Split(75)

On that thought, I’m plunged into darkness.





SHYANN


“What do you mean why? I just told you.” Cody huffs into the phone so loud I have to pull it away from my ear to avoid him blowing out my damn eardrum. “The guy delivered early and Dad needs to cut him a check. Just grab the checkbook and get over here before we lose our contract with these guys.”

He hangs up on me and I stare at the checkbook on my desk. Chewing on my lip, I consider cutting my truck’s fuel line to keep from having to bring the stupid thing out to them. I’ve managed to avoid work sites since finding out about Lucas. It’s not that I’m afraid of him, or I judge him in any way . . . Okay, maybe that’s not entirely true. I just realized I don’t know Lucas at all, and everything I thought about Gage, all his threats came flooding back and it hit me. He was right.

I underestimated him.

I allowed myself to feel a false sense of security because I trusted Lucas, but if Gage would hurt his own family . . . my God . . . then what would he do to me?

So I threw myself into work. Made sure I stayed busy and when I wasn’t doing that I was home taking care of my dad. I took over the shopping, cooking, and cleaning. Did laundry, cleaned out the refrigerator, the pantry, and ripped all the frilly crap from my old bedroom.

I did whatever it took to keep my mind off Lucas. Nothing worked. I’ve been hoping to forget the way it felt to make him smile, to feel his touch or be in his arms. And seeing him made it worse. Every time I see him, the ache in my chest gets worse.

The way he looks at me kills, because I’m avoiding him. And he knows it.

I need to move on from my feelings because whether or not I want to believe it, I can’t deny the facts.

It’s possible Gage killed his family.

It’s taken everything in my power to stay in town. My feet itch to run, to put as much space between me and this town as possible. I could go to Los Angeles, live off what little I’ve saved; it’d be the easy way out. Also a coward’s way out.

No more running, Shy.

I groan and scoop up the checkbook, then stomp to my truck, pissed I’m being forced to do this and risk possibly seeing Lucas. I suppose I could flag one of the guys down, throw it out the truck window without actually having to stop. I just . . . I can’t face the man with the scarred neck and the broken soul.

His gray eyes flash in my mind’s eye. Vulnerable, questioning . . . a shell of a man who seemed to come to life the more time we spent together. The more he trusted me, the more I saw bits and pieces of who he really is come forward. Even Gage, I started to believe that we’d forged a truce between us, that he realized I wouldn’t hurt Lucas. Turns out we were both wrong.

The work site comes into view and it’s surrounded by our crew working in various areas, some at the table saw, others lifting tile, and still others noticeable only through the windows working inside.

I quickly scan the area for my dad or Cody, making sure not to linger too long on any one of the men in order to avoid accidentally seeing Lucas, but with laserlike precision, my gaze is drawn directly to him. He’s curled over a table, one long, powerful arm outstretched along a length of wood with a measuring tape in hand. He pulls a pencil from behind his ear and marks the wood before shoving it back between his ear and his backward baseball hat. His muscles bunch beneath his form-hugging tee and I’m captivated. His body stills, and as if he can somehow sense me, his head slowly lifts before his gaze slams into mine.

“Shit!” I turn away, pull my pickup to the side of the house, and force my racing heart to calm.

What is it about this guy? If I had any sense of self-preservation, I’d be running to the cops or at the very least to my dad, but something holds me back. Call it loyalty, or standards, or stupid, no matter how I work it all through in my head I can’t and could never bring myself to expose him.

I just didn’t realize how much I cared about him until I pulled away from him. Every time I see him, I hope my draw to him will lessen, that I won’t feel the overwhelming urge to touch him in some way, to hug him, hold his hand, or press my lips to his, but I do. I feel it every single time.

I fist my hands in my hair and groan. “You’re sick, Shy . . . sick, sick, sick.”

A loud knock sounds at my window and I nearly jump out of my skin.

Cody’s standing by my door glaring. “’Bout friggin’ time.” He pulls open the door to reach over me and grab the checkbook. “Hey . . .” He tilts his head. “You feeling okay? You seem, I don’t know, pale.”

“Fine. I’m good.” I throw the truck into reverse, happy to get the hell away.

“Whoa, not so fast.” Cody reaches in and throws the transmission into park. “Dad needs you.” He walks away and I’m paralyzed, not with fear, at least not in the typical sense, but anxiety has me dreading leaving the safety of the truck.

I’m going to have to face him eventually. It’s not like he’ll even speak to me after the way I’ve treated him, ignoring his attempts to connect.

I push out the door and move to the house, thankful that my dad is the first person I see. I scurry up to his side. “Hey, Dad. Cody said you needed me?”

My hands tug impatiently on the hem of my T-shirt and my dad peers down at me through a narrow gaze. “Where’s the fire, Shy?”