Strength In Release (The Charistown Series Book 5) Page 7

  While he had been right when he claimed she didn’t know him, he had no idea how much there was he didn’t know about her. She wasn’t anyone’s dream girl. No man’s fantasy woman. No one’s better half. What she did know after only a couple of hours was that the two of them had chemistry that went beyond physical. Their conversation flowed easily, filled with humor and intellect. The man was competitive but not obnoxious, challenging her to play her best, giving no excuses when she kicked his ass, and not acting like an ass when he kicked hers.

  So while every nerve ending in her body flared to life when he so much as breathed in her direction, she would do what was best for both of them and keep that damn word friends between them.

  “Hate to leave when I’m behind, but I need to get home. I write a few columns for a couple of the local papers, and tomorrow is my dedicated day to get them done.” Janie always teased her mercilessly about how easily she could shell out advice to others yet could never seem to follow any of it herself.

  Gage motioned for the check, and the super-attentive waitress bounced over as if she had been waiting for his call. Just like the other times they’d interacted that evening, he didn’t spare the waitress anything more than the courtesy of eye contact when speaking. He didn’t show even a hint of the flirty Gage she had witnessed on more occasions than she cared to admit even to herself.

  “I know which columns you write.” His big hand ran across the scruff of his chiseled jaw. “Found myself agreeing with most of the advice you give, especially to the guys. You’re good, Ms. Dalton. Quite good.”

  Gah, those dimples. She wanted to lick them. “You read my columns? I’m not sure what to say about that, Mr. Gage.” Although she did know how she felt about it. It took every ounce of her self-discipline not to preen like a peacock under his accolades.

  “Hmm, I guess I shouldn’t admit that I may have read one or two of your books then, huh?”

  “Shut the fuck up, you did not.” Was the temperature in the bar rising or was it just her?

  Kyle had read a few of her stories, and Ryan had too. While it felt weird to her at first, they’d seemed to enjoy them, made fun of the “kinky shit”—their words, not hers—she had her characters do, then they basically moved on. Knowing Gage had read her books was a completely different thing. Pieces of her were dropped in every story. Slices of her loves, fears, wishes, pain on every page. Her heart bled from cover to cover, and in the end, people either loved it or hated it. Recommended or rejected. Her friends supported her, but aside from Janie, not a person alive truly understood the lifeblood she poured into her stories. Yet judging by the way Gage was staring at her—through her—he spoke her language. He may not know her well, but he felt deeply. Shit.

  “You look like a deer in headlights, Lyla. The goal is for people to read your work, no? Well, I read it. I enjoy the way you write. How about we table that discussion for another day though?”

  He was good. Allowing her out of an uncomfortable situation without making things uncomfortable. Smart man.

  Gage waved for the waitress’s attention. The minute she came to the table, he slipped her cash and turned his attention back to Lyla.

  “Hey, I wanted to pay for tonight. You got the drinks at Danny’s last week.” Lyla pulled cash out of her pocket.

  “Yeah,” he said as he pushed the money back toward her, “that’s not how this is gonna work, sweetheart. When you’re with me, I pay. Period. End of story.”

  “No, that’s not how I work. I have my own money, and I don’t like to owe people anything. Ever. So let me get this round and you’ll get the next one.”

  His jaw flexed and his nostrils flared. If only she could read his thoughts. Finally, he pressed his elbows onto the table top and spoke barely above a whisper, making her lean closer to hear what he was saying. “You went to dinner tonight with Max and Janie, right?”

  “You know I did.”

  “Who paid?”

  “Max and Janie.”

  “Ly… I get that they’re married, so their money is combined. But before they got hitched, who would have paid?” She watched him watch her, and when the pieces clicked in her head, she saw him notice.

  “It doesn’t matter, because I’m Janie’s best friend and they were a couple.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. Before they were a couple, you all went out. Who paid? When you’re with Kyle or Ryan, who pays? You think Danny would ever let one of you girls put your hand in your pocket? Don’t bother lying. I may not hang out with you, but I pay attention enough to know that you lie for shit. All of those men pay for their women. It doesn’t matter if they’re fucking them or not. What matters is they care. I care. We’re out together, I pay. It’s who I am. Don’t ask me to change something that isn’t causing harm.”

  Conflict weighed in her gut. He was right—none of the guys let the girls pay when they were around, that was fact—but Gage wasn’t part of their group. He was… shit, he was an observer. But now that he was a friend, she needed to treat him that way. He had already conceded to her by offering the stupid friendship flag. Judging by the expression marring his face, she was creating an issue over something she had already settled with the other guys.

  “Ly…” Gage’s hand slid over hers. “Look at me. You owe me nothing. There is no price tag on drinks, food, anything. You hear? I’m a guy friend treating his girl friend the way she should be treated. Hear?”

  Lyla exhaled as if she had been holding her breath for days. “I hear.”

  They left the warmth of the bar and headed to the parking lot. Lyla shivered as the January cold bit through her jacket and wedged its way into her bones. After pressing the key fob to release the locks to her BMW, she opened the door and started the engine without getting in, ramping up the heater before turning back to face Gage.

  “What day are we getting together this week, friend?”

  “How about we play it by ear? I’ve got a ton going on this week.” Lies. All lies.

  Truth was, the thought of being alone with Gage made parts of her tingle that she’d given up on long ago. Parts that seemed to go untouched and unsatisfied no matter how much casual sex she had. Parts that she sensed he would set ablaze with little more than a touch. If she gave him a fair chance. And that was something she couldn’t do.

  “Hmm, tons to do.” Gage’s brows lifted as if he could read her lies but let her have them. “All right, friend. We’ll play it by ear.”

  When he pulled her in for a hug, her body shook once again. However, it wasn’t the temperature affecting her. Even in heels, her face rested on the hard planes of Gage’s chest. Surrounded by his scent and muscular arms, heat rushed through her from cheeks to toes.

  “You’re shivering, friend. Get in your car.”

  His lips on her head nearly melted her into a puddle on the asphalt. But she quickly released him and climbed into her car, allowing the heat to cradle her body. She looked out the window to see Gage already astride his motorcycle, wrapping a scarf around his neck and placing a helmet over his gorgeous head as if the moment between them hadn’t affected him at all.

  “You said you couldn’t give him anything, so stop pouting,” she said to herself. She’d barely got the words out when her cell phone dinged with an unknown number.

  Unknown: Now you have my #. Text when you get home

  Unknown: Have no clue what you were saying to yourself just now, but you said it out loud. Thought you should know.

  Snapping her head up, she caught Gage’s wink as he slipped on gloves, then he revved his cycle and motioned for her to leave ahead of him. Damn, the guy was good.

  Finally home and tucked safely in her bed, stun gun under the pillow, gun secure in the drawer, Lyla grabbed her phone and tapped out a text with the question that had been plaguing her since the parking lot of Chopper’s.

  Lyla: Home. BTW how’d you get my #?

  Gage: I have my ways. Sweet dreams, Friend.

  Chapter Ten

  JP�
�s Diner

  WHERE HAD WEDNESDAY gone? That day had seemed to vaporize, as all days tended to do when Lyla worked. The morning started early with an intense workout with Ashley at the gym. Lyla always complained during the sessions, but she sung her friend’s praise later as she scarfed down potato chips and chocolate while sitting at her desk for the rest of the day.

  She carefully read letter after letter from people writing with life issues, whether they be family, relationship, or job problems, and Lyla pondered each problem before responding with what she thought were the best solutions. Little did the recipients know she had next to no personal experience with most of the shit she suggested. Little did they know her real family had been gone for more years than she’d had them and the only living relative she had was a demon even Satan himself refused to bring down to the fiery pits of hell.

  They didn’t need to know that she had never had a real romantic relationship and that her coworker was a fake plant (because she kept killing the real ones). For some reason, her advice was coveted. It won awards and kept her in high demand. Most of all, giving advice gave her a sense of purpose when her life often felt out of control.

  By the time she was finished with her columns and two research pieces for an online magazine that had hired her to write bimonthly articles about life as an author, the moon had long since risen and the eleven o’clock news was a distant memory.

  Thursday morning’s workout started out similar to the one from the day before—until a new book idea struck her. Like a bat out of hell, Lyla jumped off the treadmill and ran out of the gym with barely a wave in Ashley’s direction. It wasn’t the first time she’d done something like that. After several incidents where Ashley followed her back to her house, panicked with her cell phone in hand and ready to call for an ambulance, both Lyla then Janie explained that when Lyla’s creative juices started flowing, she had to start writing. The gang referred to those moments as Roadrunner episodes. Lyla didn’t give a shit what they called her as long as her fingers were flying across the keyboard. As they did all day Thursday.

  Startled by the sound of her doorbell, Lyla looked up from her computer screen for the first time in hours. The window showed that night had switched place with day, and the numbers on the clock had fast-forwarded at least a handful of hours since she had gotten up to pee. The bell rang again.

  She unfolded her body from the chair she’d been tucked into and grimaced as her muscles revolted from the torture she’d inflicted upon them. She barely made it halfway down the stairs before a thunderous knock and a familiar voice had her running to the door.

  ***

  SEBASTIAN KNEW SHE was home, even though nearly all of the interior lights were off except for the ones on timers. Information he had gathered during the weeks he had monitored her house while Janie was away on her honeymoon. Nope, not stalking. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, buddy.

  He also knew she was inside the house because her BMW was parked haphazardly in the driveway, almost as if she couldn’t get out of the vehicle fast enough. That would have been alarming had the car doors not been locked and the alarm armed. Seeing that little blinking light next to the steering column was a small dose of Valium to his raging pulse. The curtains were drawn over the second-story windows that faced the street. Her bedroom. But when Sebastian walked around to the side of the old American four-square style home, he saw light glowing from what must have been another bedroom.

  Tired of guessing, he made his way back to the front door, tried the handle, and smiled when it wouldn’t budge. She was predictable as hell when it came to safety. Her diligence was as admirable as it was questionable. Was it the alley attack that caused her fear? For some reason, he doubted it. Caution ran deep in Lyla. He had seen it from the start. From the sadness in her eyes to the way she subtly scoped out her surroundings when she thought no one was watching. The first time he rang the doorbell, he listened quietly and heard no movements inside. The second time he rang and followed up with a heavy knock.

  “You want me to believe you’re not in there?” he bellowed as he heard footsteps and curse words getting closer to the door.

  The sounds of tumblers releasing and a metal chain being unlatched filled the night air just before the heavy door swung open to reveal a disheveled mess of a woman. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  Had it not been for the confusion in her eyes and the smile on her lips, Sebastian may have rethought his unannounced visit. But all uncertainty vanished the second Lyla stepped aside, allowing him into her home.

  “You look… nice?” Sarcasm was heavy in his voice.

  Lyla stared down at her workout attire then took a quick look in the mirror over the small entryway table and winced. Her hair was in a messy bun with pieces that looked as if they had once been wet but were now dry and stuck to the sides of her face.

  “Is that how you’re going to Danny’s tonight?”

  “Shit! What time is it?” she asked, as if truly clueless that it was no longer day.

  “Seven o’clock.”

  “Wow. This day went fast. I’ve been working since this morning. I lost track of time obviously.”

  Sebastian chuckled. “I don’t know your routine. Is writing usually a cardiovascular activity for you?”

  “No, wiseass. I was at the gym when an idea for a new book popped into my head. I came home and started writing. Clearly I didn’t take the time to shower.” Pulling the elastic from her hair, Lyla cringed when she ran her fingers through what appeared to be tangled tresses. “Back to my original question, what are you doing here?”

  Fuck, there was something so damn sexy about a woman who lost herself in her passion. “Well, friend, I thought I would have heard from you this week. Your ‘playing it by ear’ and mine seem to be a bit different. Get changed, ‘cause I’m taking you to dinner before we head to the bar.”

  Icy blue eyes rounded as they peered up at him. Yep, that was what he’d thought—she had no intentions of contacting him. That made him even happier with his decision to just show up.

  “Gage, look at me.”

  “I can’t stop looking at you.”

  She rolled her eyes. “I mean, I’m a dirty mess. I obviously need a shower and time to get ready. I’ll meet you at the bar. Besides, I’m not even hungry.” As if understanding her words and revolting against them, her stomach growled its true feelings.

  “Yeah, I can hear how not hungry you are.”

  A faint blush tinged her cheeks as Lyla titled her head to the side. “Look, I’ll take a shower, grab something here and meet you later. Okay?”

  “That’s not gonna work for me,” Sebastian said as he shook his head and grinned. “I know you better than you think, friend. You’ll end up going back to work and not coming out at all. But I’ll compromise. You can either take your time and shower while I order in and we eat here, or you can get moving. We’ll grab a bite out then head to the bar together. Your pick.”

  “Wow, so magnanimous of you,” she snarked before turning and ascending the stairs.

  “I gather we’re going out?”

  “I want French fries, Gage. Amazing French fries. Don’t take me somewhere frilly and impressive, understand?” she shouted over her shoulder.

  “What if the frilly impressive place has the best fries?”

  “Jeans. Ripped jeans. I can’t wear ripped jeans, I’m not going.”

  The bedroom door slammed, and Sebastian broke into laughter.

  JP’S DINER WAS a bit off the beaten path, nearly twenty minutes outside Charistown, but if Lyla wanted fries, JP’s was the place to go.

  Refusing to give Lyla any reasons to avoid driving with him on the freezing January night, he’d left his Harley at home and lifted her into his tricked-out GMC Sierra instead. There wasn’t a minute of silence before she went through the songs on his iPod and either squealed with excitement, teased him over his choices, or swooned at his romantic side.

  “Early Guns N’ Roses, Air Sup
ply, Bryan Adams, Bon Jovi? A closet eighties fan, huh?”

  “Not hiding shit. Some of the best music came from that decade. Better than half the crap played today.”

  “Ooh, watch it, Grandpa, you’re showing your age.” Lyla giggled. “Kings of Leon, Bruno Mars, Metallica, Five Finger Death Punch, your taste is so… eclectic.” Happiness weaved through her voice, lifting the pitch, exuding warmth from her frame that he hadn’t seen in months. Warmth that had never been directed at him before.

  “Music fuels me. Helps me figure out what’s going on in my head.”

  “What’s going on in your head, Gage?”

  Oh, if she only knew. Instead, he thumbed through the titles and pressed Play. When Jimmy Buffet’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise” filled the cab, Lyla’s brows arched in confusion.

  “What? I’m starving.” He shrugged as he pulled into the diner’s parking lot.

  ***

  FIRST HE HAD shown up to her house, uninvited and unexpected, seen her at her worst, and poked fun at her. Thank God Lyla wasn’t vain or she may have withered up and died right there on the floor before him. Then Gage all but forced her to have dinner with him. Why the whole memory made her feel a bit happy was beyond her.

  “Why the smile?” Gage asked.

  They were sitting across from one another in a small metallic red booth in a fifties-style diner that Lyla had never been to nor heard of. While she couldn’t tell him that it was him who’d put the smile on her face, she would give him props for his restaurant selection. “This place is great. It’s, like, authentic retro in here. Not the cheap fifties wannabe crap you see in big cities.”

  “That’s because this joint has been around since the fifties. The owners keep things clean and maintained.” He caressed the small tabletop jukebox. “These have the classics and some eighties music.” He winked. “Their prices are modern to keep the place pristine, but otherwise, if you look at the pictures on the walls, not much else has changed. Not to mention, best fries around.”