Afraid to Fly (Fearless #2)

  “Yup. Dive. She heard through the grapevine that her ex-husband is now the owner. And she showed up with some bullshit excuse about wanting to “catch up for old time’s sake,”” she said, using air quotes that somehow looked more like devil horns. She was pissed, and rightfully so. But knowing Kami, she didn’t let it show. She just bottled it up and let it eat her alive until she could escape to a safe place to vent. And that safe place was me. I was her haven when real life shit got too tough to handle. When she felt the walls closing in on her sanity. Keeping Kami healthy and happy had been my top priority in life. Even above my own well-being.

  “So what happened?”

  “Well,” she huffed out, making that single, inconsequential word sound like defeat. “She came in—all blonde hair and pouty lips and big, plastic tits—and she sat her sweet, southern ass at the bar like she was right at home. Like she belonged there. It was like a scene outta “Sweet Home Alabama” when Reese Witherspoon goes back home and everyone is shocked to see her, and awed by her holy presence—like she just floated down from the big Playboy mansion in the sky on a damn cloud. I wanted to barf, and it had nothing to do with morning sickness.”

  “That pretty, huh?”

  She shrugged and rolled her eyes. “I should have known. Could you see Blaine marrying anyone other than a supermodel? And she has a kid, Dom! A kid! And she looks amazing!” Her green-eyed gaze then drifted down to her swollen belly, all humor zapped from her expression. “Look at me. I’m a house. What if I gain like a hundred pounds with this pregnancy? What if I have cankles? What if my belly is so scarred with stretch marks that it looks like a road map? You think Blaine will still want me? You think anyone would want me?”

  Before she could utter one more word of self-doubt, I pushed our plates to the side, and reached over to take her hands in mine. “You stop that shit right now, Kami Duvall. Of course, he will. Even if you gain two hundred pounds—which is physically impossible for you, by the way—that man will still love you like it’s his only purpose on earth. And if he turns out to be some undercover asshole, which we also know is impossible, so the fuck what. You have me and Angel. And let’s face it—I’m pretty much going to be the best tío in history, so that little prince or princess will never be short of love. You can count on that. So no more worrying about shit that’s not going to happen. Comprende?”

  Taking a deep, cleansing breath, she swept her gaze up to mine. The smile on her lips was forced, but it would do for now. It was a start. A year ago, Kami was so riddled with anxiety and fear that she wouldn’t even let herself get close enough to a man to allow herself to care about blonde exes with boob jobs. She just simply didn’t permit herself the chance to feel. Now she was in love—the scariest fucking thing a person could do—and she was invested in it. She had allowed herself to fall despite her hang-ups and phobias. Despite her past and her fear of the future. She let it happen because she knew, undoubtedly, that Blaine would catch her and never, ever let her go.

  I envied her ability to trust someone so wholly . . . so unselfishly with her whole heart. Just months ago, she was in a hospital bed, her body broken and battered after a gruesome attack by her disgusting POS sperm donor. Yet, even when that should have shattered her beyond repair, that heart of hers had somehow made it out alive. At a time when giving up seemed like the most logical choice, she did the unthinkable. She let Blaine in, because being without him was scarier than all her fears combined. That reason alone made her superhuman to me.

  So if she could get through that, she could totally handle some ex-wife with a shady agenda. She had come too far to give up now.

  “When was the last time you saw Dr. Cole?” I asked, my hands still holding hers.

  “A week ago.”

  “Still seeing her regularly?”

  “Yeah, Dom. You know I am.” Huffing out her frustration, Kami slipped her fingers from my grasp and focused back on her food. She hated talking about going to therapy, but she knew it was necessary, especially now that she was pregnant. Her hormones were out of whack, and everything in her once perfectly predictable life had been turned on its head. And since meds were out of the question, she was seeing Dr. Cole up to twice a month.

  “Well, did Blaine give you a reason to doubt him? Did he seem overly happy to see her?”

  She frowns down at her half-eaten enchiladas. “No. Not exactly. He just seemed . . . surprised. Like, I could tell he was shocked. I just didn’t know if that was a happy shock or an oh shit shock.”

  As badly as I wanted to be the hero in this situation and save her from even having to worry her pretty little head, I knew it wasn’t my place. Kami wasn’t mine. And it was about time I let that sink in. The first step in the process toward setting her free was to be honest. With her and myself.

  “Talk to Blaine. Tell him how you feel, and ask him if Amanda’s presence will be an issue for you two. I guarantee that he will be more than happy to soothe all feelings of doubt and insecurity. The boy loves you, Kam. He’s insane for you. Give him a chance to show you that he’s everything you thought he was the day you walked into that bar and handed him your tattered, patchwork heart. You weren’t wrong about him then, so why would you think some chick would make you wrong about him now?”

  At that, she smiled, her shoulders visibly relaxing under the dissolving anxiety. “You’re right. Yeah, I should talk to him.”

  Before her renewed confidence could dwindle, I pulled out my wallet and slapped a few bills on the table. “Now. You should talk to him now. Come on, Miss Duvall. You’ve got a bartender waiting for you.”

  As we pulled up in front of my building, I made Kami promise to go straight to Dive and confront Blaine. Going home and sulking until she drowned in unspoken accusations and irrational doubt would have been the easy route for her. But actually facing her fears? That was an incredible feat for Kam. Hell, it was something I still didn’t have the balls to do.

  “Hey, Dom?” she said, halting me from closing the car door and allowing the chill of the overcast day to sneak in. It was just starting to warm up again in North Carolina, an unseasonably cold winter blooming into a hopeful spring.

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you. I owe you lunch . . . again. And . . . and I love you.”

  I dipped my head to hide the grin on my lips. I was so damn proud of her. Six months ago, I never thought I would hear Kami utter those words to . . . well . . . anyone. And now, she made it a point to tell me every time we parted. The same went for Angel and Blaine, too.

  “Love you too, Kam. Now go get your man and remind him just how much of a lucky bastard he is.”

  I closed the door and jogged to the entrance of Helping Hands still wearing that grin, although it felt wrong and forced on my face. I was truly happy for my best friend, despite the ache of anxiety in my chest. But, I was starting to realize that maybe it wasn’t because I was worried for her. Maybe it was because I knew that for every step she took towards Blaine, she was taking another step away from me.

  AFTER SPENDING THE REMAINDER of my afternoon pouring over Toby’s case file and brushing up on my American Sign Language, I totally forgot to check in with Angel. That was a must for my little blonde bombshell. She needed constant communication—constant interaction—like I do. What Angel sought was validation. She needed to know that someone out there cared for her and loved her just the way she was. I was in search of affection, which usually came in the form of countless, random hook-ups. Now that Kam was out of the house and I didn’t have to feel guilty about my whorish behavior, I felt more starved for attention than ever before. Which was why my “dates” were becoming more necessary. Soon I’d have to resort to buying condoms in bulk from Costco.

  When the center’s activity bus arrived with the students from local schools around 3:30 pm, I was positivity buzzed with anxiety. I needed a challenging case to distract my mind and a new focus for my convoluted hero complex. It was true—I found purpose in being a savior. It took the atte
ntion off the fact that no one was there to save me, because I didn’t need that. I was doing just fine on my own, despite the terrors that laid in wait behind my eyelids every night, or the emptiness I felt after every faceless hook-up. It worked for me. It was the only way I was able to get up every morning and put one foot in front of the other. It was the only way I could tolerate looking at my reflection in the mirror.

  I went out to greet the kids like I always did, shaking their hands, asking about their day, complimenting them on improved grades and aced tests. That was the only interaction many of these kids received, and I made it a point to make every child feel special and important, even if for a couple minutes. I wanted them to know that they mattered, and that the world was waiting on them to grow into their best selves. It wasn’t that I was blowing smoke either; I truly believed that. This was our future, and I had the privilege of guiding just a tiny speck of it.

  “Mr. Trevino, I want to introduce you to one of my new friends,” Amber said, bringing up the end of the line, gently guiding a small boy to follow. “This is Toby, and he’ll be joining us after school. Toby, this is Mr. Trevino, and he is one of our mentors here at Helping Hands. He’s also a pretty cool guy, and I think you two would get along.”

  “What’s up, my man? Good to meet you. Glad you could join us today.” I smiled at the boy, who looked more like the size of an 8-year-old than a middle schooler, and extended my fist. However, my jovial expression went unreciprocated, and my un-bumped knuckles were left suspended in mid-air. I couldn’t even be sure the kid even heard me. He was completely blank.

  I dropped my hand and recovered by running it through my oil-slick black hair. “Ok, well, Mrs. Owens tells me you’re in some of our tutoring programs. Why don’t I show you around before we get started? Cool?” Again, nothing, but I nodded at Amber, letting her know that I could take it from here. I could see the apprehension on her face—how could we reach a kid that chose not to communicate? Still, I wasn’t quite ready to write him off. I was pretty damn positive that he had experienced enough of that in his short lifetime.

  “Well, over here is our snack bar area. We’ve got lots of great snacks, sandwiches, pizza, juice. Any favorite foods you like to eat after school?” I asked, pointing over toward a small cafeteria-style area. I wasn’t sure if Toby would follow so I walked slowly, giving him the option to join me. I was careful not to touch him. Most kids who had experienced trauma had an aversion to touch, or in my case, couldn’t get enough of it. I wasn’t sure which one was worse. Until Toby showed any signs of trusting me, it was best I kept all contact to a minimum. No one knew what the kid had to live through while his mom was shooting poison into her veins.

  “And down this hall is our gym, complete with a basketball court. You play?” I explained, pressing forward despite his unresponsiveness. He might not have communicated, but I knew he was listening. He was walking beside me. And although he was wary and kept a safe distance, there was a chance I could eventually gain his trust, and maybe even his friendship. “I’m pretty awesome myself. Maybe we can pick up a game of one-on-one sometime?”

  We turned a corner and entered another hallway that housed the half dozen classrooms we used for group study sessions. I told him about the subjects we assisted with and how many of our students went on to earn A’s and B’s with lots of dedication and hard work. After that, I showed him the various tables around the facility that could be used for private tutoring if group study wasn’t his thing. I had a feeling he was more interested in that anyway.

  “So, do you have any questions for me?” I asked, leading him back to my office. I had an open door policy whenever children were present. I would never, ever close my door unless a student requested it for privacy. And even then, I let a staff member know that I was engaged in a counseling session and even recorded it. Not that I didn’t trust myself—that was definitely not the case. I just never wanted a child to feel cornered or intimidated. Closed doors had only meant one thing to me once upon a time. They signified perversion and pain. They had instilled fear so deep inside me that I used to wet myself. I had gotten over my aversion, but the memories . . . they still lingered.

  I sat down on the armchair opposite the small loveseat in the corner of my office. I rarely sat behind my desk unless I was doing paperwork or other official HH stuff. I wanted the kids to feel at ease with me, and posing as their superior was not the way to do it.

  “Hey, I can read a little sign language if you’d like to communicate that way. Or I’ve got a pad and pencil. Whatever you feel comfortable with.” I set the paper and pencil on the table beside the couch, as Toby mentally weighed the seating arrangements. Obviously, taking the sofa was the safest bet. He sat down and dropped his backpack to the ground. Still, I could see he wasn’t comfortable. His small, frail frame was as stiff as a board, and he kept his alert eyes on me at all times. I didn’t push for more though. This was progress. I could tell that if he didn’t at least suspect I was safe, he would’ve fought his way out of here.

  While he watched me like a hawk, I took the opportunity to assess him physically, looking for any signs of mistreatment or neglect. Yes, he was on the small side, but that could have been hereditary. He was thin but didn’t appear to be malnourished. His pale skin and brown, shaggy hair appeared clean, as well as his clothes, if not a little nondescript. No name brands or flashy trends, which was the norm for most kids here. And according to his file, his sister was a student on a waitress’s salary. I’d be alarmed if he did stroll in here with the latest fashions.

  We sat there for what felt like hours, letting the silent screaming of trepidation fill the space like an invisible fog. It wasn’t conventional, although it wasn’t exactly uncomfortable either. I imagined Toby didn’t say much even before his mother’s passing. Kids in uneasy living situations rarely said more than they had to in order to fly under the radar. After my parents died, I learned to keep quiet, because I thought not being heard equated to not being seen.

  I was wrong.

  I inwardly prayed that Toby hadn’t suffered the same delusion in his past.

  At almost 5 o’clock on the dot, our vow of silence was broken by the sound of approaching footsteps and Amber’s voice.

  “ . . . and this is the office of our assistant director, who also happens to be one of our most popular mentors here at Helping Hands. We thought he and Toby would make a great team, considering that Dominic—”

  “You!”

  The very second I heard her hiss that word, spitting it out like a curse, I knew that it had left the same cherry-painted lips I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about since Saturday night. She was dressed in light blue scrubs, and her dark hair was pulled back in a simple ponytail. Once again, very little makeup, and her lips were lightly glossed in a soft pink. It was the cocktail waitress from The Pink Kitty. And the way she was scowling at me, those endless, ocean blue eyes tightened into thin slits, she remembered me too.

  I tore my gaze away from the fire that burned behind hers and glanced over at Amber, who looked as baffled as I felt. “You two know each other?” she asked gesturing between us.

  “We’ve met,” I answered. It was true, although I didn’t disclose the wheres and hows of that meeting.

  Remembering herself, and present company, Toby’s sister quickly schooled her features into something less controversial and nodded in agreement. “Yes. We’ve met. Once.”

  “Ok, so I assume introductions are not in order,” Amber replied skeptically. She continued to look at us with a touch of cynicism, as if she knew we were full of shit and was just playing along. I knew that smirk. It was the same one she wore when our students would try to pull a fast one, and she was on to them. She’d let them keep digging the grave for their lies, allowing them to believe they had somehow outsmarted her. Then, just as the feeling of victory had begun to set in, she’d wipe the smug grins right off their faces and read them from A to Z.

  That was exactly how she was reg
arding us at that precise moment.

  I had two choices. Either I play dumb and get embarrassed by my boss in front of a kid and his (insanely hot) sister, or be real and avoid further confusion and/or a potential conflict of interest.

  “Actually, our run-in was so brief, I’d hardly call it an introduction. I didn’t even have the chance to get her name,” I admitted. Ok, option 2 benefitted me too. I didn’t catch her name, and I needed something other than the “sexy as fuck waitress in a strip club” when fantasizing about her in the wee hours of the night when no one was around to fill my bed.

  “Oh. Well, Dominic Trevino, this is Raven West. Ms. West, this is Dominic. Now that we’re all acquainted, Dominic will be personally mentoring Toby, and ensuring that his transition here is enjoyable and productive.”

  Raven.

  It was like that name was specifically designed for her, and no other woman on this earth could ever bear it justly. From the black of her hair and the porcelain pallor of her skin to the mystery brewing behind those piercing blue eyes, she was a raven indeed. Yet, even knowing she despised me for some undisclosed reason, she didn’t represent death and longing. She was the vastness of eternity, uncharted and unseen.

  “Is that right?” Her face was amused, but the sharpness of her voice could cut like a knife. This wasn’t residual annoyance from Saturday night. This chick genuinely hated me. Shit. Maybe I did sleep with her already? But even that wouldn’t explain her distaste for me. I was always crystal clear about my intentions with women. I could get them off, but I would never lead them on. Still, there was always that one who swore she could change me. Like her pussy had magical powers that could instantly transform my indifference into uncontrollable worship for her.

  There was no such thing as a magical pussy. Trust me. I’ve looked.

  Even if we had indeed already done the dirty, there was still no rational explanation for my lapse in memory, or her disdain. First off, I would have remembered. Funny as it sounds, I remember all of them. The way they felt underneath me, so soft and supple and warm. The noises they made when I pushed inside of them. The way they tasted on my tongue—some sweet, some tangy. Those were the memories that got me through the night. The memories that stilled the shakes that followed the terror of my dreams. I had been building my psyche’s catalogue for some time now, hoping that one day it would be too full of enjoyable remembrances to contain the old ones. The ones that still haunted me every fucking minute of every fucking day.