Caught Up in the Touch (27 page)

The low burn in her belly grew with every stroke. His breathing turned ragged, the hands at her hips clutching. Neither one of them were in control.

Her climax broke the steady rhythm of her ride, and she fell over him, catching herself with one hand by his head while her other hand stayed between her legs. He hissed, his hips bucking her up, his hands lifting and slamming her back down. He swelled within her before pulsing with his own orgasm. She collapsed over his chest with him still inside of her.

The chill of the night seeped over her, and she shivered. Seemingly in tune with every nuance of her body, he grabbed another blanket at his head and covered them both. Lost in the foggy aftermath, she didn’t protest when he slipped out of her or when he shifted them to their sides, her head pillowed on his arm, his hand on her hip, tracing her scars.

Their intimacy, both physical and emotional, turned the protective barrier she’d maintained for years to ash. She wasn’t sure how much time passed before she spoke. “I was seventeen, the first time I cut myself. I was home from boarding school for the holiday break. I was still heartsick grieving my ma-maw. Mad and hurt my parents sent me off as if I was too much to deal with. Things at home had only gotten more contentious since I’d been gone.”

He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, and she took a shaky breath before continuing. “I didn’t really know what I was doing. The first cut was deep and bled everywhere, but the sting … it was like the external pain negated the internal. Or maybe my internal pain escaped through that wound. I don’t know. All I know is it made me feel better. I kept on until I was twenty-two and my mother caught me.”

The flash of the horror on her mother’s face tumbled her stomach as if it had happened yesterday. In the mirror their eyes had met, the thin line of blood trailing down her hip the only color in the stark black and white bathroom.

“Mother insisted I go to therapy. At first, I hated it, but at some point, I did start to feel better. My therapist thinks I cut myself because I was attention-starved. How crazy is that?” Even after everything that had passed between them that night, she tensed and waited for him to make light of her confession, maybe tell her she was indeed batshit crazy.

He pulled her closer for a hug. Without saying a word, his acceptance washed through her like an antiseptic to old wounds. She pressed her lips against his neck, the beat of his heart steady and true.

“Do you want to know why I joined the army?” His voice rumbled against her lips.

She pulled back and nodded. He propped his cheek on a hand and took a deep breath. “My father’s a five-star general. In some warped place in my head, I wanted to prove to him, to me, that I was his son. I almost got myself fucking killed. For what? A pat on the head? An attaboy?” He rolled to his back and groaned.

She propped herself up on an elbow. Shadows crossed his face. She should tell him about his father now, but the words knotted in her chest. Instead, she stroked his hair and asked, “Did you get your pat on the head?”

“Want to hear something crazy-twisted? I saved a couple of Afghani kids caught in a crossfire. Got a commendation letter typed out by his secretary with his signature scratched at the bottom. No special note, no ‘I’m proud of you, son.’ The bastard never even called.”

She pressed kisses along his temple and down his cheekbone. “I’m proud of you, Logan Wilde. How about this? We can be crazy together.”

Through her pressing kisses, his mouth curled up. She sucked his bottom lip between hers before slipping her tongue alongside his. He pulled her on top of him, chest to chest, mouth to mouth, and whispered, “You got yourself a deal.”

One of his hands slipped behind her head, while the other cupped a buttock. The kiss deepened, becoming something more than sexual. It was a kiss about truth, yet Jessica harbored one more secret.

The news of his father’s involvement would only add to his pain and resentment. He skimmed fingertips over her waist and the sides of her breasts. Maybe she’d tell him later, on their drive home, not now with passion sparking in his eyes, his lips making her burn, and his hands driving her wild. Right now, she wanted to whisper crazy, scary things that had nothing to do with either of their fathers.

His phone rang. Their lips stilled, touching but not moving. The ringing stopped, and he skimmed his tongue along her bottom lip. It rang again.

“Don’t get up.” He rolled her off him, hopped off the tailgate, and dug in the pocket of his discarded pants. The phone stopped before he could answer. The greenish light from the screen threw Logan’s features in harsh relief. He tapped the screen.

“What’s wrong,” he said. After only thirty seconds, he tucked the phone against his shoulder and pulled on his underwear and jeans, his movements jerky and frantic. “When did it happen? I saw him not two hours ago.”

Jessica took the cue. Wrapping the blanket around her, she slid off the truck bed and located her clothes, shimmying them on as fast as she could. Logan threw the blankets unfolded into the metal utility box and headed to the driver’s side of the truck not saying more than a few “uh-huhs” and “rights.”

Finally, he said, “We’re on our way,” and disconnected.

She zipped up her jeans and hopped into the passenger seat. Logan looked worried and serious, yet he sat with his hands tight around the steering wheel not making a move to start the truck.

She skimmed the back of his hand with her fingertips. “What’s happened?”

“Scott Larkin tried to commit suicide.”

Her hand automatically went to her throat. “He’s not … ?”

“Took a handful of sleeping pills. His mother found him and called 9-1-1. He’ll live.” His hand clenched under hers, the skin pulled taut.

She caressed up his arm, his biceps vibrating with energy. “It’s not your fault.”

“I went to see him tonight, but only to get the truth. I didn’t threaten him.” He turned to face her. “I swear.”

“Of course, you didn’t.” He didn’t seem inclined to get them moving, so she tentatively scooted closer to wrap an arm around his shoulders. “Scott has been making bad decisions on his own for a while now. You’ve only being trying to help.”

His eyes closed, and he rested his forehead on the steering wheel. “Did you ever consider taking that razor blade and ending it all when you were cutting?”

She took a sharp breath. “I never wanted to die. For me, cutting was a release valve for all the ugliness.”

“Scott’s smart. He’s not a bad kid, just … lost. This steroid thing is a blip. It’s not worth dying over.”

“You’ve had years to gain perspective. Your mistakes are a blip in your past. My cutting is a blip in mine. But at the time, didn’t it feel like the world was crashing down when our secrets came out? Scott has a long way to go to get there, but you could help him see there’s a way to the other side that doesn’t involve pills. Help him through the darkness.”

He lifted his head, the hint of a smile playing at his mouth. “Not only brilliant and beautiful, but wise?”

She didn’t try to hide from his glib compliment. For the first time in years, she felt an ease with herself. She elbowed his side and tried on a Logan-inspired teasing smile. “And don’t you forget it.”

He took her hand and pressed a kiss into her palm. His warm lips left a brand on her heart. Too soon, he dropped her hand. “We need to roll.”

The truck roared to life, the headlights lighting a swath of grass and trees ahead of them. She moved back over and snapped her seatbelt home. Once off the ridge, he hesitated before pulling out onto the blacktop.

“Will you come to the hospital with me?” The soft glow from the instrument panel settled in the creases by his mouth.

“Of course.”

He sighed as if he’d been holding his breath and drove on. They pulled into the county hospital parking lot fifteen minutes later. A few teenagers milled around the ER doors, hugging and crying. She slipped her hand over his forearm, letting him know without words she was there for him.

Chapter 20

A sense of urgency battled with a miasma of dread weighing Logan’s limbs. He had to face whatever his earlier visit to Scott had unleashed.

Jessica’s fingers landed on his arm like a butterfly. Her eyes were huge, her lips still red from his kisses. He’d nearly told her he loved her. If the phone call hadn’t come in, no doubt, he would have blurted the three dangerous words out sometime before taking her home. The need to confess had grown into a compulsion.

Now that he’d unlocked the door where he’d stuffed all his secrets and fears, they wanted to pour out of him. “Maybe I should have gone to the police. What if he tried to kill himself because of me? What if his parents, Dalt, the town blame me?”

“It’s not your fault. No one will blame you. And, if they do, then…” She shrugged with a small, not very reassuring smile. “We’ll disappear into the woods. Live in the meadow.”

We.
He knitted their fingers together and slid out of the truck, pulling her across the seat with him.

A gauntlet of teenagers milled around the automatic doors. Two girls wailed melodramatically, holding on to each other. Logan’s hand rose to pull the brim of his cap down before realizing his hat was lost on the ridge. He kept his head down and led with one shoulder, Jessica at his hip. Several kids called out to him, asking for news, but he ignored them. The lobby was sterile and quiet. Darcy rose from a corner chair and gestured them over.

“Hey, cuz.” He hugged Darcy close to his side while keeping Jessica’s hand securely in his.

Darcy’s face was pale and drawn. “Robbie’s in the back. He wanted me to text him as soon as you got here.”

Logan covered her phone with his hand. “First tell me what you know.”

“Not much. Stephanie found him on her bathroom floor, incoherent. Doctors don’t think he took enough to kill him, but they pumped his stomach anyway. He’s not talking. Wants to see you.” Darcy’s sympathetic blue eyes were so much like their grandmother’s, a sliver of the comfort Ada always gave him lessened his anxiety.

While Darcy texted Dalt, Logan waited, rocking on his feet, wanting to pace but unable to let go of Jessica’s hand.

Instead of Dalt, Ben Larkin barreled out of the security doors. Logan recognized the zealous determination in the other man’s eyes, had seen the same on Taliban faces in the middle of firefights.

Logan pushed Jessica toward Darcy. Ben had thirty pounds on Logan, at least. The man had been an athlete, but the weight he’d put on had settled as mass not muscle. Ben swung wildly with his left hand. Logan ducked, then blocked the next swing. He shoved Ben backward and retreated a few steps. The last thing he wanted was to hurt a man who was already hurting.

Ben came at him again, low like a bulldozer, notching a shoulder into Logan’s stomach and driving him backward over a vinyl couch. With his arms trapped between the man and the leg of the couch, Logan couldn’t defend himself against the fist that crashed into his cheekbone.

Pain exploded in his head. His vision receded. He worked an arm free and tossed it in front of his face. Another blow glanced off his chin. Instinctively seeking freedom from the weight pressing on him, he kicked his legs out. Consciousness flickered.

The weight lifted, and Logan blinked, but his vision remained blurred. Trickling warmth on his temple and the too-familiar tang of blood in the air turned his stomach.

He flinched at the touch of another pair of hands, but these were gentle and soft, coasting over his forehead and into his hair. “You’re bleeding bad.” Jessica’s voice echoed in his head, but he still couldn’t see clearly.

The haze of pain muffled the synapses in his brain. He pushed to sitting and wiped a surprising amount of blood out of his eye. “I’m fine.”

Jessica didn’t listen. From her crouch next to him, she snapped her fingers, her voice cutting through the room. “Nurse. I want this cut looked at immediately. It might need stitches. Coach Dalton, help me get him up.”

Stitches?

Hands slipped under his arms, and he was pulled to his feet. Dalt’s voice came from behind him. “Can you walk?”

He looked over his shoulder at his best friend. He’d hauled Dalt out of the rubble of a suicide bomber and asked him almost the same question, dragging him to safety before returning for Avery, his service dog. A grim sadness that had plagued Dalt in Afghanistan but had lessened since moving to Falcon shaded Dalt’s eyes.

“What happened? Why is there so much blood?” Logan’s mind moved at the speed of a snail, the words sounding just as slow.

“Ben rung your bell with a couple of punches, but the real problem lies with the University of Alabama football program.”

“What?”

“Ben was wearing his Alabama championship ring. It gashed your cheekbone.” Dalt pulled Logan’s arm around his shoulders. Ben was in the opposite corner with two security guards, too far away for Logan to hear their conversation.

The nurse waved them back into a curtained exam room where a doctor waited. He pushed Logan to lay on the table and shined a bright light in each of his eyes. In a distanced, economical voice, the doctor asked, “What kind of pain meds would you prefer? Narcotic or analgesic?”

“Not narcotic.”

The doctor opened a packet of pills into Logan’s hand and handed him a cup of water. Logan tossed them back.

“Where’s Jessica?” he murmured.

The doctor swabbed his face, red soaking the thin, white gauze.

“I’m here.” Her voice did more than the medicine to ease the pain. She slipped to his other side and took his hand. He kept his gaze on her and not on the blood-soaked gauze.

“You’ll need a half dozen stitches,” the doctor said. “I can’t guarantee no scar, but I’ll do my best. If you’d prefer we can call in a plastic surgeon.”

“You do it. Make it quick.”

The doctor shot numbing agent into his cheek. The pinch made him clutch her hand tighter.

He tried to find solid ground with a joke. “Will you still want a scarred, monstrous beast?”

She held his eyes, and said softly, “I don’t mind scars, if you don’t.”