Raw Deal(15)

Clearing her throat and getting a grasp on her breathing, she managed to  smile and nod at him. If she were smart, she would sever any and all  temptation at the root and take her ass back to the hotel with Rowan  after the concert. Go to bed, get herself off, and go the hell to sleep.

But she would regret it. She would lie awake at night and wish she could  change it. She was so sick of regret. "That sounds amazing," she told  him. "But . . . I mean, as long as I'm back in a few hours. Is that  okay? In case Rowan needs anything."

"Whenever you want to leave is fine," he assured her. "It'll take an hour to get there, though, and another to get back."

If you come, she heard, you'll be staying the night. "Yes. I mean . . . that's fine."

"Shoot me a text when you're ready for me to come get you," he said.

"Okay. I'll do that." Smiling at each other, they parted ways, but she  had to sneak a peek over her shoulder at him walking away. And he caught  her looking, because he was doing the same thing.                       
       
           



       

Shit! Snapping her head back around, she plowed through the bathroom  door before she crashed into it, making a beeline for the sink to splash  some cold water on her face.

What are you doing what are you doing what are you . . . ?

Damn if she knew. Her parents would disown her, Rowan might never speak  to her again, Tommy was probably flipping in his grave. But she couldn't  shake this gnawing belief that Mike wasn't the villain they had him  pegged for. He was a fighter who'd fought for everything in his life.  Tommy had been a fighter who had everything handed to him in life. He'd  fought for glory. Mike had fought for survival; maybe he knew no other  way.

Looking up at her reflection in the mirror, she found herself disheveled  and rather pale. Her dark hair had lost most of its big, loose curl,  falling in lazy waves. But her eyes were bright and full of  anticipation.

Surely her brother couldn't fault her for going after what would make her happy. Even if it was only for one night.





Chapter Eight


"Rowan is a little slice of heaven, ain't she?" Zane asked, scrubbing at his wet hair with the towel draped around his neck.

"And pregnant," Mike pointed out.

"So?"

"And widowed, thanks to me."

"Your point is?"

"Come on, Z."

"She can't mourn forever."

"No one said she should. But she's still mourning now. Try to be a  little less of an asshole." Though you're one to talk, motherfucker,  with the thoughts you've had about Savannah in the past hour. It didn't  matter; he could handle himself. It was his brother he worried about.

"Yeah, I could tell she is. She was trying to put it aside for a night, but I think she was having a hard time doing it."

"I got that impression too." Mike had seen her at the side of the stage.  She'd looked like she was having the time of her life. He couldn't  blame the girl for wanting to let her hair down, he'd only wondered how  genuine it was, or how much of it was put on for Savannah's benefit.

All in all it made him feel like absolute shit.

"Why are you still doing this to yourself?"

Mike glanced up to find Zane's gaze steady on him. His wasn't as  piercing or discerning as Damien's, who had departed as the last chords  reverberated through the arena, but it saw enough. "What?"

"You haven't been half bad the last couple of weeks, but these girls  show up and you're all in your head again. Have you done enough now?  Will you let it the fuck go?"

"It won't ever be enough."

Zane grumbled something, scrubbed at his long hair again and looked around for his shirt. "You can't bring the guy back."

Mike shifted around in frustration, energy coursing along every nerve  like fire. "You don't fucking say. I honestly didn't realize that,  Zane."

"I can't figure out your endgame on this."

"Because there isn't one. I'm responsible for their suffering. The endgame is I'll do whatever I can for them whenever I can."

"Even if all you ever get is a ‘thanks' and ‘fuck off.'"

"It's not about what I'll get."

"Just seems kind of senseless. Do nice things, sure, but not at the  expense of your own sanity. I also can't see how you always being up in  their business won't bring back bad shit for them, too."

Zane didn't get it, but the bigger problem was that Mike couldn't  explain it. His younger brother was right, most likely. "I'm seeing  Savannah after I leave here," he admitted. "She's going to text me when  she's ready."

"Oh, no, man."

"What?"

Zane waved a hand and wandered back into the adjoining bathroom, though  he still kept up the conversation. "I'm not trying to tell you what's  what," he said ironically, since that was exactly what he'd been doing.  "Do what you want. I just think it's a bad move."

"While you hitting on Rowan wouldn't be?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I didn't kill her husband."

"No, but your brother did. That makes you the enemy whether you like it or not. You're on my side, right?"

"Yeah, but . . . forget about Rowan anyway. We talked, she's cool, she's  going back home now. I didn't bother getting her number and I doubt  I'll ever even see her again." The water turned on, and suddenly Zane's  voice was muffled as if he had a mouthful of toothpaste. "And if you  were smart you'd let Savannah get on that plane too without getting all  tangled up in this . . . whatever it is."                       
       
           



       

Right again. So right. Zane wandered back in, brushing his teeth, and  stared Mike down mercilessly for a minute. When he pulled the toothbrush  from his mouth, he said, "Shit. You've already got it bad for this  girl."

"No I don't."

Zane scoffed and ambled his way back through the door, steadily  brushing. That was one problem growing up with two brothers with whom  you shared one tiny bedroom and barely had access to any other parts of  the house lest you be exposed to raucous sex, violence, or drug use. In  quarters that close, those two brothers grew up knowing everything about  you, everything you were thinking, what you were going to say or do  before you said or did it. That bond couldn't be denied. It was enough  to drive him insane some days, and definitely enough to keep him away  from them when he was going through some shit he wanted to deal with on  his own. Damien was the worst, sure, but Zane was getting there fast.

"I don't have it bad for her," he tried again, more forcefully this  time. "She's an amazing girl and we'll talk tonight, but in thirty-six  hours she will get on that plane and that will most likely be the last  time I ever see her too. She has a life to get back to. I couldn't fit  in it even if I wanted to."

Zane merely grunted in response. Which was almost worse than arguing  with him. It meant he was done with the debate because he knew he was  right. Luckily, Savannah took that cue to text him.

Rowan all tucked away in bed. The rooms are fabulous, thank you AGAIN. I'm ready when you are.

"I'm out," he called to Zane, getting to his feet. "You going straight home when you leave here?"

"If I even remember where the fuck it is."

Mike chuckled at that, heading for the door. "I'll catch up with you soon."

He'd managed to ditch Nicole in the after-show chaos, ducking into the  dressing room with Zane where very few others were allowed. His phone  had been sullenly silent on her behalf, so he hoped she was gone and not  milling around hoping to find him. Nevertheless, he looked both ways  when he stuck his head out the door, then set off toward the exit.  Hurting her feelings wasn't an idea he relished, but neither was getting  caught up in her drama.

He had Savannah waiting for him.

On my way, he answered her.



When the knock sounded on Savannah's hotel door, she surged up from her  chair as if a fire alarm had sounded. He'd come to her door to get her?  She'd expected an I'm out front message so as to minimize any chance of  bumping into Rowan . . . who was supposed to be in bed next door, but  might be prone to a midnight snack attack that necessitated a trip to  find vending machines.

She should've known better. It was probably a ridiculous notion, but  Mike Larson would probably be Savannah's personal bodyguard if she let  him. She simply got that feeling from him.

Biting her lip, she watched him through the peephole for a few seconds.  He'd ditched the baseball cap, nothing to shadow or mitigate the  devastating power of his eyes. Anxiety fluttered in her throat.

He was smiling when she opened the door, and she couldn't help returning  it. Great smile. She'd bet he had a great laugh, too. Maybe tonight she  would find out.