Never Been Ready (17 page)

"The first time he hit me was a couple of weeks after my mother had left. Those first couple of weeks were the worst of my life. I wanted my mother back more than I wanted anything else in the entire world. My seven-year-old brain couldn't comprehend why she had left. I kept looking at the front door, expecting it to open up at any minute. I'd imagine her happy face walking through the door, and then she'd apologize and take me far, far away."

A single tear slid down my cheek, and Declan quietly brushed it away with his thumb. He bent his head to kiss my collarbone and then allowed me to continue.

"I became angry and bitter. It was a terrible way for a child to grow up." I briefly remembered the little boy in the hospital who had lost his mother. I thought about him often and wondered where he was and whom he ended up with. I hoped social services had found the family he was supposed to be visiting, and he was in a better place than I was after my mother had left. No child should go through that alone.

"When I tried taking my anger out on my father, I learned quickly that it was the wrong way to go. I ended up with a black eye, and I had to lie and pass it off as a soccer accident. After that, I learned how to be invisible and avoid most incidents. If I was quiet and just basically went unnoticed, I could usually escape bearing the brunt of his anger. There were other times when I wasn't as lucky, but I learned to dodge."

"And yesterday? What happened yesterday?"

"I should have never stayed. I recognized the signs as soon as I walked in. He'd had a lot more to drink than he usually does. He always has alcohol coursing through his veins, but this went beyond drunk. Usually, he's just numb and oblivious to everything around him. But sometimes, he drinks so much that it's like he wakes up and remembers everything. Then, he just gets angry...all over again."

"He took it out on you," Declan said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes. I asked him about Mom. I mentioned the headstone we'd found, and he lost it. He asked me for money, like he always does. I said no, like I always do. I bring him food and any other supplies he needs, but I never, ever give him money or alcohol. I know I can't do anything to stop him from drinking, but I won't support his habit."

Declan pulled me closer. Our bodies fused together, and I savored the feeling of his heated skin against mine. It was a cold morning, and feeling his warm hard arms and legs wrapped around me was blissful.

"What are your parents like?" I asked.

"My father is dead," he answered with little emotion.

"Oh, Declan." I leaned up on my elbows, so I could face him. "I'm so sorry. You mentioned that. I forgot." I remembered the conversation we'd had when he told me about his tattoo.

"We weren't that close. He was your typical stereotype of a wealthy man. He ignored his child, cheated on his wife, and acted like he was god when he was at work. It's no coincidence that he was friends with Logan's father. They were both from the same stock, although Logan had it far worse than I did."

"How did he die?"

"Heart attack. My parents were divorced several years before. My mother finally got the courage to ask for one, and he agreed. He hired the best lawyers money could buy though, and he left her with practically nothing. But she was free, and that was all she cared about. Years later, Karma caught up with him, and he was found dead in his penthouse by his twenty-two-year-old mistress."

"God, and I thought I was the only one with a fucked-up childhood."

His eyes flashed and grew intense. "No, Leah...what I went through was a soap opera compared to the shit you had to endure. What you went through was hell. What that man did to you..."

"Hey," I said softly, "it's okay. I'm okay."

When I cuddled back into the safety of his arms, I felt him relax again. Letting myself drift back to sleep, I thought I heard Declan whisper in my ear, "I'll make it all better, I promise."

~Declan~

I got the address from Logan. It wasn't that hard to find. The old neighborhood was well kept with dated houses that looked refurbished in an attempt at revamping the city.

Clayton Morgan's house stuck out like a sore thumb. It looked like it hadn't been painted since the original pale yellow had been brushed on decades ago, and the yard was covered in compacted leaves, now mushy and wet from the recent snow.

I pulled up to the driveway and felt my hands grip the steering wheel like a vise. Knowing this was the place where Leah had grown up while enduring years of misery at the hand of the man who lived inside did something to me. It brought out a side of me I hadn't known existed. I wanted to rush in there and rip him apart from limb to limb, making sure he could never lay a hand on her again.

And that was why Logan's car pulled up behind mine. When I called for the address, I also asked him to meet me here. I needed someone to keep me tethered, grounded, so I wouldn't do anything that could land my ass in jail for the rest of my life. As much as I wanted to end that motherfucker, I didn't want to spend my life behind bars, away from the one thing I was intent on protecting.

I killed the engine and stepped out of the car. I met Logan halfway between our two cars, and we silently made our way up the driveway. He didn't ask what I was going to do. He just stood by me.

A few months ago, when I had gotten his wedding announcement, I'd thought he was weak for feeling so deeply for another person. But here I was, standing side by side with him as brothers-in-arms...fighting for a woman I would do anything to keep. And yet, I was too chickenshit to tell her.

I didn't bother knocking. I just let myself in. I made my way through the dingy kitchen that had crusty dishes in the sink and empty pizza boxes on the counter. I tried not to picture Leah living in this hellhole.

We found the piece-of-shit lying on a couch in the living room with a drink in hand, watching a rerun of some sitcom from the eighties. His eyes were half-closed, and he looked like he'd already drunk half a bottle even though it was barely noon. It was a miracle, or a fucking curse, that the man was still alive with functioning kidneys.

It took him several minutes to notice the two large men in his living room. His eyes finally moved lazily from the TV to us, and then they widened in surprise.

"Who the hell are you? If you've come to rob me, you picked the wrong house," he said, his words meshing together in an almost comical way, like he didn't give a fuck.

"Get up," I said, venom running through my veins.

He eyed me suspiciously, looking me up and down, before apparently deciding that I meant business. He rose from the couch, looking at us warily.

"You gonna tell me who the fuck you are?" he asked.

"I'm the man who loves your daughter."

At my words, I saw Logan's head snap from Leah's father to me. It was the first time I'd acknowledged those feelings and said the words. It felt good.
Like really good.
I wanted to do cartwheels and shit. I didn't know when I'd get the courage to tell Leah how I felt, but at least I was being honest with myself now.

"Well" —he laughed —"don't get too attached, son. She's just like her mother —a tease and a whore. Find someone better and move on."

My fist flew so fast at his face that I didn't even process the fact that I'd hit him until his head snapped back.
Good mood gone.
I went at him again, but I was pulled back.

"Easy, man. Remember why you're here," Logan said.

Leah —I am here for Leah.

Breathing heavily, I tried to calm myself, even though every inch of me was now twitching with adrenaline. I watched as the fucker wiped the blood off his split lip.
At least he knew how it felt now.

"Here's how it's going to go, jackass." I pulled out my checkbook from the inside pocket of my leather jacket and set it down on the counter, talking while I wrote. "You are going to leave town. I don't care where the fuck you go or what you do, but you are never coming back. From this day on, Leah doesn't exist to you."

I ripped out the check and handed it to him. His eyes focused on the amount and nearly bugged out of his head. I'd given him half a million dollars. It was more money than most people saw in a lifetime. I wanted to make sure he never came back.

"I don't care what the fuck you do with this. Go to rehab, or drink yourself to death. I don't give a shit. But one thing you will never do is come back here, asking for more. The second you do, Leah and I will report you for abuse and have you in jail so fast that your head will spin. The only reason you're not there now is because I don't want her going through a lengthy public trial, but don't test me. I will if I have to, and I hear child abusers don't get treated real well in the slammer."

He hadn't looked up at me since that check had been shoved into his hands.

I grabbed the front of his shirt to get his attention. "Do you understand?"

He nodded. "Yes. Don't come back ever," he said, grinning.

Whatever hope I'd had that the man might have a tiny bit of decency evaporated as I watched him worship that check. He now had a new idol, and it was money.

"One more thing, and then we're out. I want everything you have that belonged to Lily. Whatever is left of Leah's mother, I want it."

He looked at me then, puzzled, before saying, "Sure, fine. It's all in the attic. Take whatever. I don't care."

"Oh, and Mr. Morgan? Or can I call you Clayton?"

He drunken gaze found mine.

"There's one more thing." My fist came flying toward his face for a second time that day. This time, when I punched him, I made sure he didn't get up.

~Leah~

I knocked on Clare's door and waited patiently. I didn't usually knock on the door, but after last night, I thought a bit of manners might be in order. Tapping my foot nervously while balancing the bags in my hands, I stared at the door, willing it to open. I thought about calling this morning and apologizing for my vicious behavior over the phone, but I decided she deserved this in person. And I brought backup.

The door finally opened, revealing Clare dressed in yoga pants and a pink thermal long-sleeved shirt. This was what Clare called her morning wear —not pajamas but not dressed either. She'd said it was in between. It made her feel a little less lazy since she wasn't technically in PJs, and it was more comfortable than wearing jeans while doing house chores. I'd called it her whacked mommy logic because they were still pajamas in my book. I'd told her she'd do anything to get out of having to get dressed for as long as possible.

I held up my bags and travel tray filled with coffee. "I brought coffee and muffins. Phil says hey and that you should forgive me."

Her lip twitched as she tried to maintain her serious face.

"What kind are they?" she asked.

"Who the hell do you think I am? Do you think I would show up here with anything but double chocolate chip apology muffins?"

"All right then. You may enter," she said, her straight face turning into a grin.

Clare and I never stayed mad at each other for long. We'd had tiffs and disagreements over the years, the result of having two very different personalities, but we always managed to make up and move on quickly. We understood each other. I knew that she was kinder and gentler than me, and she recognized that I was sometimes gruff and outspoken, and I lashed out when I was hurting.

We made our way into the kitchen, and then Clare grabbed plates and napkins for our muffins.

"Where's Short Stack?" I asked, noticing how quiet the house was.

The house was never this quiet when Maddie was around. It was usually filled with the sounds of running feet, giggles, or singing.

"Um, school? It's a weekday, babe."

"Right. School. I'm still not used to that."

"You and me both. Each day when we walk her to that bus stop, I feel like it's still pretend, like we're just practicing to go to school. But nope, she's in kindergarten. She likes to remind me every day. She's very grown-up, you know," Clare said with a smile.

We silently dug into our muffins, and I laughed when Clare made a slight moan that bordered on erotic after she had taken her first bite. Clare was addicted to sweets, and chocolate was her ultimate weakness.

"Phil is the bomb. How can I get Logan to learn to bake like this?"

"Make him gay, and name him Phil? I'm pretty sure that man is one of a kind."

Phil was a friend of ours who owned a cafe that Clare and I loved to eat at after our weekly yoga sessions. His muffins and pastries were orgasmic. I was fairly certain I'd asked Phil to marry me at least a dozen times now, only to be turned down each time because he was madly in love and taken.

"Yeah, you're right. But damn, if Logan could bake even half as well. That man can cook, but when he gets near sugar, bad things happen. I can't tell you how many cookies, cakes, and muffins he's burned since we've been married. He keeps trying though, being the sweet, foolish man that he is." She laughed.

I laughed with her as I picked a chocolate chip off the top of my muffin before popping it into my mouth. Letting the silence settle between us, I looked down at the wood table and drew patterns with my finger. Finally, I glanced back up at my best friend, knowing it was time —time to apologize, explain, open myself up to someone again.

"I'm so sorry, Clare. The way I acted last night was wrong. I lashed out. I was embarrassed, scared, and angry...and I took it out on everyone who was trying to help. I know you were only there because you wanted to take care of me, and I'm sorry I didn't let you do that."

"After over twenty years of friendship, I know how you react in these types of situations. I understand, Leah. I just wish you would let someone in. It doesn't even have to be me, but you do need someone to listen."

"I know. I think I understand that for the first time in my life."

"Do you want to talk about it? We don't have to. I mean, we can talk about the weather, books, that hot guy from
Thor
...whatever. I'm here if you want."