No Perfect Hero, page 18
“No. That's you. Since I’m sure Hay didn’t give you a forwarding address, you had to get the information somehow.” I fold my arms over my chest, forming a wall. “So you can make your choice: walk away from my girl or get dragged away.”
My girl. It comes out before I can stop it, and in clear earshot of the dozens of nosy patrons listening in avidly.
Fuck. It’s just to get Eddy to back the fuck off and realize he’s playing a losing game here, but goddamm, it feels right.
Eddy stares between me and Hay with something like scorn. Disgust. Disdain.
Then he lets out a scoffing laugh, eyeing her while gesturing at me. “Really? This is your rebound? What a downgrade.”
Tara sticks her tongue out at him, scowling, and bites off, “Don’t you say that about Warren, you buttface.”
A second later, she promptly steps forward and kicks Eddy in the shin.
He yelps, stumbling back, and careens right into me.
I don’t move, just grab his stupid ass. I'm not gonna let him fall, and I'm not gonna catch him, either.
He wavers before staggering away from me and regaining his balance. A wave of quiet laughter rolls through the diner.
Eddy straightens, smoothing his suit coat and looking around huffily, his cheeks bright red. I know his type.
Threaten him with violence and he’ll treat you like an uncultured brute.
Publicly humiliate him and make a dent in that narcissistic ego, though, and he’ll turn tail and run.
He proves me right, sniffing and adjusting his cufflinks. “Play with your Neanderthal if you want, Haley,” he says coldly. “If that’s how you feel you need to punish me, fine. Come home when you’re ready to be an adult again.”
There’s a calculated viciousness to his words. I wonder if this is the first time Haley’s seen this side of him, when she’s pale and looks so exhausted, so hollow.
“Home was never where you are,” Haley answers, soft but firm. “And it never will be.”
Eddy’s silent for a moment – all the time he gets. Then I grab him by the shoulders and carry the fuck out, hurling him on the sidewalk as soon as we're through the door.
“You brute, that's ass–”
“Assault? Yeah. And it'll be a thrashing in self-defense if you don't take your chickenshit ass out of my town.” I'm snarling, watching his lips twitch angrily, so I point back at the window “Don't even think about lawyers. I've got witnesses. Everybody in that diner will back me up.”
Slowly, he stands with an awkward sniff. I wait until he moves away from the diner before I head back inside.
Through the window, I watch as he stands there clumsily like he just remembered he’s left his car at the inn. Then with his back straight and his nose in the air, he turns to march down the side of the road in those Italian leather shoes that are going to raise up some blisters real quick. Good.
He's gone, and Haley goes loose, groaning as she leans hard on Tara. I cross to her quickly, starting to reach for her, then damning it all and resting a hand to the small of her back.
“Hey,” I say. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Maybe,” she says, then shakes her head quickly. “No.”
“Come on.” It feels natural to curl my arm around her, gather her against me, and guide her toward the door. “Let’s get you somewhere private where you can wind down.”
She’s stiff for a moment before she leans against me as if she needs me to hold her up, fitting herself into the crook of my arm. My chest warms. I feel almost satisfied right now, being able to do something for her.
To be her physical and metaphorical shield.
I’d do it for anyone stuck in a situation they don’t want to be in, especially with a fuck like her ex, but it feels more right to do it for Hay.
After this, I'm sure we're technically friends. And that's when it hits me.
I’ve been lying to myself.
Never in a million years will I get off being nothing more than 'friends' with this chick.
I've got to make a move. One that's a lot more fun than throwing the bastard who broke her heart into the dirt.
One fine day, when she’s in a better place for it, when her eyes don’t look so hollow and shocked and she’s got her fire back, it's gonna happen.
Haley and I need to have a talk.
11
Disaster Zone (Haley)
I so wasn’t ready to see Eddy again.
That’s what I keep thinking on the drive back to Charming Inn. Kicking myself the whole way.
Honestly, I wasn’t ready to see him again because I never wanted to see him at all. And when he showed up outside the cabin with that shit-eating grin and the pleading started...I had to spare Tara from a scene.
She was half the reason I didn’t punch him right then. And the other half was because just seeing his face brought that horrible, sick feeling back.
The same feeling I'd had in the bridal shop, in the fitting room, in the dress I was going to wear to our freaking wedding. I couldn’t find either him or Britney anywhere. So I followed the hint of familiar voices and walked in on them fucking in a fitting room with her bridesmaid dress around her hips.
If they wanted to completely destroy me in three seconds flat, they'd found a good way to do it.
I’ve always prided myself on being strong. Practical and no-nonsense, to balance my creative flights of fancy.
But that day something fragile and emotional inside me shattered, some precious thing I’d trusted to Eddy to hold.
He'd crushed it like a playground bully swinging a baseball bat at a ladybug.
And then he'd shown up today and used the sharp jagged fragments to try to cut me again.
All because the selfish prick can’t stand losing.
All because he never learned to take no for an answer.
All because it’s too big a blow to his ego.
That had to be part of the thrill, for him, the day he was busted – playing this risky game of getting caught, convinced he could manage both Britney and me in the same building, with no one the wiser.
It’s strange how clearly I can see him now.
I don’t know why I ever fell for his flat, false, too-smooth face. Why I thought he was someone he wasn’t. Why I believed I loved him, when I know now I can do so much better.
Not that the man sitting quietly behind the steering wheel is any sane option for better, but...I can’t deny one thing.
If my heart sank at the sight of Eddy, it nearly floated to the moon when Warren called me his girl.
I'm not crazy. I know it was just a heat of the moment thing meant to scare Eddy off, but it made me realize my feelings are way more conflicted than I thought.
I can’t dwell on them right now, though. I’m not going to lie, I’m down in a dark place, and when Warren pulls the truck up near our cabin and we get out, the first thing I do is tell Tara to go up to the main house and see if Ms. Wilma needs some help with her crocheting.
It’s better right now. Better for everyone.
She keeps giving me these mournful little looks that tell me her ten-year-old head is too conscious about how I'm feeling. I don’t want the awful way I feel to rub off on her and bring her down. She’s too young, might end up imprinting something she’ll carry forever and that's hardly fair.
Eddy already did enough damage to me.
I won’t let that damage spill over onto her.
Tara’s the happiest little girl I’ve ever known, and if I have anything to say about it, that's how it'll stay.
But Warren’s almost hovering as we mount the steps. Rather than going for his door, he gives me a worried look.
“Can I come in, Hay?”
Honest to God, I don't know.
I frown, looking up at him. I still can’t believe he did that, fighting like he did.
I don’t even know how he knew where to find me, but I can hazard a guess, and that guess involves pigtails. “Why?”
“Because.” He flexes his hands, shaking his head once, that wild crop of dark hair teasing across stern brows that just don’t look as severe as usual. Not when he’s looking at me like I might break. “Because there's no fucking way you should be alone right now.”
“Keep thine enemies close,” I murmur wryly, but right now...he doesn’t feel like the enemy.
He hasn't for a while.
Feels more like a man who keeps trying to save me, over and over again.
Granted, sometimes I don’t need saving.
But today? I think he may have just rescued me from more hurt than I can stand to deal with right now.
I toss my head to him and step inside. He follows, and when I sink on the couch, he settles down just close enough for me to feel his body heat and catch the dark, earthy comfort of his scent, reaching out as if he’d wrap me up again in comfort. Like that smell alone can create a wall of safety between me and the world.
I don’t know what to say now that we’re both sitting here like this, awkwardly silent. So I stare down at my hands, working them together in my lap before curling them over my kneecap.
“So,” he says tentatively.
“So?” I answer.
“How you feeling?”
I smile bitterly. “Like roadkill. Even worse...like an idiot.”
Warren watches me thoughtfully. The usual fierce crackle is gone from his eyes, replaced by a gentle, softer warmth I’d never expected to see. Not with the way we clash and crash and rip at each other.
“You’re not an idiot, Hay,” he promises. “An idiot's what a piece of shit like him deserves, and he's not having you.”
The low, possessive growl in his throat makes me shudder.
“I just...” I shake my head, scrubbing the heel of my palm against one eye, daring it to start to water when it’s already hot and burning dry. “That was him. That was the real Eddy. And I feel like I’ve never seen him until today. I don’t know how I got pulled in by that mask so easily, but I should’ve been smarter. I really shouldn’t have been so stupid, building this fantasy life and imaginary future like it was real, when he was just playing all along.”
Warren says nothing, at first.
I risk glancing at him.
He’s holding one broad, weathered hand out, just offering it to me quietly.
Oh, God. I wonder how many times my heart can break in one day.
Once, from betrayal. Twice, from kindness.
I bite my lip, then slip my hand into his, enjoying that callused warmth enveloping my fingers in sheltering closeness, making the chambers of my heart contract. It's like every door leading into my vulnerable place tries to slam shut on what these feelings mean.
“Hay, listen to me good,” Warren says firmly. “Nothing that happened with that prick is your fault. If he played you, it’s because he made a choice to play you. Not because you did something wrong by not preventing it. He's a con man of the worst kind. Sold you a fucked up lie he wanted you to believe, and it’s his fault that the lie turned into a game.”
“But...” It's too much, and I try to cut him off. Before the tears come.
“Listen, darlin'. There’s no crime in loving someone. Never, ever. You loved who you thought he was, the idea of Eddy. It’s not your fault he spat on that and turned your love into a lie.”
My throat goes horribly, painfully tight. I swallow hard, clutching at his hand, an anchor, something to ground me. Don’t cry, don’t cry...
“Did I really love him?” I whisper with a sniff. “Or was it an ideal? All the stuff I’m supposed to want out of life? A husband. A home. Kids...”
My lips are trembling. It’s a hard, horrible realization to deal with.
Not just that my fiancé never loved me. Maybe I didn’t love him, either.
I accepted him, or who I thought he was, because he was what good sense said I should want in a man.
Someone stable and charming and from a good family. Someone who'd marry an insurance adjuster but who wouldn't look twice at a full-time artist, and who'd just laugh off his wife’s 'harmless little hobby.'” Just as long as I kept painting in between pumping out babies after my inevitable career retirement. Just as long as I took care of our family, our home, while he was off screwing his eighth secretary.
That’s what I’d been headed toward. Suicide by a love that wasn't even real.
Killing the only part of me that feels real. Killing my dreams for a mirage. All because I was too focused on the destination and not who I'd been about to take the journey with.
The art, the creation inside me is a tempest, a firestorm, a hurricane of colors and emotion.
And I was going to hang that up to marry a man who’d fuck my best friend in a fitting room.
That’s the real shame I’m feeling.
And suddenly that dam inside me shatters. I try to hold in the keening sound in the back of my throat, but it’s just not working.
I curl forward with a harsh sob, my eyes bursting, running over with hot tears. Pulling my hand back from Warren’s, I just want to wrap up in myself until I can make this stop.
Only trouble is, he's not having it.
I don't expect the hard body that envelops me, shielding me in Warren Ford, as if he can use his massive bulk to shield me from my own feelings.
“Haley.” He says my name so softly, so fiercely, a sandpaper growl grinding through my bones.
With soft, coaxing, soothing sounds, he draws me into him, and I let him.
He feels good, and not just because he’s ripped and gorgeous and all this slinking sinew under my palms as I press in and clutch at his shoulders.
It's because he’s warm. Because he’s human. Because underneath that constant grouch-cloud following him around everywhere is a decent man.
A kind, thoughtful man who may wear the mask of an asshole, who may be into craziness I can't even wrap my head around, but who uses it to hide his own gentleness.
That's what makes him gather me into his lap now and hold on while I cry myself out.
“Warren, I...”
I don't even know. Because it's on me like a force of nature.
I never really had that big fuck-you cry over the dead engagement and the betrayal.
This hits me like that – the catharsis I need to set this aside to become a memory so I can truly pick up and move forward.
“You're good,” he rumbles, pulling me even deeper into his grip. “Long as I've got you, you're safe. You're good. You're free.”
Oh, sweet Jesus, he has no idea.
I fall to pieces. It feels like I cry for an hour. The whole time, Warren holds me patiently, keeping me close, saying soft things I can’t quite understand. But the steady murmur of his voice lulls me until I no longer feel like I’m shaking apart with every deep, rasping sob.
And as I gradually fall silent, huddled against him, scrubbing at my eyes, he asks, “Better?”
“Better,” I answer hesitantly, pillowing my head to his shoulder. “I’m sorry. This must seem ridiculous.”
“No apologies, Hay. You heard me the first time.” He gives me a warm, gentle squeeze. “You get to feel whatever the fuck you want right now, and it’s okay.”
Maybe he's right, I realize.
He’s not just saying it. Actions speak louder than words, or so they always say.
He’s here for me. Here, in all his big, inked, rock hard flesh.
So I tilt my head back, looking up at him, studying the stark line of his jaw and the clean cut of his bearded profile, that hint of mountain roughness that makes him seem like a wild animal.
I bite my lip. “Thanks, Warren. I won't forget this.”
He turns his head, looking down at me with a small smile.
“No thanking me, either,” he teases softly. “I’m only doing this to get rid of my karmic debt.”
“Nice try, Mister. I forgive you, but I think you’d have to save ten more orphans to smooth things over with the gods,” I throw back, feeling a smile peeking past my own dreary clouds.
He answers with a grin that lights up his eyes. “I saved a stray. Make that nine more orphans, Hay.”
“What worries me is, I’m not sure if you’re talking about Mozart, or me.”
“Considering half the time you’re madder than a wet cat in a bag–”
“Hey.” Chuckling, I shove lightly at his chest. “...you’re not wrong, though. I’ve just...I’ve been trying not to be so angry, but it’s hard. It’s like the whole world decided to take a dump on me all at once, so yeah, I’m pissed. At Eddy, at ex-bestie, at the suits who gave me my pink slip, at the gallery owner, at the people who looked at my paintings and just never cared.” I make a frustrated sound in the back of my throat, knowing I sound way too much like the entitled artist. God. “But...none of them care if I’m angry at them. They barely remember I exist. So it feels pointless, and yeah, I wind up being mad at everyone. And it’s useless. It’s all so pointless.”
“Not pointless.” Warren squeezes me again. His big, strong arm around me makes me feel safer, more secure, after I’ve felt adrift for days. “We get pissed for good reason, Hay. A lot of times, anger is the thing we need most to keep us moving forward in the face of shit that'd make us shut down, give up, and freeze. It’s just important to know when your anger's useful, and when it’s hurting you so much that it’s time to let go.”
He makes sense. Far more sense than I want to admit.
If everything hadn’t made me so angry, I might not even be here in Heart's Edge.
I might've just gone slumming over to my sister’s and curled up in her guest room and refused to function for a few months. Instead, I decided to pack up and hit reset on my life.
And sure, everything’s gone catastrophically wrong since then, and I’m semi-stranded in some backwater mountain town flashing cleavage for enough tips to truly start my new life in Chicago, but it's not all bad.
I’m not stagnating. I’m in control. And I’m kinda having fun.
Looking up at Warren, I know something else – the scenery here in Heart's Edge isn't close to half bad.
So maybe, just maybe...I’m ready to stop being angry, too.
“So if it’s time to let go of being mad,” I ask carefully, “what then?”
