Worth the Risk(15)
Right now, I just need a fucking breather. No son. No thoughts. No goddamn gray cloud looming over my head.
As I hit the highway, I look over toward Miner’s Airfield and see a helicopter lifting up. Fucking Christ. Why not throw what I’m missing right in my face? I jerk the wheel to the side of the road and just watch it.
My job saved me back then. After Claire left, when my mind was in the constant loop asking how she could walk away. And it was a curse. My twenty-four-hour shifts pulled me away from Luke and had me worried the whole time that he thought I’d abandoned him, too.
Of course, a five-month-old wouldn’t think that, but it fucked with my head during the downtime while I sat in that room I’d just left and waited for another call to come in. The next emergency.
Strangely enough, each life we saved, saved me a bit, too.
I could still rescue people.
I could still be the best damn father I could be.
Her leaving us couldn’t rob me of that.
“Grayson Malone.”
His groan is louder than the chatter of the patrons as I slide into the open spot at the bar beside his stool. “Quit stalking me.” He keeps his head straight ahead and doesn’t glance my way.
“I’m not stalking you at all.” I glance around and smile. The place is large, dimly lit, and has a good-size crowd. A line of taps sits to my right, and a shelf full of half-filled glass bottles sits to my left. Three bartenders are behind the wooden top, joking with customers as they fill one order after another.
“Doesn’t seem that way.”
“Bars are popular places on Friday nights. It’s a Friday night, and lucky for me, I was sitting right over there, minding my own business, when you walked in the door.” More like saw him striding across the street and then heading into the bar when I was driving home and thought it might be the perfect opportunity to hit him up again about the contest.
“Lucky you.” He lifts his beer and takes a long drink of it. There’s something about the visual that pulls on me. His profile. His lips against the rim of the bottle. The way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows.
And makes me clench my thighs.
“Mr. Talkative, huh?”
“Not when it comes to you.”
“C’mon, I’m not that bad.” He lifts an eyebrow in question but still keeps his focus straight ahead. Silence stretches between us as the chatter of the after-work crowd buzzes around us.
“Ha. I find that hard to believe.” He turns and stares at me for a beat, his eyes glancing to where my hands are clasped on the bar and then back to me. “What? Is it too blue collar in here for your white-collar hands to touch? You think it will rub off on you?”
His comment throws me for a loop and leaves me sputtering to respond. “No. I’m kind of a freak about germs. I don’t like—I’m not—it doesn’t matter,” I correct and shake my head. “I’m here to talk about—”
“The goddamn contest.”
“Yes. It’s real. I promise. We’ve had over seven hundred thousand votes come in for the first two rounds alone, and we’re hoping to double that for the next one.”
He snorts. “Great. Stellar. I don’t need your magazine or its attention. It seems you ran the contest so far without my knowledge or participation, and it’s done just fine. Keep doing what you’re doing, and we’ll both be happy.”
“You’re going to win, but only if I can get your help. All I need are a few photos of you and a short bio—anything about yourself, really. The next round of voting starts at the end of next week, and I need your help to save the magazine.” I prattle on even though he doesn’t react. “Your son is adorable. He can be in the photos, too.”
“Absolutely not.”
There’s a bite in his tone that makes the bartender glance our way and leaves me staring at him. “Then your wife. We can include her in the photos, too, if you want.”
He winces. “No wife.” Those two words come out like a curse.
“I’m sorry for assuming—”
He stands abruptly and faces me so that our bodies are inches apart. His eyes bore into mine, a combination of confusion and defiance.
“What is it you want from me, Thorton?” There’s anger in his voice I hadn’t been expecting.
It takes me a minute to find my voice, to remember I’m here to convince him to participate, when all I can concentrate on is the scent of his cologne—clean—and the heat of his body as he stands so very close to me.
Speak, Sid.
“To put water under the bridge.”
Of course, I say nothing about the contest. The reason I’m here. There’s something about him and the unfiltered intensity in his eyes amid the dim bar light that makes this quiet man seem a little edgy and a whole lot dangerous.
I swallow over the sudden lump in my throat as I wait for his response.
“Fine. The hatchet is buried.” He leans closer so that his lips are by my ear, and the warmth of his breath sends chills down my spine. “Hope it doesn’t hurt your reputation to be seen with me like it did back then. That would be a travesty.” And with that, he waltzes away from me without saying another word.
I stand there for the briefest of moments, slack-jawed and surprised by his animosity when I shouldn’t be. What I should be doing is trying to make amends, maybe say I’m sorry, secure him for the contest—and I scramble toward the exit after him.