45. It never stops
Chapter 45
It never stops
TOMER
H undreds of times, I envisioned how this would play out. Never once did I think it could end with Lettie metaphorically throat-punching her way into Redleg like she was Chuck Norris’s offspring instead of Big Al’s.
My vision was equally disastrous, though far less theatrical.
The large audience on hand to bear witness to my most spectacular fuck-up was an extra special touch. On the bright side, at least there’ll be lots of witnesses to my murder.
Idly, I wonder if Big Al could kill me without touching me or using a weapon. If it were possible, the glare he’s flaying me with would likely accomplish such a feat.
Unfortunately, finding out will have to wait. The love of my life is getting sick behind me, so I turn away from the harsh judgment of the first person who ever saw me as more than a piece of garbage or a tool to be used. On my way out of the conference room, I gently brush past Madeline. She stands frozen in the doorway, her gaping mouth partially covered by her balled-up fist.
Crouching beside Lettie, I place one hand on her back and swoop up her hair with the other. Tears stream down her cheeks. Through rough heaves, she flicks her head in my direction and grumbles something sounding a lot like fuck off . She should know better than to think I’d ever leave her side when she’s suffering.
“Peggy, would you get her some water, please?” I toss over my shoulder, continuing to comfort my girl.
Lettie moans painfully, shaking her head no, then hurls another portion of her breakfast into the wastebasket.
Damn . I realize my error almost instantly and amend my request. “Could you bring the water in an unopened bottle?”
“Got it,” she answers, disappearing down the hall toward the break room. She returns a few seconds later, passing me the bottle. I set it on the floor without opening it. Once Lettie’s done with this latest round of heaves, I’ll give it to her.
When her stomach finally gives her a reprieve, she rasps, “Tissue, please?”
Reacting automatically, I rub her shoulder tenderly and utter, “Those damn manners.”
She lets a single chuckle escape before it’s quickly replaced with sniffles and a pained sob that renews her crying. Her tears cascade into the trash can.
I despise myself for hurting her.
Scanning the area, I spot a box of tissues on Peggy’s desk. Cort sees them at the same time, his legs already moving him in that direction. He passes them to me without speaking, then backs away.
Tugging several from the box, I pass Lettie a handful and keep some for myself. Gently, I dab at the sides of her eyes while she dries her nose and wipes her mouth.
“Thank you,” she mumbles, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.
The silence fills the office, mingling with the sound of her hitching breaths and gasps.
I glance around the room, noticing we have an audience. No one can turn away from a train wreck—the situation, not Lettie.
Losing my patience, I snap, “Guys, can you fuck off and give her some privacy?”
All the onlookers respond instantly, backing away and tipping their heads at me in a silent apology. Except one person.
I’d have expected it to be Big Al who’d refuse to leave. Perhaps Mia or Peggy, aiming to offer assistance or comfort.
Nope.
Even Amber and Cort have vanished.
Madeline Mason stands resolute behind us, her features softened with a motherly compassion. Our eyes meet only briefly before shame and regret force my gaze to the floor.
Sweet woman was shot last night. According to the rumbles I overheard, she also went through a PTSD blackout. And now this drama lands at her feet.
I have no idea when she appeared in the conference room doorway. Judging by her posture at the door when I left, she caught the highlights.
Despite wanting privacy, I don’t send Madeline away. Her presence is soothing.
Lettie plops backward, her butt hitting the floor as she shifts her weight off her knees and moves her legs in front of her. With another wad of tissues, she wipes her face. For the moment, it seems she’s got her body back under control.
She tosses all the used tissues in the trashcan, pushing it away. “Wow. Good job, Lettie.” She clicks her tongue, then peers up at me from under a wave of her blond hair that’s fallen to shield the side of her face. “Was that everything you thought it would be?”
I offer her the water. “I could ask the same of you.”
She studies the offered bottle, her eyes narrowing to slits and lips pursing. “Will you open it for me, please?”
Odd.
In all the interactions I’ve seen since she left me, she’s had to open her drinks herself. And since going into the shelter, her meals and snacks too.
Nonetheless, I’d never deny her anything, let alone such a simple request. Holding the bottle where she can see it, I twist the lid to break the seal and offer it to her.
She takes it. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, sugar bear.”
Right before she lifts the bottle to her lips, she closes her eyes and shakes her head. Barely audible, she whispers, “ Of course I can drink it from him.”
I watch as she swallows it down, noting the bob in her throat, remembering all the times I kissed her there. How I’d linger my lips at her pulse point while getting lost inside her body and letting her love surround me.
Madeline takes a few steps around us, bringing herself in view of Lettie. “Can I get you something, dear? Crackers? Ginger ale? A blanket, maybe? Want me to take you to the restroom? Pretty sure I have some mouthwash in my purse in Alan’s office.”
Ah. That’s why she stayed. To offer the comfort that only a woman can.
She nods slowly. “Bathroom and mouthwash would be good. Thanks.”
Putting my feet beneath me, I take a deep breath and extend my hand to her. “I’ll help you up.”
The tentative way she slips her hand into mine crushes me from the inside out. She doesn’t want to touch me.
I must disgust her.
When I help her rise, her gaze stays downcast, but she doesn’t turn her body from me right away. Nor does she release my hand. Unless I’m hallucinating it, she pulses her delicate fingers around mine.
Probably only my imagination.
And then her eyes finally journey up my chest and land on my face. In that moment, I know undoubtedly the hand squeeze was not my imagination.
I can see it. It’s not gone. Not entirely.
Some remains.
Hidden behind her glassy eyes is love .
For me.
I recognize it so clearly since she’s the only woman to ever look at me that way.
“Lettie,” I whisper, trailing my free hand over her cheek and tucking her hair behind her ear. “It doesn’t.”
Subtly shaking her head, she asks, “What doesn’t?”
“It never stops being enough.”
Her expression pinches. “What are you talking about?”
“Love. It never stops being enough. Not one like ours.”
The adorable vertical lines between her brows slowly fade as she realizes what I’m talking about—the text she sent me a few nights ago. The one that prevented me from killing Skidmark because I’ll never stop striving to be a man worthy of her love.
At what point does love stop being enough?
Gently, her eyes close, her wet lashes batting. With another pulse of my hand, she releases it, letting it fall to my side.
I stand there silently, watching her leave. Madeline takes her under her arm, the one not in a sling, and they drift down the hall.
I’m left alone, physically. However, a feeling I’ve never trusted stays with me.
Hope.