Breaths.
Awareness.
So full of life! Laura had never been so radiant with them. Perhaps she’d really moved on, finding a new person— persons?—to be happy with. The way the pink and white and green of her shirt had highlighted her hair, her eyes shining and bright, and how Josie had even seemed happier than her normal self all made Mike wonder if he and Dylan were just poison for poor Laura.
Maybe not telling her the truth, though vicious and unfair, had somehow been the right thing in the end. Beating the steering wheel with one fist, he let himself feel. Not react. Not withdraw.
Feel. Fuck fuck fuck. How had his life come to this? Alone in his enormous cabin, designed to be filled with friends and laughter, it was now inhabited by Mike the Monk. Mike the Idiot.
Mike the Lonely. And he was, for the first time in his adult life. Not alone—alone he understood. Alone he could handle, could even enjoy.
Lonely? Lonely was a form of self-abuse he couldn’t escape.
Not that he hadn’t tried. Running ninety miles a week, though, didn’t get him any further from his messed-up self. How had he turned into such an animal that last day at the apartment? What was buried deep within and unleashed at that moment, so all-powerful he’d gone into a near fugue state and been so violent? It had scared him. Badly.
Maybe he should stay away from Laura. Even Dylan.
Perhaps being lonely was his new normal. What he deserved. Because whatever was going on in Laura’s life, from the looks of her countenance in the window glimpse, she was swelling with glee and enjoying life.
Without him.
Screech. A BMW took a corner too close in the cement-floor garage, tires filling the cavern with too much sound. The clock told him he was late for the meeting with the tax attorney. Climbing out of the car and grabbing his briefcase, he smiled at the memory of her. Once his, once Dylan’s, once theirs, she had morphed into just Laura.
Which was, all along, what she’d really needed.
Tears choked his throat. He ground a fist into his thigh, willing the unexpected rush of very unprofessional emotion away. Tax attorneys weren’t therapists. He was here to talk numbers. As he cantered to the elevators, though, one number rang mournfully in his head, buzzing.
Three.
“You see that? Mr. Money strikes again.” Dylan flinched but didn’t say anything. The guys working the night shift were all crowded around the television, the same local morning news show that had featured his doom...er, his billionaire status three months ago.
“Some guy with more money than he can burn,” Murphy added. The morning anchors were babbling on about some unnamed philanthropist who had come to the aid of burn victims from a local warehouse fire, then mentioned another incident last month where the same donor may have contributed $100,000 to help victims of an unexpected October ice storm.
Every head in the fire station turned to stare at him. “What?” he hollered, trying to get the attention off him. He was just here as a lowly volunteer, looking for something to do.
Murphy laughed, the first good belly chuckle anyone had heard from him in months. Dylan had recently, quietly, funneled a substantial five-figure sum to him to pay for a caretaker for his wife and father. With good care, she was expected to have a strong chance of survival. His father, though, was fading fast. The money bought some peace and space for the family, and isn’t that all anyone could ask for?
“A torn AC/DC shirt and jeans? You are the strangest fucking billionaire I ever met, Dylan,” he said.
“Only fucking billionaire you ever met, Murphy. You probably don’t even know any thousandaires,” Joe cracked. Everyone chuckled, Murphy included. The chief shooed them off to do work.
“You slumming?” he asked Dylan.
“Nah. Just covering a volunteer shift.” Truth be told, he was bored and lonely with Mike gone. But he couldn’t say that at work. The guys might be good at heart, but a few were as enlightened as a lamp post.
“You can do that from home, you know. Scanner.”
“Mine’s broken.”
Joe’s eyebrows flew up. “And you can’t afford a new one?”
“So sue me. I just want to hang out here.”
“Poor little rich firefighter?” Joe’s voice wasn’t mean. Just inquiring. It put Dylan on edge, made him ball his hands into fists, temper rising.
“Something like that.”
“Grab one of the scanners from here on your way out, then. There’s a big training going on in New York and a bunch of guys are there, so we can use all the volunteers we can get tonight. You OK with being on call through the night?”
A warmth spread through him, making him stand taller. He remembered this feeling. Happiness. Purpose. Power.