Can't Let Go. Gena Showalter

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СКАЧАТЬ of the compliment she desired. Unwilling to give up an inch of ground he’d won, however, he said, “If you want your business to come out of this alive, you’ll do what I say. End of story.”

      She took a step toward him. Her breasts brushed against his chest, earning a gasp from her and a hiss from him. Like a coward—an aching, throbbing coward—he took a step back, severing contact.

      “I think I’ll be okay. Forgot to tell you I streamed a video of Mr. Dushku’s men tonight.”

      “A video won’t save you in the future.” Another step back.

      “Are you afraid of me, Jude?” She followed him, voiding his retreat, suddenly so close her warm breath rasped over the racing pulse at the base of his neck.

      “No!” His spine bowed as the denial roared from him. Over the years, he’d been shot, stabbed and had part of an appendage blown off. Fear a slip of a woman? “No,” he repeated, doing his best to sound calmer.

      “Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” As graceful as a ballerina, as erotic as a pole dancer, she turned and glanced at him over her shoulder. “I think I would have enjoyed soothing you.”

      Had she just...come on to him?

      Jude pulled at his collar, skin growing clammy. Ryanne Wade was too hot, and so was his blood. His body was in serious danger of overheating, a physical reaction he hadn’t experienced in a long time, thanks to another woman.

      Constance Laurent. My Constance.

      Memories fought for his attention. The way she had smiled at him each morning when she’d woken in their bed, as if overjoyed to find him home. The way she’d somehow ruined every meal she’d ever cooked, but had looked at him with adoration whenever he’d cleaned his plate. The way she’d cried during Hallmark movies.

      The air might as well have turned to syrup; it was too thick to pull into his lungs, his chest too tight. His limbs shook.

      Time to go. He didn’t bother saying goodbye to Ryanne as he rushed past her, didn’t even wave to his friends. He flew out of the bar, never once looking back.

      * * *

      JUDE THREW HIS truck in Park. Half the vehicle was in grass, the other half in the driveway. At least he’d made it to the cabin he leased with Brock rather than stopping in the middle of a road.

      Each breath more labored than the last, Jude headed for the porch. Midway, he fell to his knees. Pain and grief exploded inside him, filling him, killing him.

      A lie. He wasn’t dying. Not even close. Death would have been a mercy, and mercy wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole.

      Screaming obscenities at the sky, he punched his fists into the grass. Crickets quieted, and fireflies vanished. Hanks of dirt flung this way and that. A rock sliced into the side of his hand, the sting a minor inconvenience compared to the fire seeming to pour through his chest, ashing his heart, charring his lungs.

      This was his life now, a series of minutes and days bleeding into months and years. He existed, nothing more, except for moments like this, when the pain and grief overtook him—then he agonized.

      Why? Why did he continue to agonize? He should rejoice. Pain and grief were his friends. Pain had been there for him on the worst day of his life. Grief had hugged him close and kept him focused on what he’d lost: his entire fucking world.

      He knew the answer, though. Deep down, he resented every second he spent on this earth. And yet, still he fought to survive.

      I don’t want to fight anymore.

      Must.

      Long ago, he’d made a promise to Constance. Shy, sweet Constance, his high school sweetheart.

      They’d met on a double date he’d attended only because his friend had begged. One look at Constance, and he’d been a goner. She’d been as pretty and delicate as a cameo, and she’d sent his adolescent hormones into a tailspin.

      She’d wanted him, too, willingly shucking convention to go steady with the poorest boy in town. The boy who’d once nailed more tail than Brock on his best day, all in an effort to prove he was wanted, or worth something.

      You’re worth everything, Jude Laurent. Do you hear me? Everything!

      They’d married the week after graduation. Determined to provide a better life for her, he’d joined the military.

      Before he’d shipped out the first time, she’d wrapped her arms around him and said, “Promise me you’ll never give up, no matter how hard it gets and no matter what happens.”

      “I promise. I’ll never give up. Now give me a kiss. Remind me of what I’ll be missing.”

      If he could have lived inside the fabric of his happiest memories, he might have had a halfway decent chance of becoming the man he’d once been. But reality was a determined foe, as unstoppable as the pain and grief, clawing and kicking at his mind, demanding its due. Dreams offered no succor; any time his subconscious took over, he relived a moment he hadn’t actually witnessed—a night forged in blood, fire and death.

      The night his wife and twin daughters had died.

      In the present, hot tears poured down his cheeks, leaving raw, stinging tracks in their wake. Two and a half years ago, a frat boy had drunk too much at a local bar, climbed into his car and driven away. No one had cared enough to stop him. Only nine minutes, twenty-three seconds later, he’d crashed into Constance Laurent’s car, ruining Jude’s life forever.

      Constance died on her way to the hospital. The twins, Bailey and Hailey, died on impact.

      The entire world should have ceased spinning that...very...second. The galaxy should have mourned the loss of such beauty, laughter and light. Rare treasures, his girls.

      Dance with me, Daddy. I found my moves and my grooves!

      Daddy, I’m not joking and I’m not playing. I need chocolate right now or I’m gonna lose it.

      Lose what, little sweet? he’d asked.

      I don’t know. Whatever it is.

      Children changed you the moment they were conceived. Made you softer and harder all at once. You learned to play defense and offense simultaneously, protecting your kids while warring with anyone who dared to threaten them.

      After the accident, people had offered him what they thought were words of comfort. Meant to be. No stopping fate.

      More lies. Fate hadn’t poured alcohol down Frat Boy’s throat, or put car keys in his hand.

      Besides, nothing comforted Jude. The only arms capable of offering him solace were now rotting in a grave.

      All he had left were memories of a life he’d once adored. Memories he both adored and despised. He remembered the way Bailey’s nose had crinkled when she’d giggled. The way Hailey had twirled a strand of hair around her finger when she cried. The way Constance had blown him a kiss every time he’d walked out the door, whether he’d been headed for another mission or to the grocery store.

      Memories СКАЧАТЬ