Surely her brother couldn’t fault her for going after what would make her happy. Even if it was only for one night.
Chapter Eight
“Rowan is a little slice of heaven, ain’t she?” Zane asked, scrubbing at his wet hair with the towel draped around his neck.
“And pregnant,” Mike pointed out.
“So?”
“And widowed, thanks to me.”
“Your point is?”
“Come on, Z.”
“She can’t mourn forever.”
“No one said she should. But she’s still mourning now. Try to be a little less of an asshole.” Though you’re one to talk, motherfucker, with the thoughts you’ve had about Savannah in the past hour. It didn’t matter; he could handle himself. It was his brother he worried about.
“Yeah, I could tell she is. She was trying to put it aside for a night, but I think she was having a hard time doing it.”
“I got that impression too.” Mike had seen her at the side of the stage. She’d looked like she was having the time of her life. He couldn’t blame the girl for wanting to let her hair down, he’d only wondered how genuine it was, or how much of it was put on for Savannah’s benefit.
All in all it made him feel like absolute shit.
“Why are you still doing this to yourself?”
Mike glanced up to find Zane’s gaze steady on him. His wasn’t as piercing or discerning as Damien’s, who had departed as the last chords reverberated through the arena, but it saw enough. “What?”
“You haven’t been half bad the last couple of weeks, but these girls show up and you’re all in your head again. Have you done enough now? Will you let it the fuck go?”
“It won’t ever be enough.”
Zane grumbled something, scrubbed at his long hair again and looked around for his shirt. “You can’t bring the guy back.”
Mike shifted around in frustration, energy coursing along every nerve like fire. “You don’t fucking say. I honestly didn’t realize that, Zane.”
“I can’t figure out your endgame on this.”
“Because there isn’t one. I’m responsible for their suffering. The endgame is I’ll do whatever I can for them whenever I can.”
“Even if all you ever get is a ‘thanks’ and ‘fuck off.’”
“It’s not about what I’ll get.”
“Just seems kind of senseless. Do nice things, sure, but not at the expense of your own sanity. I also can’t see how you always being up in their business won’t bring back bad shit for them, too.”
Zane didn’t get it, but the bigger problem was that Mike couldn’t explain it. His younger brother was right, most likely. “I’m seeing Savannah after I leave here,” he admitted. “She’s going to text me when she’s ready.”
“Oh, no, man.”
“What?”
Zane waved a hand and wandered back into the adjoining bathroom, though he still kept up the conversation. “I’m not trying to tell you what’s what,” he said ironically, since that was exactly what he’d been doing. “Do what you want. I just think it’s a bad move.”
“While you hitting on Rowan wouldn’t be?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I didn’t kill her husband.”
“No, but your brother did. That makes you the enemy whether you like it or not. You’re on my side, right?”
“Yeah, but . . . forget about Rowan anyway. We talked, she’s cool, she’s going back home now. I didn’t bother getting her number and I doubt I’ll ever even see her again.” The water turned on, and suddenly Zane’s voice was muffled as if he had a mouthful of toothpaste. “And if you were smart you’d let Savannah get on that plane too without getting all tangled up in this . . . whatever it is.”
Right again. So right. Zane wandered back in, brushing his teeth, and stared Mike down mercilessly for a minute. When he pulled the toothbrush from his mouth, he said, “Shit. You’ve already got it bad for this girl.”
“No I don’t.”
Zane scoffed and ambled his way back through the door, steadily brushing. That was one problem growing up with two brothers with whom you shared one tiny bedroom and barely had access to any other parts of the house lest you be exposed to raucous sex, violence, or drug use. In quarters that close, those two brothers grew up knowing everything about you, everything you were thinking, what you were going to say or do before you said or did it. That bond couldn’t be denied. It was enough to drive him insane some days, and definitely enough to keep him away from them when he was going through some shit he wanted to deal with on his own. Damien was the worst, sure, but Zane was getting there fast.
“I don’t have it bad for her,” he tried again, more forcefully this time. “She’s an amazing girl and we’ll talk tonight, but in thirty-six hours she will get on that plane and that will most likely be the last time I ever see her too. She has a life to get back to. I couldn’t fit in it even if I wanted to.”
Zane merely grunted in response. Which was almost worse than arguing with him. It meant he was done with the debate because he knew he was right. Luckily, Savannah took that cue to text him.
Rowan all tucked away in bed. The rooms are fabulous, thank you AGAIN. I’m ready when you are.
“I’m out,” he called to Zane, getting to his feet. “You going straight home when you leave here?”
“If I even remember where the fuck it is.”
Mike chuckled at that, heading for the door. “I’ll catch up with you soon.”
He’d managed to ditch Nicole in the after-show chaos, ducking into the dressing room with Zane where very few others were allowed. His phone had been sullenly silent on her behalf, so he hoped she was gone and not milling around hoping to find him. Nevertheless, he looked both ways when he stuck his head out the door, then set off toward the exit. Hurting her feelings wasn’t an idea he relished, but neither was getting caught up in her drama.
He had Savannah waiting for him.
On my way, he answered her.
When the knock sounded on Savannah’s hotel door, she surged up from her chair as if a fire alarm had sounded. He’d come to her door to get her? She’d expected an I’m out front message so as to minimize any chance of bumping into Rowan . . . who was supposed to be in bed next door, but might be prone to a midnight snack attack that necessitated a trip to find vending machines.
She should’ve known better. It was probably a ridiculous notion, but Mike Larson would probably be Savannah’s personal bodyguard if she let him. She simply got that feeling from him.
Biting her lip, she watched him through the peephole for a few seconds. He’d ditched the baseball cap, nothing to shadow or mitigate the devastating power of his eyes. Anxiety fluttered in her throat.
He was smiling when she opened the door, and she couldn’t help returning it. Great smile. She’d bet he had a great laugh, too. Maybe tonight she would find out.
“Ready?” he asked, and she was: clutch in hand, hair recurled, her tiny dab of makeup in place. He wore the same clothes he’d had on at the concert, and suddenly she wondered if she’d gone overboard on her own attire. After a lot of debating with herself, she’d finally changed into the sundress she’d planned on wearing tomorrow, white with little pink flowers. It was thin as a slip and left her shoulders and a good portion of her legs bare, but it was such a warm night and it seemed perfect for walking on the beach in the moonlight—far better than the jeans and boots she’d had on earlier. If it came to walking on the beach, of course.
“Ready!” she said brightly, stepping out and pulling the door closed behind her. They fell into step together, heading toward the elevator.
“Is Rowan feeling okay?” he asked. “No morning sickness or anything like that?”
Touched at his concern, she nodded. “She’s doing well. It’s not a difficult pregnancy so far, which is a relief.”
“Good.” While they waited, another couple joined them, so they fell silent. All four stepped onto the elevator
when it arrived, Savannah taking the opportunity to surreptitiously scrutinize little details about Mike she might have otherwise missed: he wore a brown woven bracelet on his right wrist, and above that, one of the tattoos on his impressive forearm looked to be a quote written in Latin. She tilted her head slightly to see it.
Flectere si nequeo superos,
Acheronta movebo.
As she was looking, wondering what it meant, the young male half of the couple riding the elevator with them suddenly erupted. “Dude, are you Mike Larson?”
“That’s me.”
“I thought so! I was there in Vegas a couple of years back when you made Santoya tap out. That was the best takedown I think I ever saw, hell, it was the stuff of legend. It’s an honor, man.” Mike graciously shook his hand when he offered it, then the guy enthusiastically nudged his girlfriend, but she only gave a wary smile, not looking the least bit interested. “Mike Larson!”
“Hi,” she said with an awkward laugh.
“Can’t believe I’ve bumped into you on an elevator. Unreal. Can I get a picture? But you probably don’t want to be bothered. It’s okay if you don’t.”
“No, that’s fine.”
Savannah stood back in the corner as he dealt with his adoring fan, remembering a couple of times she’d been out with Tommy when he was recognized. It had always made his day. The ghostly fingers of grief reached for her, but she tried to wave them away—the memories she’d rather keep repressed but that often swamped her anyway.
Tommy, studying hours and hours of Mike’s fight footage, dissecting those takedowns, picking apart strengths and weaknesses in his techniques. Rowan, rolling laughing eyes when he began to excitedly go on and on at length about his discoveries. He had come from a wrestling background; Mike, a street-fighting striker with boxing prowess and a black belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. Or as Tommy had so succinctly put it, One bad motherfucker.
In the end, it had been one of those vicious takedowns, combined with a blow that was quick as a striking snake, which had begun to spell disaster for him. Most of the night was a hellish blur now, but she remembered that much.
Picture taken, the guy slipped his phone back into his pocket and said, “Tough break with that Dugas kid. I got the PPV. Looked like he was okay and then boom. That’s gotta be rough.”
“Yeah,” Mike said tightly, sending Savannah an apologetic look as she swallowed past the lump in her throat. “It’s been hard.”
Just as she was beginning to think the ride would never end, the doors whooshed open, and she was the first to flee the space that had been steadily closing in on her since “Dugas” had slipped out of that guy’s mouth.
Tough break indeed. He couldn’t have known who she was, and she knew he hadn’t meant anything by it, but having Tommy’s death reduced to little more than an inconvenience for Mike had wounded something inside her. As soon as Mike had managed to lose his fan, though, he was right there at her side as she strode quickly through the lobby, trying to outrun her emotions.
“Hell, Savannah, I’m sorry you heard that.”
“Do you hear stuff like that a lot?”
“A little bit,” he said gruffly. “I usually want to hit the fucker who says it.”
“It’s okay,” she said quickly, eager to get outside before she broke down. Not that she wanted to break down in front of him either, but it would be better than having everyone in the lobby see. “I’m sure everyone means well.”
“I know they do, which is why I let it slide. If you’d rather I set them straight, I will.”
“You can’t be rude to a fan like that. That guy was so excited to meet you. He was trying to make you feel better. I just . . . couldn’t listen to it.”
“I know.”
A balmy breeze whipped at her dress as they strode through the doors, and suddenly she was rethinking her choice of beach attire. Too late now. Mike led her to a gleaming silver Ford Super Duty at the curb and opened the passenger door for her, even offering his hand to assist her climb. She took it, feeling a little weak in the knees when all the weight she put on him didn’t budge his arm at all. Settling in the leather seat, she looked resolutely down at her hands in her lap, deep breathing, rubbing the place where his skin had touched her, trying to clear her head in the ten seconds it took him to circle around the front of the truck and open the driver’s door.
She hadn’t exactly achieved her goal by the time he bounded easily into the seat, but she could pretend. “Nice,” she told him, glancing around appreciatively. Something about it calmed her. He drove a truck just like Tommy had, just like many other Southern men she knew. It somehow made him seem more human after a night of limousines and rock stars and enthusiastic fans in the elevator. “Boys and their toys.”
Chuckling, he reclaimed his cap from the dashboard and pulled it over his head. “Shouldn’t have taken this damn thing off. Maybe I wouldn’t have been recognized.”
Oh, he was recognizable from those cheekbones alone. “Just me here now,” she said lightly. “You’re safe.”
“Are you hungry? I’m not sure what I’ll have at the house that’ll interest you.”
“I’m okay. Unless you want to get something.”
He shook his head. “I’m good.”
She buckled up and watched the hotel disappear into the distance in her side mirror, still feeling the warmth of him on her hand from where he’d helped her into the truck. Such a simple gesture given infinitely more meaning because he was the one who’d done it. Casting a glance at him, his face in shadow again from his cap, she watched the streetlights pass over him as he drove. His right wrist was draped on the steering wheel, and her eye was drawn again to the Latin phrase on his forearm.
“What does this mean?” she asked him, daring to reach over and lightly draw the tip of her finger across it.
He glanced at it and the corner of his mouth kicked up. “‘If I cannot move Heaven, I will raise Hell.’”
And that raised the hair at the back of her neck. “Ah.”
“Zane and Damien have Latin phrase ink too. I think Zane’s is ‘Fortune favors the bold’ and Damien’s is ‘The die has been cast.’”
“Did you all get them together?”
“No. They just ripped off my idea.”
She had to laugh at that, but the mention of Zane brought around the next topic she wanted to address with him. “I really did have fun tonight. I wanted to thank you again.”
“No need. And I’m glad you had a good time.”
“So, your brother . . .”
“Oh God, what did he do?”
“Well, nothing that I know of. And Rowan said he was great, but . . . I thought I picked up on something there. I hope he understands she is by no means ready to get back out there no matter how she acted tonight.”
“I set him straight about it as best I could. I could tell he liked her, but he respects the situation. I think. He won’t be bothering her, and if he does, let me know.”
“I mean, she’s not a kid or anything, and it’s not that I wouldn’t want her getting into another relationship. It’s just so soon. I guess we’re all in mama-bear mode over her because of everything she’s been through. Both her parents died, her husband died, now she’s facing a pregnancy without him . . . I think I would lose it. I really do.”
“People can be stronger than you think.”
She thought back to some of the things he’d hinted at when they’d gone for coffee after Tommy’s funeral. “Yeah. We have to be.” Eyeing the touch-screen monitor set in the dash, she opted to find a lighter topic. “What kind of music do you like?”
“Classic rock, some outlaw country. You?”
“I like a little bit of everything. Some pop, some country, some rock. Zane’s band is a little heavy for my tastes though. Good, don’t get me wrong. Just heavy.”
“I feel the exact same way, really.” He reached for the volume knob and turned up Nazareth’s “Hair of the Dog.” She had to laugh as the r
aucous chorus warning about messing with a son of a bitch filled the cab, especially since he grooved along with it. “I actually considered using this as my walk-out song,” he said.
“Now that would be funny.”
And somewhere, on that Texas highway to Galveston with old rock blaring on SiriusXM’s Ozzy’s Boneyard channel and maniacal traffic and lights whizzing by at breakneck speed, Savannah finally felt herself begin to relax, unwind, and enjoy herself. She even found herself seat dancing and not caring when he looked over and saw her. Because she heard that laugh she’d wondered about, and it was indeed great. The hour-long drive flew by, and the landscape changed, city lights and buildings fading into palm trees and resorts.
When at last he pulled to a stop outside a stilted beach house nestled among a line of similar structures, a great vast blackness stretched beyond it where she couldn’t tell where the Gulf of Mexico ended and the starlit sky began. Stepping out into that wind undid every bit of effort she’d put into her hair, but oh well. She was beyond caring.
“This is amazing,” she told him as they met in front of his truck and he led her up the steps to the front door.
“Thanks,” he said. “I haven’t had it very long.” From a wad of keys he produced from his pocket, he picked one and unlocked the door. “Hang on and let me hit some lights. I haven’t really redecorated or anything, so don’t hold it against me.”
She chuckled, but when soft light filled the living room space and she stepped in, there was nothing to hold against him. The walls were a soothing aqua, the living room suite white and immaculate with deeper teal accents. “What do you mean? It’s perfect. I’ll live here if, you know, you don’t like it.”
He laughed and moved to the kitchen beyond, depositing his keys in a blue glass bowl on the way. “Drink? I might have Coke. Or beer. Might even be a bottle of wine somewhere, if you want.”
“I would actually be fine with some water.”
Mike grabbed a couple of bottles from the fridge while she explored a bit, taking in the beachy wall pictures, the shells and starfish, glancing in each of the two bedrooms. It wasn’t a big place, but it was exactly what she would have chosen for a little getaway from life. “You don’t rent it out?” she asked after joining him in the kitchen.