Chapter 22
DOWN AND OUT (HOLDEN)
When she doesn’t come to my bed that night, I’m not surprised.
Just frustrated as hell.
I put myself in a doghouse built from my own damn blueprint. I roll over and punch the pillow.
The house hums with silence. I think I can hear her breathing in the other room.
After too many nights next to her, I’ve memorized the sound. Not having it with me feels like I’m missing a blanket.
In through the nose, out through the mouth, slow and deep and sweet.
Sometimes she murmurs when she rolls over, releasing this soft sigh of contentment before she snuggles up to me.
I can count my drumming heartbeats between breaths.
Barely a few weeks and I’m a fucking addict, suffering withdrawals. But I deserve this.
I’m the reason we’re in two separate rooms.
What woman would’ve reacted differently after the guy she’s fucking called her a complication and tried to let her down easy?
Fool. My body doesn’t care, though. It just despises what my traitor conscience took away.
The cold spot on her side of the bed.
The void where her breath should be on my face.
No hair getting in my mouth.
No lithe little body pressed against mine.
No sleepy kisses.
No divinely sculpted hips sliding into my hands, begging to be claimed with a hungry grip.
Worse, before I crashed, I did a background check on the museum and its curator and turned up nothing questionable.
No shady connections. No past arrests, no encounters with law enforcement, no corruption.
They’re a smaller operation, yeah, but clean and secure.
If we can deliver the Hera Egg quickly, it won’t be our problem anymore.
That should be a relief.
A chance for life to revert back to what it used to be.
Instead, it pisses me off.
Kit’s going to miss having Cleo around—and so will I.
Because there’s no way she’ll go anything but no-contact once she walks out. After she gets her first payment and the freedom to fly back to Boston and leave behind bad memories here that should’ve ended the day Leonidas died.
Especially after she begged me to say it.
Stay.
And I didn’t.
I couldn’t.
No one’s going to target her when she doesn’t have the egg anymore. That’s not how this works and I can wash my hands of this mess.
No more danger, and nothing holding back my severance pay.
No more excuses for keeping her around, screwing her up.
Fuck, man, I hate it.
It’s coming too fast. There won’t even be time to figure out how I’m supposed to split on better terms, how to swallow my pride and apologize.
I roll over, kicking at the sheets that twist around my leg.
I’m too old for this shit.
I’m supposed to be past this.
After Charli, I swore I’d never get tangled up in anyone’s emotional bullshit again.
Yet here I am. Tossing and turning like a man turned inside out.
It tears me up, her leaving without fixing what went wrong. I’m asking for a way out of the unfixable.
Nothing outshines the infinite reasons why we can’t work.
Hurting her like this feels cruel but necessary.
We had to pull back before crash-landing.
Clee, she’s so young. She has so much life to figure out. So much future.
Why the hell would she ever settle for a man she’ll regret?
A man who hasn’t stopped wrestling with demons since the day the mother of his child walked out?
I must have a type, and they’re always trouble.
Cleo Blackthorn was just a different kind, plain and clear and devastating.
Why should I let Kit get her hopes up that we’ll ever be more than a two-person family?
I roll over again, snarling and staring at the empty space where she used to lie. I must be kidding myself about hearing her breathing.
No, just the wind and the house settling. A branch I need to get trimmed scraping underneath the window.
And unlike Charli, she isn’t all trouble, and that’s the entire fucking problem.
The next few days are grim.
We do our final checks. She talks through her tentative deal with the museum.
We get everything prepped and ready for the official move to the big city. We avoid face-eating emotions.
Cleo stays busy on the phone or hunkered over her laptop, idly painting with Kit in the evenings. Clearly trying to take her mind off stress.
I make my own arrangements and dig deeper into Black Talon. There’s no sign they have any organized presence in the US, but that didn’t stop them before.
No guarantee Fairfax won’t find out what we’re up to either. I want to be as certain as possible that even if he does figure it out, there’ll be no way he can get to her.
The whole time, Cleo barely speaks to me unless it’s straight business.
I get it. I really do, and in many ways it’s the most painless option.
Doesn’t stop that stabbing sensation in my chest or the longing looks at a woman who means the end too soon.
I’ve become a softie before I’m forty and it’s fucking disgusting.
“Dad.” Kit pushes past me to peel an orange while I’m cooking. I’ve spent more time breaking out elaborate old favorites the past two days.
Fried chicken with au gratin potatoes drenched in cream. Lobster étouffée. Shepherd’s pie with lamb braised to perfection.
Helps me clear my head and shut the guilt up in my gut for five whole minutes. If I’m destined to piss off everyone in this household, at least I’ll send them away well-fed.
“You packed?” I ask her.
“Yeahhh.” She pouts. “Do I have to go?”
“Yes, Kit. No whining about this. We already had that conversation.”
“But what about the egg?”
“What about it?”
“I should get one more look before it’s gone for good. Just a quick one? I just wanna see it one more time before it’s stuffed behind glass forever.”
“You had your look. We’re not pulling it out again,” I say firmly. “And don’t ask to go to New York. It’s no place for you.”
Her pout could turn July into January.
With Cleo’s permission, I let Kit have her final look yesterday. Just once.
Kit spent ten solid minutes staring at that thing, mesmerized by its glitter and vibrant colors. Me, I’ll be glad if I never lay eyes on that cursed motherfucker again.
Cleo walks into the kitchen then, her sketch pad tucked under her arm, and sniffs. “Smells good in here.”
“Cleo!” Kit twists and offers her an orange slice. “Please tell Dad I can go to New York with you guys.”
Cleo hmms as she accepts the fruit and pops it into her mouth. I don’t have to glance at her to know she hasn’t looked at me once.
“Why does he say you can’t go?”
“Because it’s too ‘dangerous’ or something. Whatevs.” She tosses her head back with a haughty look.
She folds her arms and scowls at me like Cleo’s been giving her lessons.
I turn around, my back against the counter, just in time to see Cleo’s face tighten.
You could cut the atmosphere in here with a knife.
Kit’s caught me a couple times and asked what’s wrong. Don’t even know how to go there, so I don’t.
Clee wanted more, and I settled for less.
What else is there to say? That’s the long and short and ugly. TMI for a little girl.
I saved us all by shooting her down, but I know she doesn’t see it that way—and damn, the longer this awkward song and dance continues, the harder I second-guess.
Fuck that.
Even the way she stands around me says she’s fuming. Or hurt.
All straight, long legs and a stiff back. Her jaw pointed, head up.
A damnable reminder how easy it would be to reclaim her lips if I truly had a death wish.
Even when she’s hard, she’s still soft.
It kills me.
I curl my fingers into fists and will myself back to sanity.
“Tell you what, Kit,” I say, trying to breathe in this funeral atmosphere. “I’ll let you say goodbye to the egg one more time before you head out. How’s that?” I look at Cleo. She finally glances at me, her eyes iced over. “Assuming you’re cool with that?”
She shrugs and looks away, tucking a strand of hair back behind Kit’s ear. The casual affection between them twists the knife buried in my guts.
“Why would I mind? Lots of strangers will be ogling our little treasure soon. Let her have her moment.”
“You rock! Thank you so much.” Kit does a little spin that makes her imbalanced. She catches herself against the counter and grins sheepishly. “So, um, how ’bout now, guys?”
“After dinner,” I growl.
She groans, totally exasperated. “But dinner takes forever lately.”
“Good food takes time. Again, are you packed yet?”
She scowls and stuffs the rest of the orange in her mouth so she doesn’t have to answer.
“That’s what I thought, little procrastinator,” I say. “Go finish, then maybe Cleo can take you to see the egg when you’re done. Only when you’re done.”
“Fiiine.”
With another eye roll that’s wicked beyond her years, they’re gone, leaving me alone.
It’ll be good for them to spend some time together before this circus ends. Let them both down easy because I can’t do it alone.
I’m not looking forward to the shock, the fallout with my daughter, even if it’s for the best.
If I grit my teeth and keep telling myself that, maybe one day I’ll believe it.
By the time I’ve put the finishing touches on the best beef stew known to man that’s been simmering for hours, they clatter back into the kitchen, talking about the egg and guessing which big-shot VIPs will rush to the museum to see it.
I don’t intrude. I don’t want to ruin one more thing for the bright young woman who’s learned to hate me again.
So I just listen in with my back turned.
I make peace with the two girls I care about most becoming allergic to my reckless ass very soon.
I serve up each heaping bowl with a scoop of rice. I mutter something about how I’ll eat later and start on wiping down the kitchen while they carry on their happy conversation.
“Did you finish packing?” I ask once they’re done and I pick up their plates.
“Yes, Dad. Gah. My bag’s in the hall.” Kit rolls her eyes.
“Pajamas? Underwear? New books, minus the one we talked about?”
“Yeah! Jeez, you’re embarrassing.”
“And I decide if you’re old enough for Into the Wild. Won’t have my daughter running off into the wilderness to starve before she can even drive,” I grumble.