Touching Down(4)

God knew I’d left plenty of myself behind in those filthy rooms and dark halls.

I knew she wasn’t there anymore—I’d gotten a message a year ago from a police officer who’d called to let me know my mother’s body had been found deceased inside the same apartment she’d been dead inside of for years. Her body had finally followed her soul.

That should have been a relief to those who’d known her and her tortured existence, but the news had come when I was struggling to come to terms with some news of my own. Instead of being happy my mother had finally found peace in death, I found myself wanting to curse her for it. I found myself battling feeling as though I’d been cheated and wronged. I found myself wanting to curse my mother’s dead body instead of lay it to rest, so instead of returning that phone call from the police detective, I let it go unanswered.

I’d let the city take care of my mother’s body, excusing my actions as it being more concern than she’d ever shown me. Then I’d sealed the door on all my memories of that woman, and tried to cope with the news of my own loss.

The news I was still struggling to cope with.

Just as I was twisting around on the lawn so I wouldn’t be tempted to glance back at the Towers, I heard the back door whine open, followed by the sound of heavy footsteps moving across the porch. As well-loved as Aunt May’s house had been, it was old. Everything whined and creaked and moaned, from the doors to the floorboards to the windows, but I’d only ever known one person large enough to make the back porch sound as though it were about to collapse.

Instead of making the most of this golden opportunity to get him alone, I pressed my body harder into the grass, almost like I was trying to become one with it.

Not once in the two hours since I’d arrived had Grant’s attention turned my way again, and as desperate as I was to clear the air with him, I was just as petrified. Not because I was scared of what he’d say or how loud or animated he’d get—because, hell, a person couldn’t be as close to Grant Turner as I had and be someone who scared off easily—but because I was terrified of how he’d respond. Not in words, but in action. Would he be receptive to what I had to tell him, or would he shut down the way he’d been shutting me out all night?

Either way, I couldn’t find out until I approached him.

As I worked to conjure up my courage, I heard the back door open again. It was almost immediately followed by a sigh. It was a familiar one, leading me to believe that whoever had just joined him on the back porch wasn’t exactly a welcome addition.

“What’s a big, important guy like you doing back here all alone?” The woman’s voice was so cloying that it made my stomach turn.

“I needed to be alone.” Grant’s voice spilled out into the dark yard, making the skin on my arms prickle.

It had been years since I’d heard his voice, but it sounded exactly the way I remembered it. The tenor was different, but the voice remained unchanged.

“Grant Turner never needs to be alone. You ought to know that by now.” The woman’s voice dropped a few notes, insinuation coating every word. She must have been wearing heels with the way her footsteps echoed across the porch as she moved.

I withheld an eye roll and bit back the jealousy rising in my throat. Grant had never been short for applicants when it came to sharing his bed, even as a young teen. I was sure with the notoriety of his name and the dollar signs attached to it, that line of women had gone from impressive to staggering.

“I wanted to be alone.” Grant’s tone took on a sharp edge.

“And why in the world would you want to be alone when you could have any woman you want?” A few more heel strikes struck across the porch. “Even the one in front of you. Right here. Right now.”

“Bridget . . .” There was a warning in his voice. “No.”

Bridget Plummer. I remembered having to chase her away back then, when she’d come sniffing around Grant with her big tits, tight ass, and loose reputation. On the surface, I had nothing on Bridget Plummer. I had curves, if you counted the angles of my knees and elbows, and I had a makeup routine, if you considered chap-stick a “routine.” Not to mention, I wasn’t the girl who apparently gave such good head, her name and reputation spanned the entire state.

Bridget Plummer was on one end of the female spectrum, and Ryan Hale had been on the opposite end. I guessed that still proved true, years later.

“Why not?” Bridget asked. “You’ll never know what you’re missing out on unless you have a little taste.”

My stomach roiled at the thought of Grant taking her up on her offer. There was no way I could just lay there, quiet and still, as he fucked her over the damn banister or wherever it was she had in mind. But how awkward would it be to pop up and excuse myself, the former flame of the guy whose hands were at his fly while some other woman crawled all over him?