Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3) (19 page)

She was near tears now. He'd made her cry, and he couldn't figure out how so he could stop doing it and never do it again. “Baby, please don't.”

“No. This is going to stop for tonight. You need distance and I need clarity.” She backed away toward the door, as if not wanting to turn her back on him. “I want you to kick some ass in Texas, okay?”

She wiped away a tear, and it broke his heart. “I'll call you when I land.”

Kara nodded, but didn't say good-bye as she closed the door behind her.

He'd royally fucked that up. Something about the best intentions made him a total sucker.

She wanted him to have distance? It was the last thing he wanted. The last thing he believed either of them needed. But fine. He'd compete. He'd go to Texas and kick ass, as she'd requested.

But when he returned, he wasn't going to take no for an
answer.

19

“I
f we were real ballers,” Tressler said, settling down in the seat in front of Graham, “we would be flying private.”

“We're not
ballers
,” Brad said, sounding disgusted. “And the day the military has the money to fly us private anywhere is the day we know something has gone very, very wrong in Congress.”

“Isn't something always wrong in Congress?” Greg asked.

“Stop talking politics,” Graham muttered. He just wanted to wait for takeoff, take his motion sickness medication and pass the fuck out and not listen to these idiots anymore.

“Grumpy.” Tressler, He of Little Sense, leaned over the back of his seat. “What crawled up your ass and died? We're finally going. It's our time, baby.”

“Did you get more stupid in the last week, or am I just that much more annoyed with you?” Graham wondered out loud.

“Both,” Greg and Brad said together.

Tressler flopped back down with a huff, grumbling about old men who couldn't take a damn joke.

“Okay, but really, what crawled up your ass and died?” Brad asked across the aisle, leaning back for someone to pass through. “You said you hate flying, and you're clutching that packet of Dramamine like it's a gold nugget. But that's not all, is it?”

“Maybe I had a rough day off yesterday. Maybe I don't want to talk about it. Maybe,” he said through his teeth, “I want everyone to mind their business.”

Greg snorted. “Bullshit. The day we mind our own business is the day we stop caring. And we love you, man.”

“I'm going to hit you.”

Greg settled against the window of their two-seat row. “Did you have a fight with Kara?”

“Drop it.”

“You both had so much to say when I was doing battle with Cook, and now you can't take the heat yourself.” Brad's self-satisfied smirk made Graham want to reach across the aisle and choke him. His teammate's saving grace was the numerous people filing through, preventing him from doing so. Also, he'd have to let go of his Dramamine, and that wasn't happening.

Greg reached in his bag under the seat in front of him and pulled out a thick book. Brad reached in front of Graham—which made him want to slam his hand down on the tray and lock it upright—and asked, “Did you take my book?”

Greg glanced at the cover, then shrugged. “Probably. You weren't reading it. You're never at our rooms anyway. You're always with Cook.”

“So you just took my book? Jackass, hand it back. I wasn't finished with it.”

“Oh my God, stop it, both of you. You're like freaking
two-year-old twin brothers. What fucking book could even be so important you're going to bicker like babies about it?”

Greg held up the front cover. “
Sandbox Seven
. Military thriller. Marines, natch, given we are the best. Guy who wrote it was a Marine, too, I think.” He flipped to the back cover jacket. “Yup. Jeremy C. Phillips.

“I read that.” Tressler popped his head up again, like a fucking groundhog who was begging to be exterminated. “It's good, especially because the guy actually knows his terminology. I met his wife once last year. She's a Navy nurse.” He grinned. “And hot.”

“Go away, Tressler.”

He rolled his eyes and flopped down again.

Another few minutes passed, with less and less people walking past, and then Marianne approached. “Hey, boys. Sorry I don't get to sit with y'all.”

Brad grabbed her hand and pulled her down for a quick kiss before she passed by. “Don't have too much fun back there with the coaches.”

“Oh, it'll be a challenge,” she said, then looked behind her with a sigh. “If Levi doesn't get on this plane soon, I'm going to lose my second intern. That can't look good for future employers, can it? Hi, I'm Marianne Cook, the intern slayer.”

“He's a big boy. If he can't figure out how to time his potty breaks like an adult, that's on him, not you. He done being pissed about Nikki yet?”

“He doesn't seem to be mad at me specifically, just the world in general. He really liked her. I'm sure it was puppy love, not the real thing. But in the throes of it, puppy love feels just as real.”

“If he has bad taste, there's not a whole lot that you can do about it,” Greg pointed out.

Graham just grunted and did his best not to moan when
he felt something shift under them. Closing the cargo door, likely.

“Wow, you're really looking raw, Graham.” Marianne crouched down beside him, then felt his forehead. “You okay?”

He let his eyes close and held up the packet. Currently, he wasn't sick. This was simply the anticipation. His body's instinctive reaction to knowing what was going to happen next.

“Oh. Sorry. Water, small sips, something dry without a lot of flavoring to keep in your stomach. It's counterintuitive but keeping something in there makes you retch less than an empty stomach.”

“God, you're actually going to throw up? I thought you just got a headache or something.” Greg looked panicked at Brad. “Trade me seats.”

“Fuck no.” Staring straight ahead with a smirk, Brad shrugged. “You wanted a window seat.”

“I want one that will smell less like barf.”

“I'm not going to throw up,” Graham said through clenched teeth. “Unless you annoy me so much I decide to make myself, just for spite.”

“Keep your head back, and—oh, thank God. Levi, you made it. We're all the way in the back.”

He slitted his eyes and saw the lanky male intern walking—more like stomping—up the aisle as if he were storming the castle. He waited for Marianne to move aside—which she did by scooting in front of Brad and sitting on his lap for a moment, then kept walking back.

“This will be a fun plane ride,” she muttered, then rubbed Graham's upper arm. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

He waved without talking.
Make the plane move so I can take the pills.

“Why don't you take them now?” Greg wondered.

“Because if something happens at the last minute and we have to deplane and wait—like mechanical problems or weather—I'm passed out cold and can't do it. If I wait until takeoff then we're set and it's safe.”

“Makes sense. Just . . . here.” He dug through his front seat pocket and handed Graham the air sick bag. “Have a second one in case. And make sure you aim that way.”

Brad simply flipped him off.

*   *   *

THREE
days. Three days without seeing or hearing from Graham, and she was ready to scream. She sat in her lawyer's conference room, drumming her nails and staring at her silent, dark phone.

Okay, fine, so she'd
heard
him, but only in text. He'd called once, but she'd been teaching a class, so it had gone to voice mail. Plenty of chances to return the call later in the evening, but she hadn't. Even when Zach had begged her to call Graham to wish him luck “just one more time.” He was busy, she rationalized, and a distraction could hurt his chances. He needed his space.

She needed hers.

She still couldn't escape the idea that he'd gone behind her back and approached Henry without telling her. Oh, sure, he'd told her soon afterward. And he'd done it with the best intentions. But he'd still tried to save the day, when she didn't need saving. This had been her battle to fight. Her battle to wage. She'd wanted support, not a shield.

Now she'd never know if she could have won without him. She'd never know if she were strong enough, powerful enough. It was as if he'd taken that feeling of power she'd carried with her into his home in a tight dress and pricked it with a needle.
Pop.

Tasha entered, a black pencil skirt hugging her curves and a wine red shell tank showing off her dark, toned arms.
When she settled down in the seat beside Kara, she crossed her legs, leaned back, and just shook her head.

“What?” Oh God . . . had his visit to Henry made things worse? “Tell me.”

“It's almost too easy. Anticlimactic, when I was looking forward to skewering that little prick.” Tasha shrugged and scooted a file folder over to her. “This is the paperwork to get started. I reached out to his lawyers, and they say he's willing to go through the processes, as long as you pick up the tab for the court fees and any other potential financial issues that come along. Filing fees and such.”

“That's . . .” She stared at the file, dumbfounded. “That's it?”

“That's it. I didn't want to push our good fortune because, well, I'm no fool. But I have a feeling there might be more to it than just a man who came to his senses and had a moment of clarity. Don't you?” With a small smile, Tasha leaned forward. “You deserve this happiness, Kara.”

“I wanted to make the move,” she murmured, flipping through the paperwork without seeing any of it. “I had plans, strategies . . . I'd started looking for more private clients to make extra money for the attorney fees.”

“Don't tell the partners, but I'm perfectly happy you won't be requiring our services much longer, at least not for this. Girl, you can't be upset about this, can you?”

“No, not at all. It's just a little . . . I don't know. Am I wrong? Is this stupid?”

Tasha leaned her chin on her hand. “Stupid, no. Wrong, no. What you feel is what you feel, and feelings are never wrong. But maybe . . . maybe a little prideful. That's up to you to figure out if that is a benefit or a curse.”

Prideful. The word bounced around her mind as she listened to Tasha explain the process of terminating Henry's parental rights. Could her pride be the thing standing in the way of her happiness? Zach's happiness?

It ate at her, and she knew she wouldn't sleep until she figured it out.

*   *   *

“HEY,
you. What's up back in J-ville?”

“Am I too prideful?” Kara asked without preamble.

Marianne laughed a little. “And hello to you, too. Sure, yes, Texas is fine. A little dry, a lot hot, but what can you expect?”

Kara blew out a breath. “Marianne. Am I too prideful?”

“Yes.”

Wow. Well, you didn't go to your best friend for a sugarcoated answer.

“But that's not a bad thing.”

“Pride isn't a virtue.”

“It should be,” her friend shot back. “You've been raising your son alone for ten years, without even the benefit of your parents for guidance or help. You've scraped together enough to keep your son happy and healthy—no small feat when you look at the billions of foods he can't eat—and you still work with your passion instead of some mindless job you do just for the paycheck. You're independent, you're stable, and you've raised a kid who, at the age of ten, is already a better person than some fully grown men I know. Why the hell wouldn't you be proud of that?”

“But do I let it get in the way? Am I letting pride act as a sort of, I don't know, wall from life?”

“Yes.”

“Jeez, could you ease up a little? I don't think my ego can take much more.”

“Good for you. Yes, you are letting the fact that Graham stepped in to help you—help, not control—get in the way. You've been doing it for so long on your own you aren't entirely sure what a cooperative relationship looks like. That's okay, because it's understandable. Now you know,
and now you know what the goal is. So get the damn goal. Don't be a nincompoop. Show him you love him, too.”

Kara brushed away the tears coursing down her cheeks. “I never said I loved him.”

“I'm going to pretend I'm not insulted you said that. Hold on!” she yelled, then let out an exasperated sigh. “I swear, these men are all babies. If you don't get them their ice five seconds after they ask, suddenly they're dying and it's all your fault.”

“How's it going?”

“Oh,
now
you wanna know.” She could hear the grin in her best friend's voice. “Practice has been going well. Competition starts tomorrow. Should be pretty fierce, from what I'm seeing.” There was a bit of a pause, and Kara heard the sound of ice and a metal scoop. She knew the sound well, having hung around Marianne's training room. Another few seconds later, she heard, “Here. Tie it off and ice for twenty. And go away. I'm on the phone. No, Simpson, sit there. Right there. Good boy. Children,” she muttered. “They're all children. If you don't literally walk them to the spot you want them at, they're clueless.”

Kara laughed. “I guess I'll have to wait until you come back to hear about most of it. I wish . . .”

“Come out here.”

Kara rolled her eyes and stared at the ceiling of her bedroom. “You've forgotten, like, seven details in that statement.”

“You said he emailed you the flight information for the tickets he bought. Your plane ticket is for tomorrow morning. So . . . come out.”

“Just because things seem to be going the right direction for terminating Henry's parental rights doesn't mean it's happened yet. I still can't take Zach across state lines. And besides that, he can't miss school.”

“So take him to my parents' house.”

Kara sat up for a moment. “I can't ask your parents to do that.”

“Look, I'm not giving them grandbabies for a few years,
at least. I'm sure they'd love having Zach over there. It's just for a few days, and Mom can run him to and from school. They'll be careful with his diet. You'd trust them, right?”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“I'll call Mom to double-check, but I bet they'll be all over it.”

“Marianne, I—”

“Gotta go!” There was a click, and the phone's screen blanked away.

Kara sighed and flopped back down. She still had work to consider. Though really, the middle of the week was her slowest time. If she called around, surely a few people could take some of her classes, then . . .