Out of Focus (Chosen Paths #2) (19 page)

Finally, I give out, panting as I bend at the waist.

My inescapable anger is extinguished, replaced by the thrumming of my heart. Grady’s Nikes come into view, only to be followed by the swirling intensity in those compassionate eyes when he crouches in front of me.

“Feel better?”

I nod once, still trying to catch my breath.

He presses up off his feet and his fingers curl around my chin as he stands, bringing me upright with him. Our stares locked, he angles his head slightly, then asks, “Wanna talk about it?”

I begin to say no, but I’m stunted by my efforts. I’m overwhelmed. Exhausted. Both physically and emotionally. There’s nothing left in me to guard the words before they explode from my mouth.

“You’re not the only one who knows about senseless death, Grady. I lost someone too. Someone I cared about very deeply. Someone who left and never came back. Someone who, five years ago, was shot and killed right alongside his
sister
.”

There is no look of surprise on Grady’s face as he listens. And with his lack of reaction, I realize he already knows about Rat’s death. Of course he does. It’s a major underlying factor in the reason Dalton came back.

Grady remains silent while I mindlessly continue my rant, breaking eye contact with him to pace the floor as I speak. “I mean, he was there one minute, talking about how the effects of a choice
one
person makes can alter who
you
are as a person, then the next minute, he was gone. And it pisses me off.”

Rage-filled tears begin to build with each aimless step I take.

“It fucking pisses me off because he deserved so much better than that. He was a
good
person. He deserved to live a long, happy life, but he was never given that chance.”

I turn and face Grady who watches me with empathy.

“And it pisses me off because he
understood
. He knew exactly
how it felt to be taken advantage of in a way that can’t be undone. He understood living with the fucking consequences of someone else’s choice. We shared in that torture. Yet here I am. I
live
with it day in and day out
,
while he’s buried six-feet underground. It makes me sick.”

My eyes break away from his to look upward. My voice is barely above a whisper as I admit, “I fucking went crazy when he died. And it only got worse after Spencer left for college. I was going out, getting wasted, doing God knows what with complete strangers just to forget. To numb the agony of knowing I lost the only person in the world who would understand
me
.”

I laugh, dejected, tearing my eyes away from the ceiling and bringing them back to Grady’s.

“And you know what my parents did?”

The shake of Grady’s head is slight, but it prompts me to continue.

“They put an alarm on my fucking window, my only escape from the nightmares. They caged me in like an animal inside my own personal hell. For months, I was forced to remain locked in that bedroom, visited each night by the terror of my memories. I will never forgive them for that.”

Tears have long since broken free, trailing down my face as I speak. Grady makes no move to approach, but his voice is as resounding as if he were standing two inches away.

“Do you know why I brought you here?”

I sniff, frustrated, then shake my head as I wipe my nose with the bottom of my shirt, awaiting his answer.

“Because you’re a fighter. You do what you need to do to survive, including throwing those walls up at a moment’s notice to protect yourself. I get that. I
understand
that. But what
you
need to understand is that sometimes those walls have to come down, sweetheart, just so you can breathe.”

He takes a deliberate step in my direction.

“You said it yourself, you get to live.
He
didn’t have a choice, and neither did my sister. They were victims. You are not. You’re a survivor. But you keep doing what you’re doing, you keep building those walls, cutting off anyone and everything around you, you might as well bury yourself right along with the both of them.”

Another step.

“Do you think your friend
wanted
to die?”

My head jerks back. “No. What the hell kind of question is that?”

Grady takes the final step he needs to stand in front of me. His eyes bore through me, not uncaring, just penetrating as he elaborates. “I mean, do you think he would have rather died than go on living his life the way it was? Just given up? Or do you think he would have fought to make a better one?”

I answer with absolute conviction in my tone. “He would have fought.”

He never had the chance.

Grady nods encouragingly. “Exactly, but he wasn’t given that choice. It was taken from him. However, you still have yours. The question is, what are you going to do with it? Are you going to let your fears reign, allow them to keep you from really living? Or are you going to dig deep, face them head-on, and fight for yourself to have a better life? A happier one. The one
you
deserve.”

He shrugs. “The choice is yours.”

He’s lying.

You don’t deserve anything other than loneliness.

You have no choice.

Your sentence has already been decided.

Grady ends his statement with a gentle kiss to my temple, then turns to leave.

I shake my head to stifle the voices and train my focus on the true meaning behind his words.

Do you know why I brought you here?

I do. I know with certainty he brought me here for other reasons than the one he chose to disclose.

He knew I would get angry. He knew I would exhaust myself to the point of talking. And he knew exactly what he was going to say before he even brought me here.

I watch him walk away, wondering if he also knew that by the end of this ridiculous sparring session, one of those walls would be completely obliterated, leaving me utterly exposed and defenseless . . .

As I willingly just handed to him a piece of my past.

TWO HOURS LATER, I’M
sitting in Grady’s apartment, stuffing my face with a melted ham and cheese. While watching Grady cook has quickly become one of my favorite experiences, devouring his meals is definitely a close second.

Both are delicious and equally appealing.

Setting the sandwich down onto the plate, I chance a glance at Grady next to me. His hair is still secured tightly in a low ponytail, leaving the shaved sides of his head exposed, the length of the hairs only a tad shorter than the growing scruff that covers the sharp line of his jaw.

It’s amazing the clarity that comes with multiple failed attempts at assault. It’s as though I’m really seeing him for the first time today.

His stare flicks upward from his plate to meet mine and widens when he notices my quiet observation of him. Brazenly, I don’t look away. It’s not like me to hold someone’s eyes, well, prior to Grady anyway. But this man, this intelligent, unapologetic, sexy man has me stupefied.

And as I look at him my mind begins to question.

How long has he been a cop?

How
old
is he?

Why is he so invested in me?

And how the hell can someone I barely know read me so easily?

Why does he even care?

My eyes remain locked with his, unyielding, astounded by the strength and confidence stemming from them. I wonder what he sees when he looks at me?

Do I even want to know?

Propping my elbow onto the granite of the island, I set my chin in the palm of my hand, steadying my stare. Grady sets his own sandwich onto his plate then pushes it aside, giving him room to imitate my pose. My mouth curves into a slight smile, and I watch as his does the same.

His tone is soft as he speaks. “Like what you see?”

My lips kick up higher. “It’s
decent
.”

Grady’s shoulders shake as he chuckles, eyes bright with amusement. He bends, swiveling me in my seat and gripping the bottom of my bar stool. The chair screeches along the floor as he heaves me closer with one pull. My knees hit the front of his stool, trapped between his legs on either side. A shiver rakes through me when he places his hand on my knee, casually stroking it as he states, “Just
decent
?”

All sass vanishes and I swallow, his proximity instigating the hammer of my chest and the loss of words.

His eyes drift to my neck, then slowly, he shifts forward to place his parted lips tenderly on my skin. “A
decent
man would have more self-control, but,” another warm touch of his mouth, “it seems I have no control when it comes to you.”

Warmth blossoms in my stomach and pools between my legs. I press them together, the ache intensifying with each nip his teeth leave along my skin. Involuntarily, my throat works another swallow, and I feel Grady’s grin before he rises.

His eyes are heated, the burn in them similar to the heat I feel warming my face. Smile still intact, he bites into the fullness of his bottom lip and I draw my tongue across my own, my eyes refusing to leave his. I feel youthful. Giddy. Daring.

An unfamiliar childlike innocence and awe for the person in front of me washes away the revulsion I typically feel when this close to someone. Never before has anyone brought out this side of me, this wondrous feeling of excitement due to a mere touch.

I want to feel more.

Leaning forward, I mimic his gesture, slowly propelling myself forward and pressing my lips onto the skin of his neck. I can feel his quickening pulse beneath my mouth, and without haste, I leisurely trail the tip of my tongue where it rapidly rises and falls. Grady draws in a long breath, and his free hand curls around the back of my neck while the other remains on my leg, stroking my knee.

I inhale deeply, taking in his scent, then end the brief kiss, sealing my lips against the soft skin before rising. Grady’s hold remains, guiding me as he presses his forehead against mine.

“Dance with me?” he asks, voice gruff.

This is the second time he’s asked me that question, and I say a silent prayer that this dance goes better than the first one. To him it may seem a simple request, but for me, it’s one that holds magnanimous meaning. I’ve never really
danced
with anyone. In my younger years, I often attended school dances, but the dancing was definitely not why I went. I used them as an excuse to find my escape, disappearing to the nearest unlocked classroom with the first willing participant. And prom, well . . . needless to say I missed that.

But now, looking into the depth of Grady’s pleading eyes, I want to give him this. So many firsts I wish I had to offer no longer exist. But
this
, this is Grady’s dance. Just for him. A part of me, a tiny piece of innocence lost that only he can render with his patience and understanding in allowing—in encouraging—me to be me.

I dip my chin and he removes his hold on my neck to take my hand. Linking a long finger with my pinky, he steps off his stool then waits patiently for me to follow. Together, we make our way to the living room. Grady leads me to the TV then crouches on his knees, opening the doors of the cabinet below it.

With the touch of his hand, an iPod and dock power on. With the other still holding mine, he searches for the song he’s looking for then hits play. As he rises to his feet, the sound of a strumming guitar and soft keys playing on a piano fill the air around us. Grady steps closer to me, bringing his torso inches from mine, then adjusts his hold so his fingers curl around my hand. His other arm circles my waist and slowly, he pulls my body flush with his. I lay my cheek on his shirt and inhale, our feet beginning to move to the music. It’s a beautiful, haunting melody.

I have never done this.

Never taken this time with anyone.

Never danced with anyone.

Never been . . . held like this by anyone.

I smile to myself, savoring the foreign feeling.

“What song is this?” I ask, enjoying the warmth of his body so close to mine.

His voice rumbles against my ear. “Draw Your Swords, by Angus and Julia Stone.”