But Carissa’s eyes were over the back of the couch and she was looking at Candy.
Her gaze shifted to him.
“Soon,” he mouthed.
She smiled.
The most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
She pursed her lips and blew him a kiss in a way, with their house chock with people, he’d accept.
And then that was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
She turned away quickly when Suki Nightingale landed in her lap.
He heard her laughter as he watched her do it.
His chest got even lighter.
Because that was when that was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and he knew he’d get that again and again and again.
Easy.
Steady.
Beauty.
She gave him what she’d promised he’d have.
A beautiful life.
The best part?
He got to give it back.
EPILOGUE
Oh Yeah
THERE WERE MILES of cream, pink, and peach streamers twisted and stretched from Ride the store to Ride the garage.
There were tents set up. At their corners, ribbons were waving from under big, shimmering peach and pink butterflies.
There were tables under the tents covered in cream plastic cloths that glinted with sprayed on glitter. On top were pink plastic cake plates and peach plastic forks, and down the middle, bouquets of cream, pink, and peach roses with scrolled and twisted bits of green spiraling around the blossoms, little glittery butterflies sticking out.
Suddenly, when the background music of Godsmack doing their cover of “Rocky Mountain Way” ended, a rough voice sounded over a loudspeaker, saying, “Carrie, your biker wants your ass on the dance floor.”
That was when a woman in a strapless lace dress with what looked like diamonds sparkling all over walked toward the dance floor. The full, poofy skirt that went almost to her ankles swayed against her legs over high-heeled peach sandals.
She had a diamond on a chain around her neck. Her honey curls were pulled back in a loose bun at her nape. She had pearls in her ears.
But she had little butterflies stuck in her hair.
She also had a small baby bump at her belly.
She was smiling at a man with black hair that was cut short at the sides and was a mess at the top. He had a thick beard. He was standing on the dance floor wearing a pair of jeans and a cream shirt.
He was smiling back.
She lifted her hand toward him when she was a few feet away.
He took it when she got close.
He wasted no time pulling her into his arms, and the woman didn’t quit smiling at him as he did it. In fact, her smile got so big, it near on split her face.
Then the opening strains of Louis Armstrong singing “What a Wonderful World” started playing.
The woman threw her head back and her peal of laughter could be heard over the music.
It was laughter even if it also sounded almost like a sob.
The man watched her and the white of his teeth that shone through his beard didn’t disappear as he did.
Then she tipped her head forward and buried her face in his neck as she wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders.
He rested his jaw against the side of her head and swayed her in his arms.
A group of people moved, and Jefferson Steele could no longer see his son dancing with his new wife at their wedding reception from where he stood at the fence.
It was time to go anyway.
He didn’t even know why he came, except for the fact that for the first time in years, he ran into fucking Linus Washington and the man wouldn’t shut up about Carson and his girl Carissa, telling him all about them getting married.
He turned to head to his truck that he had to park a fucking million miles away because Broadway was lined with cars, trucks, and bikes.
But he stopped dead when he saw a salt-and-pepper-haired, goateed man standing there with his arms crossed on his chest.
“You got that.” His voice was low, gravelly, and hostile. “Now do not ever come back.”
Jefferson Steele took one beat to consider the idea if he could take this asshole down.
It only took a beat.
Then he nodded, shifted around him, giving him a wide berth, and walked to his truck.
Tack Allen walked to the fence and looked into the forecourt of Ride.
All he could see over the crowd was the side of Joker’s head, his face obscured by Carissa’s honey curls.
He scanned and caught sight of his woman.
Tyra had his grandbaby tucked in her arm, but she was smiling down at Travis, who was standing on his pudgy little kid legs and pounding on her thigh.
Elvira got close and swooped him up.
Travis giggled so loud, Tack could hear it.
He felt his lips curl up and he shifted his eyes back in the direction of the dance floor just as Louis sang oh yeah.
Tack walked toward the party, agreeing.
Get lost in the Chaos!
Kristen Ashley’s captivating series continues…
Please see the next page for a preview of
WALK THROUGH FIRE.
I Never Would
I SHOULD GET a salad.
I should have gone to Whole Foods and hit the salad bar (and thus been able to get a cookie from their bakery, a treat for being so good about getting a salad).
I didn’t go to Whole Foods.
I went to Chipotle.
So, since I was at Chipotle, I should get a bowl, not a burrito.
I had no intention of getting a bowl.
I was going to get a burrito.
Therefore, I was standing in line at Chipotle, trying to decide on pinto or black beans for my burrito, telling myself I was going to have salad for dinner (this was not going to happen, but I was telling myself that, something I did a lot).
And in the coming months, I would wish with all my heart that I’d gone to Whole Foods for the salad (and the cookie).
It was lunchtime. It was busy. There was noise.
But I heard it.
The deep, manly voice coming from ahead of me in the line.
A voice that had matured, was coarser, nearly abrasive, but I knew that voice.
I’d never forget that voice.
“Yeah, I signed the papers. Sent ’em. Not a problem. That’s done,” the voice said.
I stood in line having trouble breathing, my body wanting to move, lean to the side, look forward, see the man attached to the voice, needing that, but I couldn’t seem to make my body do what it was told.
“Not set up yet with a place, don’t matter,” the voice went on. “Got a condo in the mountains for the weekend. Takin’ the girls up there. So I’ll come get ’em like I said, four o’clock, Friday. I’ll have ’em at school on Monday. I’ll sort a place soon’s I can.”
I still couldn’t move, and there was an even bigger reason why then.
Takin’ the girls up there.
I’ll have ’em at school on Monday.
He had children.
Logan had kids.
Plural.
I felt a prickle in my nose as my breathing went unsteady, my heart hammering, my fingers tingling in a painful way, like they’d gone to sleep and were waking up.
The voice kept going.
“Right. You’d do that, it’d be cool. Tell ’em their dad loves ’em, I’ll call ’em tonight and see ’em Friday.” A pause, then, “Okay. Thanks. Later.”
The line moved and I forced myself to move with it, and just then, Logan turned and became visible in front of the food counter at Chipotle.
I saw him, and my world imploded.
“Burrito. Beef,” he grated out. “Pinto. To go.”
I stared, unmoving.
He looked good.
God, God, he looked so damned good.
I knew it. I knew he’d mature like that. Go from the cute but ro
ugh young man with that edge—that dangerous edge that drew you to him no matter how badly you wanted to pull away. But you couldn’t stop it, that pull was too strong.
I knew he’d go from that to what was standing in front of the tortilla lady at Chipotle wearing his leather Chaos jacket.
Tall. His dark hair silvered, too long and unkempt. Shoulders broad. Jaw squared. I could see even in profile the skin of his face was no longer smooth but craggy in a way that every line told a story that you knew was interesting. Strong nose. High cheekbones. Whiskers (also silvered) that said he hadn’t shaved in days, or perhaps weeks.
Beautiful.
So beautiful.
And he once was mine.
Then I’d let him go.
No, I’d pushed him away.
I turned and moved swiftly back through the line, not making a sound, not saying a word.
I didn’t want him to hear me.
Out, I needed out.
I got out. Practically ran to my car. Got in and slammed the door.
I sat there, hands hovering over the steering wheel, shaking.
Takin’ the girls up there.
I’ll have ’em at school on Monday.
He had kids.
Plural.
Girls.
That made me happy. Ecstatic. Beside myself with glee.
I signed the papers. Sent ’em.
What did that mean?
So I’ll come get ’em… I’ll sort a place soon’s I can.
Come and get them?
He didn’t have them.
Signed the papers.
Oh God, he was getting a divorce.
No. Maybe he’d just gotten one.
I’ll come and get ’em…
He was a father.
But was he free?
I shook out my hands, taking a deep breath.
It didn’t matter. It wasn’t my business. Logan Judd was no longer my business. He’d stopped being my business twenty years ago. My choice. I’d let him go.
And clearly it didn’t happen, where I’d thought he was heading, where I’d thought his Club was heading. What I’d expected would happen hadn’t.
He was in line at Chipotle, not incarcerated.
He had that scratchy voice, so obviously he hadn’t quit smoking when he should have (or not at all). But he seemed strong, tall, fit.
I didn’t see him top to toe from all sides, but what I saw was what I’d hoped.
I’d hoped he’d find his way to happiness.
He’d said his order was to go.
Oh God, I needed to get out of there. It wouldn’t do for me to escape him inside only to have him see me outside in my car, freaked out so bad I was shaking.
I pushed the button to start my car, carefully looked in all mirrors and checked my blind spots, reversed out, and headed home.
I had no food at home but a bin of wilting baby spinach and some shredded carrots.
This was because I thought grocery shopping was akin to torture. I did it only when absolutely necessary, which was infrequently considering the number of options available for food that did not require a stocked pantry.
Conversely, I loved to cook.
I just didn’t do it frequently because I hated to shop for food.
I had good intentions. Practically daily I thought I’d change in a variety of ways.
Say, go to the grocery store. Be one of those women who concocted delicious meals (even if they were only for one), sipped wine in my fabulous kitchen while listening to Beethoven or something. There would be candles burning, of course. And I’d serve my meal on gorgeous china, treating myself like a princess (since there was no one else to do it).
After, I’d sip some fancy herbal tea tucked up in my cuddle chair (candles still burning) reading Dostoyevsky. Or, if I was in the mood, watching something classy on TV, like Downton Abbey.
Not what I normally did, got fast food or nuked a ready-made meal, my expensive candles gathering dust because they’d been unlit for months and not bothering even to dirty a plate. I’d do this while I sat eating in front of Sister Wives or True Tori or some such, immersing myself in someone else’s life because they were all a hell of a lot more interesting than mine.
Then I’d go to bed.
Alone.
To wake up the next morning.
Alone.
And spend the day thinking of all the ways I would change.
Like I’d start taking those walks I told myself I would take. Going to those Pilates classes at that studio just down the street that looked really cool and opened up two years ago (and yet, I had not stepped foot in it once). Driving up to the mountains and hiking a trail. Hitting the trendy shops on Broadway or in Highlands Square and spending a day roaming. Using that foot tub I bought (but never took out of the box) and giving myself a luxurious pedicure. Calling my friends to set up a girls’ night out and putting on a little black dress (after I bought one, of course) and hitting the town to drink martinis or cosmopolitans or mojitos or whatever the cool drink was now.
Seeing a man looking at me and, instead of looking away, smiling at him. Perhaps talking to him. Definitely speaking back if he spoke to me. Accepting a date if he asked. Going on that date.
Maybe not going to bed alone.
Every day I thought about it. I even journaled about it (when I talked myself into making a change that day and being together enough to journal).
But I never did it.
None of it.
I thought all this as I drove home, then into my driveway and down the side of my house, parking in the courtyard at the back. I got out and went inside, stopping in my kitchen, realizing from all these thoughts something frightening in the extreme.
I was stuck in a rut.
Stuck in a rut that began twenty years ago on the front stoop of Logan’s and my row house, watching him leave because I’d sent him away.
Walk through fire.
The words assaulted me, and the pain was too intense to bear. I had to move to my marble countertop, bend to it to rest my elbows on it and hold my head in my hands.
Then it all came and blasted through me in a way that made my head feel like it was going to explode.
You love a man, Millie, you believe in him, you take him as he is. You go on his journey with him no matter what happens, even if that means you have to walk through fire.
His voice was not coarse back then. No abrasion to it. It was deep. It was manly. But it was smooth.
Except when he said those words to me. When he said them they were rough. They were incredulous. They were infuriated.
They were hurt.
Walk through fire.
The tears came and dammit, dammit, they should have stopped years ago.
They didn’t.
They came and came and came until I was choking on them.
I didn’t make a salad with wilting spinach and the dregs of shredded carrots. I didn’t hit my desk and get back to work until all hours of the night, trying to catch up.
Instead I pulled my phone out of my bag, struggled to my couch, collapsed on it, and called my sister.
I couldn’t even speak when she picked up.
But she heard the sobs.
“Millie, what on earth is wrong?” she asked, sounding frantic.
“Dah-dah-Dottie,” I stuttered between blubbers. “I sah-sah-sah-saw Logan at fu-fu-fucking Chipotle.”
Not even a second elapsed before she replied, “I’ll be over. Ten minutes.”
Then she was over in ten minutes.
She took care of me, Dottie did.
Then again, my big sister always took care of me in a way I knew she always would.
The bad part about that was that I never did any of those things I said I was going to do.
I never pulled myself out of my rut.
I never fought my way to strong.
When I lost Logan, I lost any strength I might have had.
That being him.
He was my foundation. He was my backbone. He made me safe. He made life right.
Hell, he made life worth living.
Then he was gone, so I really had no life and commenced living half of one.
Or maybe a third.
Possibly a quarter.
Likely an eighth.
In other words, I was the kind of sister who would always need to be taken care of.
I knew I should wake up one day and change that.
I knew that just as I knew I never would.
* * *
At a party, in a house, twenty-three years earlier…
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
He started it. He’d been checking me out since he got there ten minutes earlier and he didn’t hide it. He came right to me and started it.
I liked that.
I also liked that he approached, not wasting a lot of time.
But mostly, I liked how incredibly cute he was.
Cute and edgy.
Holding my cup of beer in hand, I stared up at him.
God yes, he was cute. So cute.
But cute in a way that my mother would not curl up at night, safe in the knowledge her daughter had excellent taste in men. In other words, talking to a well-dressed guy who I would soon learn had a life mission he’d decided when he was a boy, this being astronaut or curer of cancer.
Cute in a way my mother would despair, pray for, and live in terror of and my father would consider committing murder (one of the various reasons my mother would be living in terror).
But looking into his warm, brown eyes, for once in my life, I didn’t care what my mother and father thought.
I just cared about the fact he was standing close to me at Kellie’s party, he’d come right to me and he’d said “hey.”
“Name’s Logan,” he told me.
God, he even had a cool name.
“Millie,” I replied.
I watched his eyes widen a bit before he burst out laughing.
That wasn’t very nice.
I swayed a little away from him, feeling hurt.
He kept chuckling but he noticed my movement and focused intently on me, asking, “Where you goin’?”
“I need a fresh beer,” I lied.
He looked into my full cup.
Then he looked at me, smiling.
Oh God, yes. He was so cute.
But he was kinda mean.
I mean, my name wasn’t funny. It was old-fashioned but it was my great-grandmother’s name. My mother had adored her, and Granny had lived long enough for me to adore her too.