with Cleveland last weekend?” Barney’s voice was becoming shrill. At least he always walked from his dump of an apartment to the bar so she didn’t have to worry about him on the road, but still, she wasn’t serving him another beer today.

She poured coffee for the ladies with the chic clothes and aging, pampered skin, then walked to the kitchen. Gaby usually mentioned when she was taking a lunch break so her absence was odd.

At the door to the kitchen, Priss paused, and looked through the small window. Gaby sat in the middle of the kitchen on a chair, her worn black orthopedic shoes beside it. Ankle on knee, she cradled her foot.

Oh, God, her feet.

The big toe cocked at an unnatural angle toward the toes, which in turn were pushed over. They looked like dominos, falling. Priss glanced at the other foot which, if possible, looked worse. She winced. How did Gaby walk on those all day? Maybe ice would—

Priss made herself take a step back. Gaby would chew holes in her if she knew Priss had witnessed a moment of weakness.

Suddenly the voices from the bar area made a jump in volume.

“Dammit, Barn, there’s no reason to get all riled. I only said—”

“No, I’m not taking any more shit from you two.”

Priss walked back to the bar. “Hey. You guys are getting loud.”

Barney ignored her, focusing on his buddies. “I come in here every day, and you ride me.” He reached into his pocket, fumbled around, and pulled out a few bills and his change purse. “I’m done with you. I’m finding another bar.”

His face shone shiny and gray in the dim light over the bar. He swayed on his stool.

Priss was behind him before she was aware of her feet moving. “Hey, Barney. Tell me about the Tigers’ infield.” She placed a steadying hand on his back. Sweat wicked through his shirt to her palm, but he felt cool.
He does not look good.

“Nah, screw that.” He pushed off the bar and the stool spun. He slid down but when his feet touched the floor he kept sliding, collapsing at her feet.

Priss caught Barney’s head on the way down. His eyes rolled back. Though his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, nothing but grunted moans came out. “Call 911!” She cradled his head in her lap and lightly slapped his cheeks. “Barney!”

“Ian’s calling for help. What can I do?” Porter asked.

She looked up to the circle of familiar faces around her. “Grab me a clean bar towel. Run it under the cold water first, then drag that chair over here. We need to get his feet higher than his head.”

When they’d gotten Barney’s feet up on the chair, Priss sent Gaby back to the kitchen for some tablecloths to keep him warm.

“The paramedics said they’d be here in five minutes, tops.” Ian leaned, hands on knees, breathing as if he’d run a marathon.

“Calm down. We can only handle one patient at a time.” She reached into Barney’s pocket and withdrew his wallet. “Here.” She handed it to Ian. “Find his son’s number. Surely he has it in there.”

She sat stroking the few hairs on Barney’s head, watching his chest rise and fall, willing it...up and down.

A minute or two later, she heard the sweet sound of a siren, getting closer.

She glanced to the blacked-out, pockmarked ceiling.
Thank you, God.

When the EMTs rushed in, she had to relinquish her charge but she didn’t go far. She hovered, explaining what had happened while they loaded Barney on a gurney. They wheeled him out, whispering about a possible heart attack.

When Floyd showed up, Priss told him what had happened and left him calling his insurance broker to be sure he had enough liability insurance, just in case. Leave it to Floyd to focus on the important stuff.

What an ass.
She shook her head and walked to the alley, phone in one hand, the wrinkled scrap of paper that Ian had given her from Barney’s wallet in the other. She leaned against Mona, who, contrary bitch that she was, had started right up this morning. Priss dialed the number and the phone rang and rang.

“What?” A gruff voice answered.

She squinted at the faded writing. “Is this Michael Conrad?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“I’m Priscilla Hart. A friend of your father’s. I’m just calling—”

“My father is dead.”

So was this man’s voice.

Worry stepped out of the way of the blast of anger that barreled up and out of her. “Listen. I don’t know or care about your family drama. I’m calling to tell you your dad is ill. He’s in the hospital.”

“Why would I care?”

“Because he gave you life, asshole. Whatever he did after that, you still owe him.” When she heard her voice echoing off the brick of the alley, she made herself take a breath. “So. You drop whatever you’re doing. You get your ass to Widow’s Grove and take care of your father. Do you hear me? Do not make me hunt you down.”

“Who
are
you, lady?”

“Your worst nightmare if you don’t show. Soon.” She wanted to throw the phone but settled for stabbing the end button repeatedly.