Hold On (The 'Burg #6)(62)

I made drinks, notes on tabs, pocketing tips on those who paid outright and didn’t open a tab.

Done with that, I glanced down at Colt and Sully. Feb was standing with them but twisted, her eyes on me.

She smiled a soft smile.

She’d noted Merry hadn’t come in too.

I returned a cocky grin.

She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t act on that.

At that moment, Ruthie bellied up to the bar with an order.

I moved her way.

* * * * *

Early Tuesday Morning

It was four o’clock in the morning. Mom was snoring on the couch. Ethan was sleeping in his bed. I was in my bed, the room dark, my phone illuminated.

I f*cked us up, I typed into Merry’s text string.

I deleted it.

I f*cked us up, I typed again, my eyes beginning to burn.

I deleted it again.

I miss you¸ I didn’t tell him, typing it with no intention of sending it.

I backspaced through it.

I f*cked us up, baby, and I’m so f*cking sorry.

I didn’t hit send, but I also didn’t erase it.

Like it could just exist and he’d somehow get it without me giving it to him, I left it there, closed down my phone, tossed it on the nightstand, turned to my side, closed my blazing eyes, and did not sleep.

* * * * *

Garrett

Tuesday Night

Getting home after work, Garrett sifted through his mail at the kitchen bar, wondering how the f*ck he got so many catalogs when he’d never bought a thing from a catalog in his life, and in the same time, he’d never made an online purchase.

Bills. Credit card applications. Life insurance offers.

And there it was.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, staring at the handwriting.

Solely out of curiosity, he opened the envelope.

Upending it, an eight-by-ten color glossy slid out on his bar, face up. Stuck on it was a bright pink Post-it note in the shape of a heart.

It read, I messed this up. I didn’t work for it. I’m going to work for it, baby.

He read the note and looked at the picture.

In it, he was sitting on a barstool in Vegas. Mia was in a clingy dress he’d liked a f*ckuva lot, standing next to him, hanging on him. She didn’t have to hang; he had his arm around her, holding her close.

On the bar was a three hundred dollar bottle of champagne. They were both holding filled flutes. They’d splurged because he’d just won seven thousand dollars at the craps table.

They’d taken a few sips before Mia had asked someone passing by to take that picture.

Then they took the champagne to the reception desk and did what they did. Not planning for a future, living in the now, doing it wild to pack in as much as they could, they blew almost all his winnings, got upgraded to a suite, and made short work of moving rooms.

The rest of the time they were in Vegas, three days, they didn’t leave that suite. They got room service if they needed to eat. But if they weren’t eating or sleeping, they were f*cking, whispering, or laughing.

He’d never been happier.

And that was when it began. He felt it. He felt it their last night in Vegas when he laid on his back in the bed in that suite with his naked wife curled sleeping at his side.

He’d felt the fear.

They’d been three years in their marriage—three good, strong, solid years—and the minute they stepped foot off that plane onto Indiana soil, he’d started pulling away.

She’d let him. She hadn’t fought it once. She’d been confused. Scared. Hurt. She’d let that show. It had killed him, seeing that, seeing what he was doing to her, but he didn’t quit doing it. He didn’t once cease in his efforts at driving her away.

And in those three years she hadn’t once asked him what was in his head. What was making him drive a wedge between them. What was pushing him to kill their happy.

She hadn’t even begun to put up a fight.

Eight years later, she decided to put up a fight.

Staring at that picture, all they had, all they were, all he’d wanted, all that had f*cked with his head, all the harm he’d done to her, all the pain he’d caused surfaced and he gave it a second of his time.

Eight years.

Then Cher’s bravery, smashing through that fortress she had every reason to build around herself to wake up that morning and look at him the way she did, touch him the way she did, brush her lips against his throat, take his mouth, moved all thought of Mia aside.

Cher’d had it tough in a way that even in twenty years on the force he hadn’t seen anyone f*cked by life as much as her.

But it hadn’t even taken her a week to break through the walls she’d built to guard her heart to start letting him in. It got f*cked up, but she’d still done it.

Not eight years.

Not even a week.

That was all Merry needed.

He picked up the picture, tore it in half, in quarters, in eighths, then toed his trash bin and tossed it inside.

After that, he went to his fridge to get a beer before he went to his couch and turned on the TV.

It was Tuesday.

Tomorrow was Wednesday.

Which meant it had been a week.

Cher’s time was up.

* * * * *

Ethan

Wednesday Morning

His mom’s phone beeped.

He went to it and saw the text from his gramma telling them they needed to figure out a time to have a family dinner.