Tyler (13 page)

I nod.

“And…” She waves a hand. “Is he your little brother? Or…?”

Yeah, I bet she guessed already. “Jax is my son.”

Tessa sits back and whistles softly. “Hot damn. Three years ago you were, what?”

“Sixteen.”

She makes a quick calculation in her head. “You got pregnant when you were fifteen? Holy crap.” She rubs her brow. “I can’t believe Jax is your son. How could you let me believe he was your boyfriend? Jesus on a pogo stick.”

I’m getting a little worried that she won’t forgive me that easily, but then she shoots me a mischievous grin.

“So…Spill. Who’s the daddy?”

Yeah, that’s the question I’ve been dreading, because I need to figure out things out for myself before telling everyone. But Tessa is no fool. “Who do you think?”

She wraps her hand around her latte glass, lifts it, then places it back down without taking a sip. A crease forms between her pale brows, and she sucks her bottom lip into her mouth again. When she finally looks up at me, a flash of understanding goes through her gaze. “Tyler,” she whispers. “Oh my God, it’s Tyler, isn’t it? Is that why he left?”

“No, that’s not why he left. He didn’t know.”
Still doesn’t.
“And it doesn’t matter. My parents have been raising Jax like their own son.”

“Erin, of course it matters. For Jax, for you. For Tyler.” She reaches across the table and grabs my hand, startling me. “It must have been hard for you.”

“Yeah.” And God, my voice trembles. This isn’t good. I need some time to collect myself. Her kindness is breaking me. “Listen…”

“Have you told him?”

“Tyler? Not yet.”

“God, I never imagined…” Tessa pulls back her hand and sighs. “This is much more complicated than it first looked.”

Isn’t it always?

“Girl… What are you going to do?” she asks.

Tell Tyler. I should. I owe him that. I owe him the truth. “I’ll tell him. Just… not right now.”

“Maybe he’ll love it. Maybe he wants to be a dad.”

“Maybe.” I need to find out about his scars, on his body and mind. Learn why he left. Understand him. But after leaving him on the bathroom floor like that, will he even want to see me again?

“And then?”

“Oh God.” I sigh. “Enough interrogation and secrets unveiled for one day. Drink your coffee, and let’s have a look at your Spanish lesson. I don’t want to think about the mess that is my life any longer.”

***

Next day I drive home to my parents. I leave Zane with my best wishes for his sister but without a chance to tell him I saw Tyler’s scars and ask what he thinks about them.

I crank the music high—a CD of Rafe’s, punk rock booming through the speakers—and try not to think of Tyler. Not his gorgeous face, or his breathtaking body, his scars, his tats, the pain in his eyes, his refusal to talk and the way he kisses and touches me…

Yeah,
so
not working.

I lower the volume and focus on the road ahead. The thought of seeing Jax makes me happy. I miss my baby. I don’t see him nearly as much as I want, and I bet he misses me, too, although he’s content living with his grandparents and playing with the neighbors’ kids. Oshkosh is a quiet little town. After Tyler left, we moved there until I had Jax and stayed.

Not that I could hide much. Our neighbors know Jax is mine, but they’ve been amazingly supportive. I think it’s because they like my parents, who are the most open-hearted people in the whole wide world.

And their love… It has always made me look for the same. For someone to cherish me as they do each other.

Tyler
, my treacherous mind whispers.

Yeah, that’s what I thought once upon a time. That he was the one for me. Then we fought so bad—and now I realize that was all my fault. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. All those pregnancy hormones wreaking havoc with my brain turned small things into unsurmountable obstacles, and my temper flared.

What if he still is the one? I love him. He’s held my heart since I was twelve. I can’t just give up on him, not now that I’ve finally found him again.

But what about Jax? What about what
he
deserves?

God.

I drive to the outskirts, through streets lined with tall trees, and park outside the house. It has a chocolate roof and big bay windows. The front lawn is trim and the fence a blinding white.

Something inside me relaxes. I kill the engine and step out, slinging my small duffel bag on my shoulder and walking across the path to the front door.

Then it opens, and a tiny hurricane hurls down the two steps of the porch and launches himself into my arms.

“Jax!” I laugh as I drop my bag and lift him high into the air, then twirl him. “God, you’ve growing bigger every day. Soon I won’t be able to do this anymore.”

Sadness stings my chest at the thought—when did my baby grow so much? His daddy would have been able to throw him up so high and then catch him so easily—and then happiness overtakes me again.

I’m so lucky. So unbelievably lucky to have such a gorgeous, amazing little boy, such great parents… I can’t imagine a life without them.

Tyler rises again in my mind—his violent dad, his dead mom, his scars, his estranged brother, and my breath catches. The thought of him sad, lonely and in pain is making my heart heavy as a stone.

I let Jax drag me by the hand to the house. He’s chattering excitedly about one of his friends, a boy called Tom who lives across the street. I follow, letting his words wash over me, until he stops at the steps and turns toward me, his little face serious.

“Mommy.”

“Yes, Jax. What?”

“Tom’s daddy came back. When is mine coming back?”

Oh God.
The blood drains from my face, and I shiver in my jacket. “Let’s get inside, baby,” I breathe. “It’s cold out here.”

Tyler

Fuck.

That’s my motto this weekend, my goddamn mantra. Fuck everything. Fuck life. Fuck resolutions and decisions and bright ideas that come to nothing. I’m ready to pack it all up and leave this goddamn place where I wasn’t supposed to return anyway.

Fuck it all.

I knock down my shot of tequila—my tenth? Twentieth? Thirtieth? I don’t really know, and I don’t really care. All I want is to numb my mind, wash the thoughts out and crunch them under my boot.

Is this what you want? What you came back for?

Dammit.
I need more tequila; what I’ve had obviously isn’t enough. I raise my empty shot glass and shake it at the bartender.

The room tilts, and I slam my glass down, spreading my arms on top of the bar not to fall off my stool.
Whoa.

The bartender’s frowning at me. He grabs a towel and comes toward me, muttering under his breath. What’s his fucking problem?

“More tequila,” I slur. Where’s my glass? I fumble for it on the bar, my eyes half-closed against the glare of the overhead lights.

“Hey, hey.” The bartender grabs my hand and lifts it. “You’ve had enough. Here.” He wraps my hand in the towel.

It’s only then I see the shards of the glass I smashed on the counter and smell the metallic tang of blood; can practically taste it on my tongue.

The bar dissolves around me; I’m back in the basement, leaning against the wall, cable ties digging into my wrists, the stench of mold and urine overlaid with the sharp smell of spilled blood filling my senses. It’s dark and cold, and everything hurts. Open wounds on my chest burn like fire, and my ribs … Christ, my ribs are killing me with every breath I draw.

Shit.

I blink hard to bring the bar back into focus. Not the basement. I’m not there.

Fuck.
Pushing back, I stagger to my feet and try to locate the bathroom. The room spins. I head toward a door, and I faintly hear behind me the bartender talking. My stomach roils, and I push the door open.

Cold air hits my face, clearing my eyes for a brief moment—I’m outside, on the street—and then I brace myself with a hand on the brick wall and throw up. Acid burns my throat as I cough and spit.

Hands fall on my shoulders, and I twist and shove whoever decided coming close to me right now is a good idea. I draw back my fist. I’ll show the guy how stupid he is, thinking he can touch me.

“Just making sure you’re okay,” the bartender says. “You left the towel.” He passes me the bloodied piece of cloth.

Blood drips from my hand. I stare at the cuts in my palm. Remember more blood and pain.

The bartender clears his throat, snapping my attention back to him. “Better get that checked. You don’t wanna leave shards of glass inside. Do you have someone to drive you home? Shall I call you a cab?”

Clenching my jaw, I turn and go. I don’t need anything or anyone. I’m perfectly fine on my own.

If I don’t fall on my face and crack my skull—which would suck balls, especially after remembering what broken bones feel like. So I hug the wall and put one foot in front of the other, carefully, swallowing bile as the sidewalk sways in my eyes.

Motherfucking hell.

Even if I wanted to call someone to come and pick me up—which I don’t, absolutely fucking not, because I’m just fine on my own—I wouldn’t have anyone.

Brilliant move, Tyler. If you die here, nobody will even know where to find the body.

The truth finally hits me. I slide down the wall, right there on the sidewalk, and lean my head back. I close my eyes and wonder if anyone will notice if I disappear into nothingness once more.

***

After a while, a police car passes by where I lie passed out on the concrete. The cops shake me awake to ask if I have someone to call. I give them the finger. So they give me a ride to my apartment.

The police. The system. Helping me out. I fall on the bed laughing so hard I almost puke again.

And it isn’t even funny.

Fuck everything.

That sets me off again, and I laugh, rolling on the mattress.
What the fuck?

What do you really want?

I bury my face in my pillow and struggle for breath. I want Erin to be with me. I want Ash to forgive me. I want to sleep without nightmares and I want… I want to be happy, too.

But how?
I was happy once, long ago. Maybe that’s the real reason I returned—trying to recapture that feeling, that state of carelessness, of freedom and joy.

Stupid, Tyler. You can’t go back. It’s too late.

Always too late. I want to give, but all I do is take. I want to live, but all I do is die a little bit more every day.

I pull my cell from my back pocket to try Asher again. I need to tell him stuff. Get it off my chest. The phone rings and rings. What time is it anyway?

The ringing stops, and someone answers.

Holy shit.
“Ash? Hey, it’s me. I need to talk to you… about me. About the time I left.” My voice is thick and slurs. I sit up and prop my back against the wall. I close my eyes because my apartment spins in slow, lazy circles. “I had to go. It wasn’t easy, leaving you behind. Mom said she’d protect you, take care of you. That it’d be best if I left. Dad said he’d hurt you if I came back. Do you understand?”

I pause to draw breath, and I’m met by silence on the other end. “Ash?” I swallow thickly. “Are you still there? I want to say I’m sorry. God, I’m so fucking sorry.”

I rub a hand over my eyes, but it does nothing for the blurriness. “Just say something. Come on, man. I thought I was protecting you. I watched you, and I thought you were okay. I didn’t know… Didn’t realize. I was so messed up I must’ve missed the clues. But now I’ve changed. No more drugs. I’m clean. Just… say something.”

Silence stretches. Someone is breathing fast at the other end of the line. Then a woman’s light voice says, “Tyler?”

Christ.
I jerk as if hit by a live wire. Who is that, who did I call? Did I call Marlene by mistake? Or worse—Erin? The voice doesn’t sound familiar, though.

“Sorry, wrong number,” I mumble and drop the phone on the bed.
Fuck.
Of course Ash wouldn’t pick up. It wasn’t him.

Dammit.
Can’t do a single thing right. Can’t fix anything.

I clutch the pendant Erin gave me. What if I call her? I want to hear her voice so badly.

Bad idea.
She said she has her life. Her dreams. She wants to study and become a teacher. Truth is, she needs someone better than me.

I fall sideways on the bed and let dark, dreamless sleep pull me under.

***

The weekend from hell is over, and I’ve somehow survived it. Now it’s Tuesday evening, and I’m sitting behind the desk in Damage Control, focused and alert.

Yeah, right.
Truth is, I’m struggling to keep awake. It’s not working out so well.

“Hey, man, you okay?” a male voice says over the low ambient music.

It’s Rafe. I blink owlishly at him.

“You look like hell warmed over. And I didn’t notice your hand. What happened?”

I clench my bandaged hand, use the pain to focus my hazy thoughts. “Broke a glass. I’m okay.”

Everything’s fine. Nothing to see here. Move along.

But he hesitates. I swear the man’s got a sixth sense, like his buddy, Zane, and can smell problems a mile away.

I look back at the computer screen and click randomly on the calendar, pretending to be busy. He’s good, but I’ve learned tricks to pass under the radar even when I want to shiver out of my skin and howl.

“I’m going out with the guys,” Rafe says. “You’ll be okay closing the shop?”

“Sure, no problem.” I keep my gaze on the screen, seeing nothing, as Rafe steps away from the desk. The doorbell chimes.

“Hey, Ash,” Rafe says. “Good to see you, man.”

Ash.

The name penetrates the fog in my mind, and I glance up, my face twisting in a frown. It can’t be.

Yet here he is.

“Asher,” I mutter as I push back my chair with a screech and stand.

He’s standing at the door, his brows drawn together. He obviously didn’t expect to see me here. A girl hovers behind him, her red curls framing a wide-eyed face.

“We’re here to pick Rafe up,” Ash says. “We’re leaving.”

“Maybe Tyler can join us,” the red-head says. Audrey. Ash’s girlfriend, I recognize her now.