Games of the Heart (The 'Burg #4)(37)

It had to have been terrifying.

Then again, the evidence was in his hands that it clearly was.

The description of the event was all there was. She didn’t write anything else about it. Not her feelings, not if she was coping, not if she told anyone about it. Nothing. Just the event then a lot of angst in black ink.

The last entry of the second book was a bleak, Fuck this shit. Doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Nothing ever will.

Done, Mike closed the book, bowed his head and closed his eyes.

Audrey was broken, he spent fifteen years trying to fix her and failed.

Vi, whose husband had been murdered, was also broken and he volunteered for the job but she picked another man to help her find happiness.

Denny Lowe had got Dusty against the back of high school with his hand between her legs.

His head came up, his eyes opening to stare unseeing at the blank TV.

He was not a moron. He was not a loser. He was not a psycho. He could be a dick but this occasion was rare. And he did not need a woman who was drawn to that finding out he was not that and getting quit of him when she felt the need to find that again so she could live out the bullshit Denny Lowe planted in her head that that was all she was good for.

He wanted his kids happy and well-educated. He wanted a woman in his bed who wanted to be there, who made him want to be there and who, more than occasionally, made him laugh.

He did not want more children.

He did not want to deal with a long distance relationship, missed calls, voicemails, emails and night after night of phone sex that was good but nowhere near as good as the real thing. Lives lived apart and days, weeks, months never really connecting. And at the end of all that shit, decisions could be made where he gave something time that was precious and he eventually ended up alone in his bed.

He did not want to be sitting at a Thanksgiving table next to the woman he was currently f**king and opposite a woman whose virginity he’d taken and deal with the discord that was already creating. He also didn’t want to expose his children to that shit.

He did not want a woman who had to be fixed.

Because he’d tried that twice and he’d failed once, miserably, and lost out the second time around.

Clearly this was one of those occasions where he could be a dick. But he was forty-three. He knew himself. He knew what he wanted. And he knew he did not need this shit in his life.

His decision made, his gut heavy, a sharp pain piercing through his chest, he stood.

Then suddenly and uncharacteristically his arm sliced back then cut forward and Dusty’s teenage girl journal tore through the air then thumped hard against the wall before falling to the floor.

Layla jumped up from where she was lying by his feet and barked.

Mike ignored his dog and stared at that f**king book lying on his carpet.

He was glad Denny Lowe was dead not just because he was a complete whackjob who murdered people. Because he took the Dusty everyone knew away from her family and he took Dusty away from Mike.

Twice.

“Fuck,” he whispered, lifting a hand and tearing it through his hair. “Fuck,” he repeated, continuing to stare at the book on the floor. “Fuck,” he clipped then bent, tagged the book on the couch, walked to the book across the room with Layla following and then sauntered to the stairs with Layla still following, jogged up them and hid them in one of his drawers.

Then he went back downstairs with Layla following and grabbed his gym bag.

Because one thing he did need was to go to the f**king gym.

*

Sunday evening…

“Hey,” Mike greeted in my ear after two rings went by when I called him.

“Hey,” I replied. “Everything cool? You didn’t call yesterday. I left a couple voicemails. Did you get them?”

“No, everything isn’t cool.”

His voice was weird in a way I didn’t like.

“What is it? Clarisse?” I asked.

“No, it’s not Reesee,” Mike answered.

I waited for him to share.

He didn’t speak.

“Mike, honey,” I started softly. “What is it?”

He didn’t answer for a few seconds then he asked, “You comin’ back soon?”

That made me feel better and I smiled.

“Yeah, that’s my good news for today. Got my tickets. I’m coming next weekend.”

“Right, we’ll talk then,” he said tersely and I blinked.

Then, cautiously and slowly, I asked, “Just…then?”

“Pardon?”

“I mean, between now and then we’re not talking? We’re just talking then?”

“That’s probably a good way to do it.”

I felt my chest get heavy. I knew where this was going. I’d lived this before too many times.

Even so, I whispered, “Mike, what’s wrong?”

“Face-to-face, Dusty. Text me. We’ll sort a time. The kids are gone next weekend. You can come to my house. We’ll have privacy.”

“Are you going to break up with me?” I asked and felt like an idiot. We hadn’t even been on a date. We’d had sex, conversation and some phone calls that, incidentally, included more sex but of the phone variety.

Still, there was something to break.

Or at least I thought so.

“Just…” he started then finished, “We’ll talk next weekend. Face-to-face.”