Whisper Falls (13 page)

She found herself curled up on the couch in a cami and gray jogging pants, hugging a throw pillow, and selecting the most recent
Ellen
show from the offerings on her DVR. She had a tattoo she was too embarrassed to show anyone, she still felt life was passing her by, and she was even more sexually frustrated than usual—it seemed like a good time to let Ellen cheer her up.

And it worked. Ellen’s monologue made her smile, and when Ellen talked about positive thinking, it reminded Tessa to try to do that—think positive, look on the bright side. In totally practical ways, life really
was
looking up lately—she’d been feeling better
and
she had a paying job. And if the past few years had taught her anything, it was not to take things for granted.

Then Ellen began to dance. She danced on the show almost every day and sometimes spoke about why, noting that it was great exercise and just made you feel good. Hmm. Tessa thought she could probably
use
some exercise. And back in her college years, she’d
loved
to go dancing—she just hadn’t done it lately. Well, except for that day Def Leppard had come on the radio. That
had
made her feel kind of good—until Lucky showed up, that is.

So as Ellen moved up and down the aisles of her studio audience to Rick James’s “Give it to me, Baby,” Tessa made a split decision—to cast aside her pillow and get to her feet. Then she danced along with Ellen in her living room.

She glanced toward the windows, of course—just to make sure Lucky wasn’t going to sneak up on her again—but all was clear. And the truth was—even if it felt a little wacky to dance by herself, she also immediately felt . . . uplifted. Like her problems were surmountable. Her health was manageable. And she had a job. And even if Lucky didn’t want her, well . . . maybe someone would eventually, maybe even someone she would want in return.

That last part was the hardest to talk herself into believing—but she did it. And she kept dancing along with Ellen until, soon, she wasn’t thinking about anything
except
dancing. And it was . . . fun. Wow. Still a little weird by herself—but she felt far better when she finished dancing than she had when she’d started.

By the time Ellen’s show was over, she felt all-around energized, ready to make her day more than just one of sitting around pouting. The sun had risen high in the sky, creating another pretty spring day that beckoned her outdoors.

Slipping on shoes and a long cardigan sweater, she ventured onto her deck to check her seed containers and was thrilled to see the first little bits of green growth poking up through the soil in several pots. She found herself running her fingertips gingerly through the dirt surrounding the first zinnia sprouts, then gliding them over the rim of the clay pot, the terra-cotta warm from the sun.

Leaving the deck, she stooped to drink in the fragrance of her hyacinth and admire the pretty pink tulips that grew in friendly clumps alongside them. Then she headed to her daisy seed bed at the edge of the woods. Like in the pots, the first hints of green had appeared in the dark, rich soil, and thinking of the daisies she’d have here for years to come made her smile.

The gentle shushing sound of the waterfall back in the trees led her to glance in that direction, the sound soothing to her. Despite the soft spot she’d developed for her new neighbor, she felt thankful he hadn’t had any customers on motorcycles this weekend—at least not when she’d been home. The cadence of the rushing water delivered exactly what she’d moved out here to find—a sense of peace and nature.

Without really planning it, she walked into the woods, toward Whisper Falls. The trees overhead made the air cooler, so she hugged her sweater around her, tying the sash in front. She’d come to sit by the falls many times since buying the cabin, but not since last autumn. The crashing water grew louder as she approached, until finally she reached her favorite spot—she lowered herself onto a large, wide rock near the base of the falls that always seemed to her as if it had been placed here on purpose, like it was God’s park bench.

Shards of sunlight sifted through the trees to cast a vague glow on the small waterfall. The cascade descended only ten feet or so, but the rocky shelf it flowed over stretched across a wide part of the stream, spanning probably twenty feet. Sometimes she climbed the short, steep hill next to the falls to the top, to look across the smooth, placid water there, but today she felt like watching the crash and swirl of Whisper Falls from below. Both views were peaceful to her in different ways, but this one felt . . . well, somehow comforting yet turbulent, like a slightly wilder part of the gentle setting here—and it suited her mood lately, her need to reach out and grab life, to no longer sit sedentary here in the woods by herself.

“Hey.”

She flinched at the sound and glanced up—to find Lucky standing a few feet away. Clearly the rush of the falls had masked the noise of his steps through the trees. And—oh God. As usual, he looked ferociously sexy, the breeze coming off the falls blowing his long, dark hair back from his face. And despite the dim light and the shadows cast by the trees, she was reminded of something she’d noticed the first time she’d met him—what amazing eyes he had. Her heartbeat kicked up. “Hey.”

“Sorry to sneak up on you.”

Oh crap—did that mean she looked nervous again? “You didn’t. I mean . . . no problem.”

“I was getting ready to mow the lawn and decided to finally check out these falls.”

For some reason, she liked thinking of Lucky doing something as ordinary as mowing the lawn. It made him seem . . . all the more safe, all the more like her and everyone else she knew. Even if he wasn’t in a lot of ways. She motioned to Whisper Falls and confided, “This has become one of my favorite places.”

He nodded. “It’s nice. Kind of just . . . hidden back here.”

She slid over on her rock bench, making more room, and said, “Even comes with a built-in seat.”

Please
,
please sit next to me.
She’d been trying to get him off her mind, trying to not want him anymore, but now that he was this close again, it was impossible. That spark that moved between them was already sizzling once more and Whisper Falls instantly became the most seductive place she’d ever been. The fresh green leaves bursting forth suddenly felt lush and sensual, the shade created a deep, dense privacy, and the sound of the tumbling water rushed over her in an intoxicating way.

So when Lucky sat down, his muscular body taking up all the space she’d freed and more, she didn’t scoot away. Their arms touched, and their thighs, too. She could smell that musky scent of his mingling with the aroma of new growth all around them.

They sat quietly for a moment, Lucky taking in the falls, Tessa watching him in her peripheral vision and hoping he couldn’t tell. He wore ripped blue jeans and a puffy down vest over a hooded sweatshirt, and everything about him exuded warmth right now. Although it surprised her to discover she missed seeing his tattoos—they were such a large part of his identity in her mind. Then she smiled quietly to herself, wondering if Lucky would like the daisy chain around her ankle, and it hit her that he was perhaps the one person she knew who would understand why she’d gotten it.

“So why is it called Whisper Falls?” he asked.

Most people in Destiny knew this already, but apparently Lucky had never heard it when growing up here. She pointed to the top. “The story goes that if you stand up there on one side and whisper something, someone standing on the other side will hear you, even over the noise of the water.”

He glanced down at her, clearly intrigued. “Ever try it?”

She shook her head. “It’s an old story. Years ago, people used to come out here more, up an old trail by the bridge.” She pointed over her shoulder toward a stretch of Whisper Falls Road that curved across the creek—just before the ascent that led to their homes. Then she laughed softly. “My mom tried it when she was young and said it didn’t work. Or maybe you both have to be standing at just the right spot, or maybe the wind has to be blowing the right way or something nutty like that. Or maybe it’s just an old legend someone made up.”

Next to her, he shrugged. “It’s a nice story anyway.”

They sat in companionable silence for a moment—until Tessa’s palms began to sweat. Suddenly, every part of her body felt highly sensitized, yearning for touch. She realized she wanted to kiss him so badly she could barely breathe—and it was all she could do not to reach out to his arm, or his shoulder. So instead she spoke—just to break the tension building within her. “If you’re going to be around tomorrow, I’ll start working in Johnny’s room.”

He nodded, then glanced down slightly. “I’ll be around.” His voice had come out lower than usual, though, and when their eyes met, she caught it in his gaze—the knowledge, once again, that this went both ways. Oh. My. Her stomach fluttered and her breasts tingled. And maybe all this meant she should just do it, just kiss him herself—but whatever mysterious thing was holding him back made
her
hold back, too. She didn’t want to be pushed away.

So she just bit her lip and wished she could banish the sensuous ache at the small of her back—and tried for more conversation. “Do you forgive me?” she heard herself ask. “For coming into the room and finding out about your son?”

When he looked down at her now, their faces came closer together, and for the first time, she saw true vulnerability in big, bad Lucky Romo’s eyes. His voice dropped even further, to a low, raspy timbre. “Yeah. As long as you haven’t told anybody.”

She didn’t break the gaze—she couldn’t. She just shook her head. “I haven’t. I won’t.” Her whole body rippled with want.

And he whispered, “Thank you”—and then his eyes drifted . . . to her lips.

She sucked in her breath, let it back out—but it came slow, thready. She went a little lightheaded. She’d never been so drawn toward a man, physically, so much as if her body had taken over her brain.

That’s why she found herself leaning just a little nearer to him, aware that he’d moved closer now, too. That’s why the whole world stopped in that moment, and why it felt as if nothing else existed but them.

“Lucky,” she murmured, knowing that, at last, he was going to kiss her.

. . . with my veins running fire, and my heart beating faster than I can count its throbs.

Charlotte Brontë,
Jane Eyre

Seven

H
is breath mingled with hers, warming her lips, as she closed her eyes, anticipating heaven. The ache, the need, roared all through her, desperate and hungry—and thank God he was finally going to
ease
that ache.

“I should go,” he said then, pushing to his feet—and Tessa nearly fell over sideways since, somewhere along the way, she’d begun leaning against him.

She simply stared up at him, wide-eyed, her mouth hanging open. “Huh?”

“I . . . have stuff I gotta do,” he said, eyes resolute even if slightly troubled as he started to depart. But then he stopped, met her gaze, and spoke low. “Sorry, hot stuff,” he told her, sounding . . . almost a little ashamed, she thought.

And then he was gone, tramping off through the spring green woods back toward his house to leave her sitting there feeling far more alone than she had before he’d shown up.

Whoa. What the hell had just happened here? He’d come so close to kissing her—she knew it. She couldn’t have invented something like that. And she certainly hadn’t invented that erection a few days ago, either.

She had no idea what had sent him dashing off through the trees away from her. All she knew was that she hadn’t felt this deflated in a long time.

O
n Tuesday, Tessa painted three walls of Johnny’s room a warm shade of blue pulled from the NASCAR wallpaper border. Blue was soothing, and that was good, since she
needed
to be soothed after Lucky’s disappearing act at the falls on Sunday.

She’d worked in the house the previous day, too—but mostly, he’d avoided her, staying out in the garage. And yet, every moment they
had
been in each other’s presence, she’d still felt that undeniable heat moving between them.
What’s going on here
,
Lucky?

It was Wednesday afternoon when she headed back up the hill, ready to work on refinishing some of Lucky’s living-room furniture. Like painting and wallpaper, this was a task she could do herself to keep her expenses low and her profits high. Southern rock echoed from the garage, drawing her to it, and like when she’d found him there before, he looked deeply involved in his work—today deftly painting a white skull on a black gas tank—so she stayed quiet until he reached a stopping point.

“Hey,” she said. She didn’t smile, though. She couldn’t. She officially felt weird around him now—and oh how quickly things had changed. Not long ago she’d been nervous because he scared her a little; now things were strange because she was dying for him to make a move on her and he wouldn’t.

Lucky, however,
did
smile at her—a little anyway. It looked forced, like he was trying to get past the awkwardness, but it still made her heart beat faster. Damn it.

“Hey, hot stuff.” He said it like nothing was wrong—like they hadn’t come painfully close to kissing a few days ago.

But she still didn’t smile. “Just wanted to let you know I’m here. I’m going to start on your end tables.”

He nodded, but dropped the grin, as well—apparently deciding it wasn’t working. “Thanks.” And as she started toward the door that led into the house, he asked, “You mad at me?”

When she stopped and turned back to him, his eyes remained on the gas tank, not looking at her. “No,” she said. “Just confused.” Maybe it was time for yet more honesty here.

He still didn’t look her way, though. Just kept his eyes on that skull as he began to airbrush a red glow around it. “You wouldn’t be the first person to be confused by me,” he informed her matter-of-factly.

Huh.
That
was a hell of an answer. Or
non
-answer, she thought. And that was
it
? All he was going to say? She was beginning to have a little more sympathy for the Romo family at this point. If Lucky had spent his whole life running so hot and cold, no wonder there’d been problems. “I can only imagine,” she bit off more sharply than intended.

And when he said nothing more, she opened the side door and went inside, down the hall past Lucky’s bedroom, as well as the space that would soon belong to his son. But then she stopped, backed up. Something had caught her eye in Johnny’s room.

And when she walked in, she gasped. Lucky had painted the fourth wall—with a mural, as he’d promised. Just since yesterday! And what a mural it was!

A little taken aback, she lowered herself onto the bed and studied what he’d created. It was a work of airbrush art. He’d painted a scene as if viewed from a car on the racetrack, the wall showing in bright hues what a driver would see through the windshield: the asphalt track curving away before him, the infield to one side, the crowd in the stands on the other. Checkered flags and the repair pit were visible, and other cars dotted the road ahead. Any NASCAR fan would love it, and Johnny would surely see in it how much his father cared about pleasing him.

She couldn’t believe Lucky had done the entire thing overnight. And then not even mentioned it just now. In fact, it compelled her to walk back out, down the hall, planning to say,
You didn’t even tell me about the mural. It’s amazing.

But then she stopped—just before opening the door.

She’d sensed all along that Lucky was more complex than she knew. And for a little while, she’d thought he was letting her begin to see inside him, to understand a few of those complexities. Yet now she was forced to remember . . . all the things Rachel and Amy had worried about. His past, possibly in a biker gang. All those missing years. The potential criminal activity. It was difficult not to revisit all that now and wonder if her friends’ warnings were worth reconsidering, heeding.

Either way, one thing was becoming scathingly clear: Lucky Romo was not a simple man. And he didn’t want to let her any deeper into his life than she already was.

As for asking him about the mural—it suddenly seemed like a bad idea. It implied that they were . . . close in some way, that they shared something beyond a professional relationship. And other than the fact that she knew about his son, they . . . didn’t. Not really.

So maybe she just needed to accept that and move on with her life.

L
ucky tried to focus on the design he was painting on Spider Conway’s Harley Fatboy. Spider was an acquaintance of Duke’s, one of the many he’d sent Lucky’s way lately. Not surprisingly, the large, bald guy had requested Lucky airbrush a black widow and spiderweb on his gas tank, and then echo the webbing on the fenders. Lucky had fashioned the black widow after the one tattooed on the back of Spider’s head.

Using a curved template, he created tiny white swishes that would form the web—but his mind kept wandering. Because he knew he was screwing up with Tessa—bad.

He wanted her in his bed, but he couldn’t have that. And so he instead wanted her to be his friend—but if he wasn’t careful, he wouldn’t have that, either. He just . . . hell . . . he didn’t know how to be when he was with her. The more he was around her, the more he wanted her, and he’d come so damn close to kissing her by the waterfall that it had scared some sense into him. Just like Red’s little visit to Gravediggers over the weekend.

Seeing Red had reminded him that it was easy to get too relaxed. Maybe that was one reason he’d settled in a sizable city after leaving California. In a city, you didn’t relax. There were people coming and going—in your business, in your life—all the time. There were honking horns and sirens to help you remember that it was a trouble-filled world out there, and that you had your own fair share of that trouble.

Here, in Destiny, out here in the woods . . . it was so damn quiet sometimes that he could almost believe he’d moved into some other existence entirely—like the Devil’s Assassins were some figment of his imagination.

But that’s why it was good he hung out at Gravediggers—there, with Duke, much as he might want the DAs not to exist, he always remembered they did. There, surrounded by people he didn’t know very well but still had a lot in common with, he couldn’t forget who he was—and who he would always be.

Just then, he heard a bike in the distance, mounting the hill on Whisper Falls Road. More business—good. He’d take all he could get. He was doing fine on money, but he’d just started sending child support to Sharon, and he wanted to be sure he could give Johnny anything he might need.

When the motorcycle rumbled into his driveway, he stopped working and walked out into the sunlight. And—shit. He could scarcely believe his eyes. It was Red again. He rode an old Softtail that, like Red himself, had seen better days. What the hell was Red Thornton doing
here
?

Red killed the engine and lifted his hand in a wave. “Hey, Lucky—how ya doin’?”

Like before with Red, Lucky didn’t smile. “Doing all right. Didn’t expect to see you again, Red.”

Unfazed, Red motioned to the bike beneath him. “My baby here needs a paint job and I heard in Chillicothe you were the man for the job.”

Hmm—already word had gotten out nearly an hour away that it was worth driving here to get your bike painted? The news was great for business—but with Lucky’s recently renewed worries about being too easy to find, it left him slightly unsettled, too. “No offense, Red, but can you afford it?”

Red’s smile stretched from ear to ear. “Found my sister, and turns out she’s doin’ real well. Offered to buy me a paint job for my birthday next week—so here I am.”

“You won’t mind then if I ask for payment up front?” Normally Lucky didn’t—he figured the bike itself served as collateral if a customer didn’t pay. But he was sort of hoping to drive Red away, right back to Chillicothe—just because he was a reminder of bad times.

“Nope.” Red patted his back pocket, unoffended. “Got the cash right in my wallet.”

Hell.

From there, Red described to Lucky the paint job he wanted, and—finally concluding that Red’s money was as good as anybody else’s—Lucky pulled out a catalog of designs to show his new customer.

And the more he talked to Red . . . well, he didn’t like it, but the same as at Gravediggers, Lucky almost started feeling sorry for the guy. Red was immature for his age, and directionless, and too excited about a gift from his sister—but talking to him forced Lucky to realize Red had probably had a shitty upbringing and likely didn’t have even one friend. Lucky knew what it was like to feel you had nobody, so . . . shit, no wonder Red was so amped up about finding his sister.

Once Red had selected what Lucky thought was a pretty cheesy pirate design—he even tried to talk Red out of it, pointing him toward pirate flags instead of an actual pirate, with no success—Lucky decided to broach his least favorite subject with Red. When he’d first seen Red at Duke’s bar, he’d thought it meant trouble—but now it occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, talking to Red about his old biker gang wasn’t a bad idea. After all, where else could he find out information about them that might prove useful? Maybe he should see Red not as an annoyance, but as more of a . . . tool.

Red even gave him an opening as he walked back over to his bike, leaning against the seat. “Still can’t believe I ran into you after so damn long, Lucky,” he said, shaking his head. “Man, California seems like it happened in a whole ’nother life.”

Lucky could definitely relate to that. And since Red had turned the topic back to the old days, Lucky cautiously began. “Sometimes I still worry about all that shit coming back to haunt me. Know what I mean?” He made a point of meeting Red’s eyes as he spoke, to gauge his sincerity.

The other man appeared weary at the question. “Well, yeah—me, too.”

Lucky tilted his head, curious. “What did
you
do to be worried about?”

Red glanced at the ground, looked uneasy, then crossed his arms, shoulders slumped. “Let’s just say me and Wild Bill had a bad partin’ of the ways.”

Huh. Lucky would be damn surprised if it was nearly as bad as
his
parting with Bill.

And he almost asked about someone else then, about Vicki—how she’d been before Red had left, if she was still putting up with Bill’s crap—but he stopped himself. Wild Bill’s girlfriend had been attractive, and she and Lucky had—unfortunately—shared a raging chemistry. Though he couldn’t credit her with being especially smart or strong-willed when it came to taking care of herself. Hell, what had happened between them proved that. Maybe that was why he didn’t really want to know. Given all that had happened back then, he hoped she was okay, but he still decided it would be better to just move on to a different topic. “Did Bill ever make any more threats against me or Duke?”

“Not that I recall,” Red replied. “One good thing about Bill—he’s got a short memory.”

Lucky narrowed his eyes on Red. “If his memory’s so short, why are you worried about those times coming back to bite you in the ass?”

Red tilted his head and looked like he was thinking it over. “With a guy like Wild Bill, it’s hard
not
to worry. But on the other hand, I ain’t so sure it’s . . . what’s the word? A
practical
worry, a thing that’d really happen—know what I’m sayin’? The more time passes, the farther away I get, I figure what are the chances? So yeah, I worry, but . . . it’s probably a big waste of time.” Red shifted his weight from one boot to the other, and met Lucky’s gaze. “Hell, I been gone almost five years. And how long ago did you and Duke leave—nine, ten?”

“Just over ten,” Lucky confirmed with a light nod.

Now it was Red who changed the subject, and Lucky didn’t mind. “Seems like you two fellas are doin’ all right for yourselves.”

“We are,” Lucky agreed.

And maybe, if Red was right about any of this—Bill’s memory, the passage of time—Lucky could be doing even
better
for himself. Maybe Red made a lot of sense. Maybe Lucky was torturing himself for nothing. Maybe. It was weirdly comforting to hear somebody else express what he’d been waffling over and wanting to feel, wanting to
believe
, for a damn long time. Especially given that Duke saw things the exact opposite way, and it was partially
his
views that kept Lucky from letting himself move on. He’d been bold enough, comfortable enough, to come to the place where his son was—and if he’d felt
that
was safe, maybe it was stupid to worry it would be any different where a woman was concerned, no matter
what
Wild Bill had said all those years ago.