Walk Through Fire

  He’d fucked up, the stunt he pulled at Wild Bill’s field and everything after, the penance he made her pay for a sin she never committed.

  But he’d fix it.

  Then it was his turn.

  Finally, fucking finally.

  It was his turn to give her everything.

  Twenty years ago…

  Logan stood in his and Millie’s bathroom, the little pink, flat, round case in his hand.

  It was opened.

  It was empty.

  He knew her cycle so he knew that wasn’t right.

  She was close to graduating.

  His girl worked for it. She worked her ass off for it. She worked to get it, to give it to him, and she’d succeeded.

  Three years and she was going to graduate.

  And he knew by the empty pill case in his hand that she didn’t fuck around getting her degree, she wasn’t going to fuck around about other stuff that was even more important.

  He grinned down at that pill case, remembering their conversation from a week before.

  “You want it to be a surprise?” she’d asked.

  “Want what to be a surprise?” he’d asked back.

  She was on him, naked in their bed, and she pulled herself up so they were face to face.

  “When I get pregnant,” she whispered, and he felt his gut get warm, so fucking warm it felt like mush at the thought of his Millie with his baby growing inside her. “Do you want to plan for it or do you want it to come as a surprise?”

  He slid a hand up her back and into her hair. “What you want, beautiful?”

  “A surprise,” she whispered.

  “Then that’s what we’ll have.”

  She grinned a happy, triumphant grin and he knew then what he knew standing in the bathroom a week later.

  His Millie did not fuck around.

  He flipped the case closed and tossed it back into the medicine cabinet.

  Then Logan moved out of the bathroom in order to find his woman and aid her in her efforts of not fucking around.

  But he intended to do it by fucking around a lot.

  He was going to enjoy this. He knew it from a shitload of practice they’d already had.

  He was also going to enjoy watching her grow heavy with his kid. He was going to enjoy helping her fill their home with babies. He was going to enjoy being at her side watching them grow up.

  And she was going to be a fucking brilliant mom. She had a good one. Her sister was the shit. Her father was solid. She was the best woman a man could find.

  She’d kick motherhood’s ass.

  He found her in the kitchen cooking.

  He fucked her on the floor.

  Dinner was ruined.

  Neither cared. They just hopped on his bike and went out for food.

  Logan never mentioned he saw she’d dumped her pills.

  Then, for six months, he watched her try to hide the slowly increasing changes in her manner, to shield him from the worry that he sometimes caught leaking into her eyes as all else remained the same.

  Including them fucking like rabbits anytime they could and his girl never coming up pregnant.

  He did it not knowing that he’d live for twenty years before he found out she fed him bullshit as to what all that meant.

  He did it not knowing, through all that, he should have mentioned those fucking pills.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hole in My Soul

  Millie

  I OPENED MY eyes feeling disoriented and not knowing where I was.

  But I smelled bacon.

  I shoved up a bit and saw I was in my bedroom.

  I’d come home.

  Right, I’d come home.

  But what was with the bacon?

  Suddenly, it hit me like I was at the bottom of an avalanche, covering me, smothering me, and in a flurry, I threw back the covers and launched myself out of bed.

  I stood there and looked down at myself.

  I was in the clothes I’d worn to travel. No boots. No jacket.

  I looked around.

  My room had been tidied.

  However, the last thing I remembered, I was fading away in Logan’s arms in Logan’s bed at Chaos.

  How did I get here?

  On that thought I spied a beat-up black leather bag on my chaise, gaping open, clothes hanging out, some in puddles on the floor.

  Cautiously, I moved to the bag.

  I pawed through the clothes. Heathered gray thermal Henley. Faded black thermal Henley. Midnight blue thermal Henley. Two pairs of exceptionally faded jeans. A belt. Black socks. Black boxer briefs.

  Slowly, I turned my head to look down the hall.

  It was empty.

  But the bacon smell was assailing me.

  Without thought, my stocking feet took me in that direction, soundless against the wood floors.

  I made it to the end of the hall and stopped, peeking around the corner.

  And there I saw Logan moving around my kitchen, hair wet and slicked back, unshaven.

  What on earth was he doing here?

  No.

  Unh-unh.

  I didn’t care.

  Not right then.

  He wanted to be in my house cooking bacon after the extreme of the day before?

  Whatever.

  One thing I’d learned the past few weeks, I needed to look after me.

  And what I needed was to get out of these clothes. I needed a shower. Both of these things would make me feel tons better and (maybe) able to face whatever Logan had in store for me next.

  Bacon, of course, the universal cure-all, would probably do that even better.

  However, since Logan was cooking it, I wasn’t going there.

  I retraced my steps and locked myself in my bathroom.

  Or, more aptly, I locked Logan out of it.

  There I saw on the double sink vanity (at the sink I didn’t use) a can of Barbasol (though why he had that and put it in the bathroom since he clearly didn’t use it, I did not know). Ditto these thoughts on the opened pack of razors and the electric shaver. There was also a comb.

  And as I approached the shower, I saw a bottle of shampoo that wasn’t mine and a bar of green veined soap.

  Who used bars of soap anymore?

  I knew who.

  Bikers.

  Fabulous.

  It appeared Logan had moved in.

  I decided for my own peace of mind, considering how fuzzy that mind was and how unable I was to use it at that current juncture, to ignore that too.

  I kept ignoring things when I saw that Logan had thoughtfully brought all my luggage from the back door and set it in the walk-in closet in the bathroom.

  I busted open my luggage, dug out what I needed, made a decision that was based on what was happening with my head and the strange, nagging but not alarming nausea I was feeling, and selected my apparel for the day.

  I then took a long, hot shower, shampooed, conditioned, exfoliated (face and body), shaved, and got out to towel off, lotion, gunk up my hair, tone and moisturize my face, then put on my undies and pajamas. The pj’s were a soft gray-green, no lace, long tight sleeves, a fair amount of chest (if not cleavage) bared, and lounge-y, loose-fitting pants.

  Unfortunately, through this, I learned that the healing powers of a shower didn’t extend to jet lag.

  In other words, it was time to crash again, snooze away the fuzziness in my head, the weird feeling in my belly, and wake up, hopefully to Logan having consumed his bacon and being the hell out of my house.

  I unlocked the door, opened it, and stopped dead.

  This was because Logan was standing there, arm up high, hand to the jamb, leaning his weight into it. His ankles were crossed, his other hand was fisted and to his hip, and, until I opened the door, his head was bent to contemplate his socks.

  But when I opened the door, his eyes came to mine.

  They were warm. They were concerned.

  They were Logan.

 
“Hey, baby,” he said softly.

  I thought I was dead inside.

  Gone.

  Faded away.

  So how could he keep killing me?

  I didn’t respond to him. I skirted him and went directly to the bed.

  I climbed in, pulled the covers up to my ears, and closed my eyes.

  He wasn’t there.

  This wasn’t happening.

  Yesterday didn’t happen.

  I was experiencing a very weird, long, crazy dream.

  The bed moved and I knew he’d sat on it.

  Shit.

  He was there.

  I gritted my teeth and fought back screaming in frustration.

  “You still tired?” he asked.

  “Go away,” I answered.

  He said nothing to that but the bed moved again as he shifted to pull the covers down to my shoulder; then he locked them in place when he leaned over me, putting his weight into the covers by my chest.

  “Think it’s best you’re awake when it’s day here, Millie. You need to get used to bein’ back on Denver time. And you gotta get some food in you.”

  I needed to get used to being back on Denver time?

  How did he know I wasn’t on Denver time?

  I didn’t ask that because I didn’t care about his answer (I told myself).

  “I’ll do all that when you go away,” I audibly told the insides of my eyelids.

  “Not goin’ away, beautiful,” he said gently.

  Why?

  Then again, these days, why did Logan do anything?

  “Of course not,” I sighed.

  “Sit up,” he ordered. “I’ll bring you some food.”

  Weirdly, even though I felt kind of queasy, I also felt hungry.

  And there obviously was bacon.

  That decided it.

  I pushed back, avoiding his body that was sitting on the bed behind me, and sat up.

  “Be right back,” he muttered.

  I didn’t say anything. I arranged the covers precisely folded over my lap.

  It took him longer to get back to me with food than it did for me to arrange the covers but at least in that time I was able to come up with a strategy.

  I was tired. I was nauseous. I was jet-lagged. I’d had a massive drama the day before. I had a lot of reasons to be quiet that he’d likely get and therefore not question and thus I’d eat. Then, if I didn’t actually pass out, I’d pretend to pass out.

  While I was pretending (or actually unconscious), I’d hope Logan would go away.

  If he didn’t, I’d use that time to come up with a strategy to make him go away.

  With this plan in place, I felt better when he got back, carrying a plate in one hand, a coffee mug in the other.

  No tray.

  “You didn’t bring a tray,” I blurted.

  He was eyes to me as he walked my way and he didn’t falter a single step when he asked, “A tray?”

  “If I have breakfast in bed, it should be on a tray.”

  He stopped by the side of the bed and stared down at me.

  God, he was tall.

  And his shoulders were really broad.

  And he’d made the perfect winter fashion selection, even if it was singular with the only variety being color and the nuance of fade to his jeans. Snug-fitting thermal Henleys were perfect on him. Including the wine-colored one he was currently wearing.

  “Never brought breakfast to anyone in bed, didn’t know the protocol,” he muttered.

  My eyes went from his thermal at his chest to his face to see his lips curved up.

  That was perfect too.

  “I could get bacon grease on my sheets,” I informed him haughtily.

  “They’ll wash,” he returned, bending to put my coffee cup on my nightstand (without a coaster!) at the same time offering me a plate that had four slices of bacon, a huge pile of fluffy eggs, and two slices of bread liberally slathered with butter and grape jelly.

  More disasters waiting to happen to my sheets.

  I took it from him automatically, telling him, “Bacon grease isn’t easy to get out. And what if it gets on the duvet cover? That could be cataclysmic.”

  He raised his brows.

  Also perfect.

  Why oh why when it felt like I was fading away I… just… didn’t?

  “Grease on your sheets is cataclysmic?” he asked.

  “Have you ever tried to get grease out of anything?” I asked back.

  His lips curved up again on his, “No.”

  “Then you don’t understand. Further, this bed set is seasons old. And it’s perfect. If something happened, I’d never be able to replace it.”

  “Fuck, you’re right,” he stated. “That is cataclysmic.”

  I felt my chest depress.

  He was being sweet, gentle, thoughtful, and teasing.

  In other words, speaking to him was totally fucking with my strategy of eating then fake–passing out and coming up with a new strategy to get him gone.

  So I had to stop speaking to him.

  I moved and set my plate on the nightstand so I could get out of the bed and I did it mumbling, “I’ll eat in the kitchen.”

  A hand landed firm on my shoulder, pressing in, and I tipped my head back.

  When I caught his eyes, he said, “I’ll get the fuckin’ tray. Where is it?”

  Logan was going to get me a tray.

  I stared up at him.

  Apparently I did this too long because he straightened and turned, saying, “Whatever. I’ll find it.”

  Then he walked out of my room.

  Something came to me the instant he disappeared and I yelled, “Bring a coaster! They’re in the drawers of the coffee table in the living room!”

  I heard a faraway, “Jesus,” then nothing.

  It was then I had thoughts of climbing out the window.

  I was in jammies, had wet hair, and my mind wasn’t all there, likely for more reasons than just that I was jet-lagged, so I didn’t think being in my jammies with wet hair on the run in the cold would be a good idea.

  So instead, I reached for my coffee and sipped it.

  After that, I stared at the breakfast and hoped he didn’t dawdle. It looked delicious and food like that was a lot more delicious when it was warm.

  I didn’t think about the fact that he cooked it.

  When we were together, Logan cooked, but not much. This was because I loved cooking and he loved letting me do what I loved. But part of loving it was doing something for my man, doing my bit to take care of him.

  When he cooked, it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t great, though by the end he was really getting good at the grill and he could make any kind of potato fabulous.

  He’d obviously gotten better, at least at eggs.

  He came back with a tray that I’d bought with the idea of putting out hors d’oeuvres and serving fabulous cocktails on it during the parties that I eventually never gave.

  It appeared there was more food on it, definitely another mug of coffee.

  He came right to me, plopped the tray on my lap, took a coaster from it, and tossed it on my nightstand, then grabbed the plate of food and mug of coffee off it and moved away.

  I watched apprehensively as he rounded the bed and put his coffee mug (not on a coaster) on my other nightstand. Then he climbed in bed with me, settled back to the headboard, legs stretched out, stocking feet crossed at the ankles, and he forked up some eggs.

  I sat motionless, staring at him eating in my bed.

  With me.

  What was going on?

  With mouth still full, he turned to me and asked, “Hand me the other coaster, would you, babe?”

  My brain having stopped functioning altogether, I looked down at the tray, saw another coaster there, mutely picked it up, and handed it to him.

  He took it, twisted, I was treated to his thermal stretching across his ribs and lateral muscles and doing this tight as he put his mug on the coaster. Then he sat bac
k, his eyes sliding to me.

  “Eat,” he ordered low.

  “What’s happening?” I asked.

  “Eat,” he repeated.

  I turned more fully to him. “What’s happening, High? Why are you here? Why are you making bacon? Why are you eating my food?”

  “Dot stocked you up but she didn’t buy eggs and bacon, Millie. That’s from Chaos,” he told me. “Now this shit is fuckin’ good, so grab it before it gets cold and eat.”

  It was from Chaos.

  I turned and looked at my food like a woman who’d just been informed her meal was laced with arsenic.

  From beside me came a warning, “Eat or I feed you, Millie.”

  I wasn’t in the mood to test that.

  Hell, I’d probably never be in the mood to test that.

  So I didn’t test it.

  I grabbed the plate, put it on my tray, slid the fork out from under the food, and stabbed at the eggs.

  I put them in my mouth.

  There was cheese, a sharp cheddar. There was garlic, not too much. Fresh ground pepper, which was nice. And something else savory and flavorful that I couldn’t put my finger on.

  Then I did.

  A hint of oregano providing a pleasant surprise.

  Damn, Logan put oregano in his eggs.

  God.

  The food was still warm. The bacon crisped to perfection. The toast lightly and expertly toasted. And my coffee had a splash of creamer, no sugar, very strong, like I liked it.

  Like I’d always liked it.

  I forced down the food, enjoying it too much, but doing it telling myself I was not going to cry.

  I was going to eat and pass out and wake up with my head clear and then I was going to find the words to communicate to Logan that our game had been played, he won, and I was leaving him to his life in Denver.

  Logan cut into my thoughts. “How many pairs of those jammies you got?”

  “Several,” I muttered, biting into a slice of bacon, ignoring him using the word jammies again, or more accurately, how cute I thought it was.

  “Mmm,” he murmured. It was rough and growly, which was not cute in the slightest, and I felt tingles hit my thighs.

  I did not need tingles.

  Ever.

  I focused on my bacon, deciding to speed things up, so I took a bite and chewed fast.

  “Dumped snow last night,” Logan stated. “Serious. Snowed all yesterday and all night and it’s still goin’. Two feet and we’re gonna get more. They say you don’t gotta go anywhere, don’t.”