Kiss the Stars (Falling Stars #1)(37)

All I had to do was ride my bike up the street, and the seas parted. Fear and respect synonymous with the name.

Pride of Petrus.

Except today.

Today it was different.

A layer of fear I hadn’t felt in a long time palpitated under the surface of my skin.

I fought it. Lifted my chin. Got off my bike. Strode into the back of the club like I owned it.

Heavy metal screamed from the speakers. Place dank and dark.

Seedy as fuck.

There were piles of coke on the table. Half-naked chicks running amok. Arrogant pricks leaning against the walls drinking beers like they were someone to be seen.

Every single one of them took notice of me.

I pushed into the back office.

Didn’t even knock.

Did the deal.

And I strode back out feeling like a motherfucking king.





Twelve





Mia





What was I doing?

My gaze followed the dark figure who moved toward the guest house on the opposite side of the yard.

A shadow.

A wraith.

Both soothing and terrifying.

Which made me question more why I couldn’t stay away.

Why I was so intrigued.

Or maybe he had it right. Maybe the only thing I knew how to do was look for the pain.

Lately it felt like I didn’t know anything else.

At the doorway to the guest house, he paused and shifted to stare back in my direction. From this distance in the muted lights, I doubted he could make me out through the windows. But still, he was gazing back at me like he could see me.

Like he got me.

Understood me.

Or maybe like he wished that he could.

Finally, he gave a harsh shake of his head, turned, and disappeared into the guest house.

It cut off the connection, jolting me back into reality.

I shook my head like I could shake myself from the trance. Rid myself of the attraction.

I really was looking for trouble, wasn’t I?

Begging for it.

The man felt irresistible, which was kind of funny considering he was the one who was refusing to give himself to me.

One second, I was telling him to leave me alone, that I had no interest, and the next I was practically begging him to strip me of my clothes and put me out of my misery.

I got the horrible sense that he might be the only one who could do it. The only one who might be able to hold me tight enough that he could keep the ghosts at bay.

No, I had no illusions that he wouldn’t crush me in the process.

But sometimes experiencing the pain was better than feeling nothing at all.

I looked back at the black streak I’d painted in a crooked slash across the canvas.

Feeling a flicker.

A spark.

Beauty.

I squeezed my eyes shut in a bid to cling to it, to claim it, but I felt it falter and fade.

Snuffed.

Blowing out a heavy sigh, I set the paintbrush aside and moved back through the shadows of the house. I tiptoed my way back into the suite, edging open the door that was left open a smidge and moving directly for the room on the left.

Where my children slept.

This was where the numbness abated. Where emotion rushed.

The issue was it was so acute that it nearly knocked me from my feet.

I moved across the room to the crib that sat on one side of the room. I leaned over the railing, peering through the dim light to where Greyson slept.

His chubby cheeks were pinked, his plush lips pursed and whispering in his dreams.

So peaceful in his rest.

My hand shook with the amount of adoration I felt as I ran my hand over the top of his head.

“I love you, sweet boy,” I whispered, touching my fingers to my lips before I pressed them to his forehead. “I promise that we are going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you. To us.”

I murmured the hushed words to his sleeping body, praying he could feel their truth as I tucked his teddy bear closer to him.

I eased back. My heart lurched when I glanced to the side and saw Penny sitting up in her bed. She was clutching her patchwork teddy bear to her chest, watching me with her knowing eyes.

“Penny, sweetheart . . . what are you still doing awake?”

“I could ask you the same thing, couldn’t I?”

Light laughter rolled out. Leave it to my eleven-year-old daughter to call me out.

Crossing the room, I sat down on the edge of her bed and brushed my fingers through her hair. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I,” she admitted in her quiet voice.

I searched through her expression, my words hushed in the night. “Did you have a bad dream?”

Penny shook her head, and she drew her legs up to her chest. “I guess it might as well be a bad dream.” She blinked long, and my chest ached. “In the day it’s easier . . . it’s easier to pretend that everything is fine.”

Her voice lowered in shame. “But sometimes when I close my eyes . . . I see her, Mom. I see Lana, and every time, her face changes into yours. I hate it, but I can’t stop it.”

She looked at me.

Hopeless and guilt-ridden and trembling with fear.

“I keep thinking about what it would have been like if it was you.”

I kept brushing my fingers through the locks of her hair, trying to soothe her, trying to soothe myself.