My friends – Karen, Matt and Dan – and I had been warming seats at Finnegan’s Irish Pub for about six hours at that point, and to say I was “lubricated” is an understatement. It was a busy Friday at the pub, but nothing out of the ordinary. There are, to be sure, no shortage of bars in Boston, but this one was
ours
and we held onto it with an iron fist. We owned this damn place, especially on karaoke night.

Okay, to be more accurate,
I
owned the damn place. At least for the four minutes at a time that I was the rock star I always should’ve been.

“Raine Matthews!” the overly excited DJ announced. “You’re up!”

With a final, decisive swig of beer, I exchanged a very serious nod with Karen, and made my way to the stage, not knowing what I was about to sing. That’s how the real masters do it – your drunk friends sign you up for whatever they think you won’t be able to sing, and then you show them up.

Blood pumped through my temples. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, flaring every single nerve in my body into a state I can only describe as “just this side of ecstasy” and I stepped up to the mic.

Tugging at the waist of my jeans, which had somehow ridden down just far enough to reveal the beginning of my ass crack, I steeled myself. My ill-made pony tail rested against the back of my open collar, a tendril of dark brown curl hanging down the side of my face. I was sweating before the song came up.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Raine Matthews, local karaoke legend, with Michael Bolton’s
How Am I Supposed to Live Without You
!”

My stomach hit the floor and I shot a nasty glare at Karen and Matt.

“Michael-fucking-Bolton,” I sneered, accidentally into the mic. Half the audience looked really offended, and half of them started laughing uncontrollably. You never can tell with fans of the Bolton.

I laughed, nervously, as the first bars of dramatic piano music plonked along, and by the time I was about to open my mouth to bolt out those lines that could only come from the 1980s, I saw Dan staring at me.

It wasn’t a normal stare. It wasn’t the stare of someone waiting to see their friend make an idiot of themselves. It was a hungry stare. His pale blue eyes were narrowed just enough to make the corners of his eyes crinkle a bit. The laugh lines on the sides of his face joined the ones in the corner of his mouth, and for a moment, captivated me.

I’d always thought he was good looking. And aside from that, he was funny, witty, and usually at least a little charming. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he wasn’t some kind of heaven-sent Prince Charming, but for a twenty-six year old on the downhill part of her first divorce, Prince Charming is a pipe dream.

I got to the chorus, belting it out as best I could, hoping to at least sort of match the intensity of overblown emotion that the song captures. As I let the words flow from my lips like mana from heaven, I realized that my heart wasn’t just pounding from the glory that is Michael Bolton. It’s weird, but as I surveyed the crowd, a couple of guys caught my attention. First there was this big, gruff-looking, muscular dude with shaggy hair and dark brown eyes who I don’t think I’d ever seen before. He was watching me like a hawk about to dive on a squirrel.

But it wasn’t him that I noticed the most. Dan’s eyes had managed to bore their way into my heart.

And hell, I wasn’t even sure if he was meaning that longing stare the way I took it, but right that second, it didn’t matter. The only thing that
did
was that whatever emotions he was stirring inside me were... well, let’s just say they didn’t hurt my love song singing.

Sweat was running down the sides of my face by the time I finished my turn at the mic, and my nerves were absolutely shot. I felt like I’d just downed a handful of amphetamines and chased it with a gallon of Red Bull. As I took my seat, and snatched the handle of my mug, Dan was pouring more from the pitcher for me.

“That was good,” he said. “Probably better than the real thing. At least these days.”

There wasn’t a damn thing in the world except for the two of us right then. I couldn’t hear the girl on stage singing that one Four Non Blondes song that always seems to herald the end of karaoke night. I couldn’t hear Karen and Matt yammering at me, I couldn’t even hear my own thoughts bouncing around inside of my skull.

My brain was telling me to cut him off, not to let this go too far, but... like I said, downhill slope of a
real
nasty divorce. Things like that tend to make a girl let her head take a backseat to her heart. And besides – Dan was a friend. He was safe.

At least that’s what I told myself. I mean, I didn’t have any reason to think otherwise. He’d never been anything but nice and kind to me, how was I supposed to know?

“Thanks,” I said, diverting my eyes from his. I could feel the heat boiling up inside the pit of my stomach. Even if I wasn’t thinking particularly straight at that moment, I always knew better than to make that outwardly obvious.

“I think those two have, er...” he trailed off and I turned my attention to our two buddies. Karen had her hand in Matt’s, and before I knew it, the two of them locked lips in a way that would be extremely dangerous if they had braces.

“Think they’re gonna want to hit the IHOP?” I joked.

“I think they’re gonna want to hit a motel,” Dan said. I smirked with a little blush coloring my cheeks. “Can’t blame them though.”

When he said that, he grabbed my hand in his and squeezed. “You were really something else up there.”

“Oh,” I chuckled. “I get really into whatever I’m singing. One time I did a Meatloaf song, and the entire audience was in tears, holding cigarette lighters in the air.”

“I believe it.” Dan’s eyes were sparkling.

You know the way that some guys can make their eyes sorta... twinkle? Car salesmen do it right as they’re convincing you that they’re offering you ‘the lowest I can go, really, this is two grand below cost.’ Even when you know better, it makes you trust them, at least for long enough to make a really stupid decision.

“Hell yeah, give me that SUV,” or “why yes, I
do
want to sleep with you ten minutes after we got together.” Either way, you’ve got to get checked the next day, but damn if it doesn’t feel good when you’re putting your name on that line... or whatever. I kind of got sidetracked.

“Well,” Dan said with a sly little note in his voice, “want to let those two crazy kids be, and go get some of those really nasty stuffed pancakes? I could use some carbs topped with sugar topped with carbs.”

My stomach rumbled in a way that would probably embarrass most people who aren’t me. “Well,” I began, unconsciously starting to fumble with that fallen curl of hair. “I mean, what could it hurt? You haven’t drank much tonight have you?”

“Nah,” he said. “Couple beers. Been awhile since the last one.”

I nodded. “If you’re sure. I don’t want to put you out or anything.”

I don’t want to end up wrapped around another guy’s finger and have him break my heart... again
, I thought.
The next time my heart breaks, it could kill me. That is, unless the guy does it first.

“No worries,” he said with a little half-smile. “I gotta get some food in me anyway.”

Michael Bolton and cream-stuffed pancakes.

Thinking back it’s all so stupid, but at the time... well, like I said. It’s hard to tell you’re making one of your life’s great blunders when you’re making it. And it’s harder still to figure out you’re living in one until you’re on the other side. But then, the real trick is
getting
to the other side, isn’t it? Sometimes – most times, I guess – the only way out is through, or just giving up.

I might be a little impulsive sometimes, and I happily admit to burying my head in the sand to keep from facing reality. I’m no quitter though.

If nothing else, I don’t give up. I just have to remember that, no matter what, Raine Matthews does
not
give up.

-2-
Six Years Can Feel Like Forever

––––––––

P
ancakes turned into a ride back to my place turned into “one more drink” at my place. The next thing I knew, six years were gone and my whole life had become the inside of a decently-sized house in suburban Boston. I’d become the “Mrs.” on letters addressed to “Mr. And Mrs. Dan Dodson.”

I hated that. But, outwardly, everything was fine.

It was all so “normal” that I felt like I was living in a sitcom from the 60s.

Dan went off to whatever job he’d lined up that week, sometimes carpentry, sometimes drywall, sometimes tile. He did pretty well for himself. We took vacations, mostly nature-type trips, to go hiking in the mountains, to explore Yellowstone, normal city-dwelling hippie kind of stuff.

He’d come home every night, I’d have his dinner ready, and then he’d eat it, mumble some conversation over whatever sporting event he’d decided was
really important
that night, and then he’d go to bed.

If it sounds stiflingly boring, it was. But when you’re in the middle of it, you feel like an idiot for getting upset about having a normal life – or what you think is a normal life – because, damn it, there are kids starving in Siberia or Rwanda, and what the hell is
my
problem that I complain about being bored.

Of course, it was anything
but
normal. Exactly how abnormal life was revealed itself slowly to me, like a millipede unwinding himself to test his surroundings and make sure there are no... er, whatever eats millipedes waiting to eat him.

Every time Dan told me to stay in rather than see a friend. Every time he made me turn down an invitation to go have dinner because he “wanted to see me,” it became a little clearer. But it was slow – so, so goddamn slow – that by the time I realized what was happening, I’d gotten myself so wrapped up in comfort and not having to think or worry, that the only thing more frightening than staying with him and surviving his jealousy and his rages, was
not
staying with him, and facing the unknown.

BOOK: Can't Bear To Run (Kendal Creek Bears, #1)

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