Tangled Vows (Willow Brook Falls #3)

20. Shayla

20

SHAYLA

“ D id you take your vitamins yet?” I asked my mom, handing her a mug of peppermint tea and a sleeve of saltines. She was nearly a month into her first round of chemo, and the nausea medicine they prescribed her only worked for so long. Her infusion yesterday had left her even more weak and sick than usual. Her hair had begun to fall out, and though she put on a brave front in front of us girls, I could tell it bothered her.

“I did,” she assured me with a soft smile. I was doing my best to look after her and ensure she took all her medications and supplements on time. She’d already lost weight, and I didn’t want her to become malnourished. The chemo was already so hard on her. I needed her as strong and healthy as possible. I needed her to pull through this.

My phone buzzed from the coffee table, and I looked down to see a text from Claire.

Doc: A few of us are heading to Raging Richmond after the game. Want to come with?

Me: I’m almost afraid to ask but … what is Raging Richmond?

Doc: LOL, it’s a rage room downtown. We go there every few months to blow off some steam. We have a reservation for 6:00.

That sounded rather enticing. There was plenty of rage bubbling up inside me, and the thought of turning it loose in a safe, controlled environment was more alluring than I cared to admit. Despite further appeals to my father to release my trust fund early, he still wouldn’t budge. I’d been working off all my anger in the weight room, but it wasn’t enough. I still felt it simmering beneath my skin every time I thought of his smug face or saw him around the arena.

It was tempting, taking Claire up on her offer, but I didn’t want to leave my mom. She was so weak from yesterday’s treatment, and I worried she would forget her nausea medicine if I wasn’t here to give it to her or she would get dizzy if she got up to go to the restroom. Reluctantly, I tapped out a message declining her invitation.

Me: I wish I could, but my mom had chemo yesterday, and she’s not feeling well. Maybe next time.

Claire was the only person at work who knew about Mom’s illness. Well, except for my father, but unlike my friend, he didn’t seem to care.

I’d broken down in front of Claire the day of Mom’s first treatment. Her keen doctor’s eye had recognized something was off, and it only took the slightest bit of prodding for me to open up. Once I did, there was no stopping the torrent of emotion that poured out of me.

Doc: I understand. Let me know if you need anything, even if it’s just to talk.

This made me tear up. With so little family support, I was thankful to

have someone else in my corner. My friends had all rallied around me since finding out that Mom’s cancer was back. At least one of them checked in on me daily, but I hadn’t confided in them about my worries over the financial strain this put on our family or how my father refused to help. I found that every time I thought about it, I got so angry I wanted to scream and hit something. That made turning down Claire’s offer all the more difficult. I could use an hour of just smashing shit and not being judged for it.

“What’s wrong?” My mother’s voice pulled me from my spiraling thoughts, and I looked up to see her concerned gaze studying me.

“Nothing,” I lied.

“Shayla,” she began in that knowing tone of hers.

“It’s just a friend from work,” I replied, waving her off. She saw right through me, though.

“Are you making plans for this evening?” she asked hopefully.

“I’m not going anywhere tonight. I’m going to be right here in case you need anything,” I offered sincerely, grabbing her cool, soft hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. I didn’t want to be away from her. The few times I had to leave her to travel with the team the last couple weeks had been entirely too nerve wracking. It didn’t help that things had been tense and awkward between me and Easton since the whole hot tub thing. Claire had been fishing. She could sense that something happened between us, but I never indulged her curiosity. So she thought she’d trick us into admitting something. But Easton and I never had sex. No, he kicked me out before things could get that far.

Mom sighed and offered me a sad smile.

“I love you more than anything in the world,” she began and my throat constricted as tears pricked my eyes. I didn’t know how many more times I’d get to hear her tell me she loved me, and I wanted to soak in every declaration and tender moment we shared. “But you are a twenty-five-year-old woman who has done nothing but go to school and take care of her family for the past few years. You need to go out and have fun. Life is too short.” Her voice cracked, and her eyes misted. I choked back a strangled sob as the reality of her words slammed into me. “I will be okay. You don’t need to stay here and babysit me,” she added with a watery smile. “And if I need anything, your sister will be here.”

Makenna was working on her latest fighting robot in the garage and would be around all evening. She wasn’t the type to go out and party, and the few friends she had were into the same things she was: robotics and chess.

Mom squeezed my hand. “Go,” she prodded, and I searched her eyes. I didn’t want to leave her, but her words replayed in my mind. Life is too short . She was right, and I needed to start living mine. I glanced at my watch and noted I had just enough time to shower and throw on enough makeup to hide the fact I hadn’t been sleeping well to make it there in time.

“Okay,” I relented, and a peaceful look washed over my mother’s features. I stood and leaned over, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

“Have fun.”

It would be hard knowing she was here suffering from post-chemo nausea and debilitating fatigue, but I would try. For one night, I could pretend that I was just like any other woman in her mid-twenties who wasn’t worried that her mother might only have months left to live.

Who was I kidding?

I pushed through the door at Raging Richmond, the bell above me tinkling to signal my arrival, and halted in my tracks. The sight of Easton standing at the desk had me wanting to turn and walk right back outside. Instead, I squared my shoulders and walked up to where the five men stood talking with the clerk. Claire and I were going to have words later. She’d conveniently left out the part where the players would be joining us.

“There’s a max capacity of four people per room for safety purposes, and we have two rooms left,” the guy working the front desk announced.

“I can stay back with Walker, and you three can go together,” Weiss announced, motioning to Kent, Slater, and Quinn.

“You’re just trying to get me alone, aren’t you?” Easton teased, playfully punching Weiss in the arm.

“Never mind, you’re on your own,” Weiss quipped with a chuckle.

“Hey, there’s Shayla,” Quinn announced, catching sight of me stalking toward them. Easton’s shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly, and I fought an eye roll.

“Didn’t think you were coming,” Kent said as I closed the distance between myself and the players. Easton finally turned to face me, that signature smirk turning up one side of his perfect mouth. He was about to speak, but Quinn beat him to it.

“This is perfect. Now we have three and three.” He waved his hand around the group to signal an even split between us.

“Where’s Claire?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t too late to join her group. Maybe she was using the restroom and would reappear at any moment.

No such luck.

“She's already in a room,” Weiss replied, “but you’re welcome to go in with us,” he added, motioning between himself and Easton. That was exactly what I didn’t want to happen. But I couldn’t turn down his offer without raising questions I wasn’t prepared to answer.

A woman wearing a shirt with the Raging Richmond logo appeared from a long hallway and called out, “Follow me.” Slater, Quinn, and Kent turned and fell into line behind her before any of us could protest. Kent, Weiss, and Easton were usually thick as thieves. They should’ve been going together. Now I was stuck with Easton. At least I had Weiss as a buffer.

“Your room will be ready momentarily,” the man at the desk assured us. Minutes later, the same woman returned to take us back. Just then, Weiss’s phone rang, and he pulled it from his back pocket.

“I have to take this,” he announced, pointing to his phone. “You guys go on without me.” Before I could form a rebuttal, he answered, pressing the phone to his ear as he walked away.

“Guess it’s just you and me, Hellcat,” Easton mused, and I quirked a brow.

“Hellcat?” His eyes widened as though he hadn’t meant to use the nickname out loud.

“Yeah, you’re feisty, and your claws come out when you’re challenged. It suits you.” I shot him an unimpressed glare, and he chuckled.

“Let’s get this over with,” I groused, breezing past him to follow the woman to our room. Once we were geared up and had been through the safety instructions, we stepped into the room. A rack of weapons lined one wall with baseball bats, crow bars, sledgehammers, and lead pipes hanging from a peg board.

Easton let out a low whistle. “I’m not sure I want to be in here with you and all these potential murder weapons.

“Guess you’d better be nice to me then,” I said with a syrupy sweet tone and big, wide smile before walking to the wall and selecting my weapon of choice.

“Whoa,” I groaned, heaving the sledgehammer over my shoulder. “This thing is heavy!”

“Sure you can handle something that big?”

“Don’t worry.” I smirked, gripping the handle. “I’m used to handling big tools. Are you?” I challenged, letting my gaze flick skeptically down his body. His very hard, carved-from-stone body.

Arousal flashed in his eyes momentarily, but it was gone in an instant. Did I imagine that? He stepped up to me, and I lifted my chin defiantly, refusing to cower in his presence.

“If you want to handle my tool, all you have to do is ask, but you’re going to need both hands.”

I sucked in a breath, my eyes widening briefly at his bold statement. It was crass and presumptuous, but still, my belly did a little flip. I’d thought about handling his, ahem, tool several times after he had it pressed against my stomach that night we'd met. Judging by the feel of it, he was right. I would need both hands. It had been so thick and long, and even without seeing it, I knew it was bigger than any I’d had before.

A rush of dampness settled between my thighs, and I pressed them together, willing away the hollow need. It begged to be filled, but I wouldn’t let my libido take control, despite my lack of recent action. It had simply been too long. It didn’t have anything to do with the insufferable six-foot-five hockey god standing before me. Turning away so he couldn’t see the flush spreading over my cheeks, I surveyed the room.

“Where do we start?” I asked.

“Wherever we want,” he replied, and I tried to ignore the huskiness in his voice.

I tentatively crossed the room to a table lined with old Coke bottles and glass jars. Lifting the sledgehammer just past my shoulder, I brought it down in a pathetic attempt to smash the bottles. Instead of shattering, they skittered across the tabletop, one falling to the floor and breaking apart. I frowned and tightened my grip on the handle.

“Well, that was anticlimactic.”

“You’re holding it too close to the head,” Easton announced, the statement dripping with innuendo. I whipped around, pinning him with a glare. Fighting back a grin, he sauntered toward me and grabbed ahold of the handle, curling his hands around mine. I nearly jumped at the contact as electric heat sparked between us. He paused, then cleared his throat as though he felt it too.

“Here, slide your hand down lower,” he instructed. My breath hitched as his other arm came around me, cocooning my body as he gripped the wood. He guided my hands to what I assumed was the proper position, and I ignored the way his chest brushed against my back with every breath he took. “You’re not trying to tap it on the glass. You want to swing it,” he said, going through the motion with me. More of his front molded against my backside with the movement, and I had to bite back a groan. This was all too reminiscent of the weight room. There was no way he enjoyed the contact as much as I did, and I wasn’t about to embarrass myself.

Stepping back, he gave me space to take a swing. I did so tentatively, missing the bottle on my first try and denting the worn wood of the table. It was distressed from where it had probably taken hundreds of beating. I took another swing, this time with more force and precision, connecting with the glass and shattering it to pieces.

“There you go,” Easton offered in encouragement. I did it again, this time with a little more confidence. Now that I was getting the hang of it, Easton moved to the table next to me, preparing to smash an old printer.

“Wow, this is actually kind of relaxing,” I mused, moving back to the wall and grabbing a baseball bat. Although hitting something with a sledgehammer came with a thrilling sort of satisfaction, my arms were already starting to get tired.

Satisfied with my newly mastered technique, Easton took a swing at the printer, and a loud crack echoed throughout the room. I rounded on an old VCR, bringing the bat above my head and smashing down into the hard plastic. It gave way, breaking completely in half after a few more strikes.

“I didn’t realize this would feel so cathartic,” I admitted, blowing a rogue strand of hair out of my face. “I never realized how much I just needed to hit something.” The heavy weight of that truth settled on my shoulders and I gulped back the sudden rush of emotion clogging my throat.

Since the moment Mom told me about her cancer diagnosis, anger started to swell inside me. Anger that the cancer came back and could very well steal her from me. Anger that she would have to suffer through treatment again. And later, anger that my selfish prick of a father refused to do anything to help her. All of that simmering rage rose to the surface as I thought about the injustice of it all.

Pinching my eyes closed, I heaved a deep breath to center myself. I would not cry in here in front of Easton Walker, not even angry tears.

Easton had gone perfectly still, but I ignored the heat of his gaze on the side of my face. I’d momentarily dropped the facade I usually kept firmly in place around him and let my vulnerability slip through.

Needing space, I moved further into the room and found a stack of plates. I brought the bat down on top of them. Fissures spread throughout the one on top, but they didn’t break. My lips turned down in a frown, and my brows pulled together. I brought the bat down again, this time breaking the top plate in half. The others proved more difficult, and I growled in frustration. These damn plates refused to crack, denying me the satisfaction of feeling them shatter beneath my blows. Just like my father denied me the satisfaction of knowing I could pay for my mother’s cancer treatment. Tension knotted in my shoulders, and I rolled my neck to relieve it. It didn’t work.

“Just fucking break already,” I muttered, flexing my fingers before curling them around the handle. Lifting the bat, I brought it down again, basking in the vibration that traveled up my arms from the impact. It was the good kind of hurt that distracted you from the pain in your soul. Swinging it down on the plates again and again, my face flushed with exertion. They shattered, chunks of porcelain breaking into smaller pieces.

That was when I felt them. Tears welled in my eyes, spilling over to track down my cheeks. My chest heaved with every ragged breath I took, and a sob broke loose as I pulverized the plates into dust. I moved to the next table and took out years of frustration and anger with each swing of my bat until I couldn’t raise my arms any longer. My legs crumpled beneath me, and I collapsed, my body spent and my tear-soaked face twisted in anguish. Before my knees could hit the floor, strong hands caught me, and a hard chest pressed against my cheek. I clung to him shamelessly, not caring that it was the one person to whom I never wanted to show any weakness.