But I’m stuck. Trapped.
Some of it has been my own doing, some not. The thing is, I can’t change the past. As much as I wish I could, there are too many things beyond my control¸ things that have nothing to do with Katie. Yet everything to do with why I’m not with her right now.
I jerk off my sparring gloves and throw them aside in a fit of temper. I turn and walk off the mat, running my fingers through my wet hair. Damn it! If I’d only known that the two men who hurt her most in the entire world were two people that I was forced to work with . . .
But then what? Would I have kept it from her? Not told her I knew them, worked with them? Maybe I’d have told her elaborate lies. Or just never let her find out.
No.
Hell no. I couldn’t do that to her. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I’d taken away her right to choose like that. Even if I knew that choice would mean the end of us. And that’s just what it cost me—her. Us.
She thinks I’m a pile of shit for associating with the Simses. Actually, I couldn’t agree more. But it’s not just me who would suffer if I cut ties. And that’s what makes me stuck.
If it were just me or my career, or even my ass on the line, I’d choose her over them so fast it would make their heads spin. But it’s not. Only she can never know that. No one can. It’s a secret I have to keep.
That doesn’t mean that I’m sitting idly by, letting those two bastards get away with what they did, though. I’ve been having that shithole Calvin followed since the morning after Katie left. I’ll get him for something. I’ll nail his ass to the wall. For Katie. Even though no one will know that it was me who did it or that she’s the reason. That doesn’t matter, though. I’ll know. And that’s how I’ll be able to sleep at night. Well, what little bit of sleep I actually get without Katie.
THIRTY-NINE
Katie
I wake with a pounding heart and a heaving chest. My dream . . . it was so real. I was at work with my back to the door, putting away some new products, when Calvin walked in. I turned to find him just a few feet away, watching me. As big as life. As big as my nightmares.
I realize now that he hasn’t changed much. I didn’t really notice at Rogan’s match; I was too stunned by his presence to note much of anything. But I relived it all in my dream, and I saw. I really saw. Saw the handsome exterior. Saw the monster underneath.
His hair is still dark sable and cut short. He’s got the hair of an aristocrat. And why not? He’s like political royalty because of his father. His face is still handsome even though I’d much rather see it after a truck tire rolls over it. His eyes are still the same greenish blue, but in my dream, the pretense was gone. There was not a shred of kindness in the cold depths. He’d stopped playing the game. We’d come to an understanding. I know just what lies beneath the surface and he’s not going to waste his energy trying to convince me that I don’t.
I shudder involuntarily as I think about glancing down at his hands in my dream, hands that brought me such pain during the year we were together. Hands that ultimately stole everything from me with the simple flick of a match.
Even as I curl onto my side under the covers, I still feel every single emotion as if I’d actually experienced the whole thing. In a way, I guess I did. It was as if I’d actually gone through with it. But this . . . this is why I have to call Rogan. I have to fight this. I can’t trust them. I won’t trust them. Not with my life. Not with a day. And certainly not with Rogan’s future.
No, this is my only choice. Today I have to call Rogan.
FORTY
Rogan
I’m already irritable, as it seems I always am here lately, when I pull up to my house to find a rental car in the driveway. “Who the hell is this?” I bark at the quiet interior.
I get out and walk up the front steps, slinging open the door. I stop dead when I see Jasper, one of my Army buddies, standing in the kitchen talking to Kurt.
He turns when the door slams shut behind me and then I see a woman peek around his shoulder. She’s practically hidden by him. I recognize her. She’s the Colonel’s daughter. We met a few weeks ago when the three of us—Jasper, Tag and me—went to Atlanta to discuss Reid’s death and who’s targeting our team with the Colonel. His daughter, Muse, was there. Not a name or a face I’m likely to forget. She’s gorgeous as hell.
But she’s not Katie.
“Hope you don’t mind that we dropped by,” Jasper says. His voice is dark and deep, like always. He was the more . . . intense of the four of us. Even now, though his comment is casual enough, there’s something about his expression that tells me this is no casual visit.