Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3) (14 page)

“Where is Higgs?”

“He went for a quick jog, sir. Wanted to stay limber, sir.”

Nikki stood, sauntering over in khaki shorts that were an inch or so too short for comfort. Her polo seemed too tight, though he'd seen her twist a knot at the small of her back before when she thought she could get away with it. Marianne wouldn't approve, and made her unroll it whenever she noticed. “Hey there. We were just talking. I hope he's not in any trouble.”

From the pleading look in Simpson's dark eyes, Graham knew exactly what the Marine was thinking.
Help me. Punish me. Make me run laps in the sweltering heat. Just get me out of here.

“Simpson knows what he's done wrong. Chat time's over.”

There was an infinitesimal relaxing of the younger man's shoulders. Relief, in droves, shone in his eyes, along with gratitude.

“You're not in practice yet,” Nikki pointed out, hands on her hips. “That's not fair. He shouldn't be punished for—”

“Thank you, Nikki.” Shutting her down, however rude it was, would be the fastest, easiest track for them all to take. “We will see you later.”

Somewhere else in the building, a door opened and shut. One of the coaches, most likely. Or a maintenance guy coming to look at the busted light. Best to end this quickly, without an audience.

She looked at him, then at Simpson's profile. Simpson didn't look back. Then she blew out a breath. “You're not the coach, you know. This is rude. We were talking.” Wrapping an arm around the other man's bicep, she tugged gently. “Come back and sit with me. I'm bored.”

“Nikki, please excuse us,” Graham said through clenched teeth. God, the woman was a barnacle.

“I'm not in the military, you can't tell me what to do. And you can't tell him, either. Come on, Alex.” She tugged harder, and Simpson actually jerked a little off balance before correcting. “We'll—”

“Nikki,
stop!
”

She froze, mouth open. “You can't speak to me like that!”

“I just did. Leave us alone for the moment, please.”

She just stared at him.

“
Now.
I'll be discussing your behavior with Ms. Cook when she comes back. You're out of line, so far out you can't even
see
the line anymore. Get your stuff and stay out of the gym until you're due to report back to the training room this evening, and not a minute sooner.”

“You can't—”

“I just did.” He gave her his iciest stare, the one he reserved for court when cross-examining a witness. It was rare he needed it, but he knew it was effective. Her hand shook a little as she pulled away, and her eyes swam with unshed tears. The second she hit the parking lot, she'd be a sobbing mess, he bet.

Oh, well. He'd tried subtlety. Simpson had tried subtlety. They'd
all
tried to quietly and kindly brush off her advances. When that didn't work, it was time for plan B.

Huffing her way to her large pink tote bag, she grabbed it and threw it over her shoulder, stomping her way to the gym entrance and up the stairs before shoving her way through the door to the parking lot. The second it closed behind her, Simpson heaved a sigh and slumped a bit.

“Thanks, man.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, his
dark face flushed with embarrassment. “She just . . . wouldn't leave.”

Graham clapped the man on the shoulder and shook a little. “I know you wanted to be nice about it, and you're not the kind of guy who takes pleasure in hurting someone's feelings. But with that one, you can't be subtle. We've all tried it, and it doesn't work. Be firm next time. ‘Sorry, Nikki, I don't want to lead you on. I'm not interested.'”

“Easy for you to say,” he muttered, looking down at shoes. “She doesn't hit on you.”

Probably because she realized from the start it was a lost cause. She'd chosen the younger guys to work on more. She was a viper.

“You've done your duty, so you won't be in the gym alone again anytime soon. Stick in groups. Do as the antelope do and form a herd against the lion.” Or rather, lioness.

That made the younger man laugh, and he went back to sit down. Graham sat nearby, playing on his phone a little, debating texting Kara and leaving her a message for when she checked her phone between classes.

When Coach Cartwright entered fifteen minutes later, he walked straight for them instead of heading to the coaching office. “Either of you boys drive a blue Camry?”

“Yeah, me.” Graham reached for his bag, automatically digging for his keys. “I didn't do something stupid like leave my dome light on, did I?”

“No . . . that's not the problem.” The man's grim face said it all. “Better come check it out.”

Simpson jumped up beside him. “How bad could it be? You haven't even been here an hour. What . . . oh, shit.”

Yeah. Oh, shit just about covered it.

Wainwright stood, thumbs tucked in the hooks of his jeans. “I'm guessing you didn't drive here with that brick through your windshield.”

“Son of a bitch.” Graham stood for a moment, shocked
to see the brick sticking half in, half out of his windshield. The glass had spiderwebbed across the entire width, but the shatterproof material had kept the brick from going through completely. He looked around, but what the hell did he expect to find? A crazy brick-wielding cartoon villain dancing around the parking lot, waiting to be found and cackling maniacally? Whoever did this threw it and ran like hell. No questions asked.

Even as he scanned the parking lot, he noted his car had been the only one to be nailed. Everyone else's was safe. He walked up to the car, carefully watching his step to avoid stepping on any glass, if there was any. But it looked as though the windshield had done its job.

“Why didn't it go all the way through? Even with the type of glass it's made of, you throw a brick hard enough, it would go through. They're shatter resistant, but not shatterproof.”

“Maybe they lost their grip throwing it,” Simpson suggested.

“Maybe they're huge pussies and throw like a three-year-old,” Cartwright muttered. “Call the MPs, son,” he told Simpson. “Get in there and grab your personals, Sweeney. Documents and all that junk. Anything you don't want heading to the mechanic when this bad boy gets towed.”

It was still locked, so he had to use his key fob to unlock it. As he reached for the door handle, he froze. Not only had the fucker tossed a brick at his car, but he'd been keyed as well. Jagged scrapes ran down the driver's side. “Son of a bitch. If it's not one thing . . .”

He gingerly picked around the few shards of glass that had come loose from the now-flimsy window, opening compartments and searching for anything he wouldn't want to lose. Who the fuck was crazy enough to throw a brick through—or mostly through—his window? And had it been aimed directly at him, or simply another bit of vandalism for the team in general, with his car being the unlucky one?

The MPs showed up ten minutes later, and Graham resigned himself to missing most of the practice to an interview.

The warmth and happiness from his lunch hour with Kara bled out, and when he was finally able to return to practice, he found himself with anger to burn. It fueled him, kept him fierce, and sent him home to take a cold shower after a ride from Greg.

That ruination of his lunch hour with Kara was the worst of it. Not the cost of a new windshield, not the expense of having to rent a car for a few days while they got around to fixing his windshield. The fact that his day had been tainted with something so stupid, so unproductive, so childish . . . after his perfect moment with
her.

14

K
ara stared at her phone, willing it to ring. Then willing herself to stop staring at the phone. This was absolutely pathetic.

But he'd said he would call her later. She knew for a fact the guys were done with practice, as Marianne had posted a selfie of her and Brad at the movie theater, seeing the new romantic comedy, an hour ago.

#truelove.

She scoffed at herself. Now she was thinking in hashtags. Her life was going off the rails.

Zach wandered into the kitchen and started poking around the snack shelf in the pantry. Though she hated the expense, she stocked pre-made, pre-packaged snacks for him there, and he knew he could have what he wanted from that shelf without question. She'd prefer him to grab an apple, but when your son was as skinny as hers, and his diet as limited as his, you accepted calories where you could get them.

“Didn't you just have dinner an hour ago?”

“Fractions make me hangry,” he grumbled.

“Hangry?” She smiled when he sat down beside her at the kitchen table. He did that so infrequently anymore, willingly sitting with her. He was growing up, and Mom was no longer the coolest person in his life.

“Yeah. Hungry and angry. Hangry. It's a portmanteau. We learned about them yesterday.” He beamed at her.

“Grammar and math all wrapped up in one night. Very nice.” She wanted so badly to run a hand over his hair, but she knew he would duck away and make an aggravated sound. So she let him open his snack and went back to reviewing a blog advertising request. But she felt his stare on her, so after another moment, she looked back his way.

“Mom?” He glanced down at the wrapper of the granola bar he was eating, fiddling with it between his fingers.

“Yeah, honey?”

“Is Graham coming back sometime?”

“I'm sure he is. Why? Did you want to invite him to dinner again?”

“No. I mean, yeah, sure. Just, I mean I wondered . . . is he . . . are you . . .”

Oh, boy. She nudged her chair out a little to better face him. “Are you wondering if we're dating?”

“Sort of. I guess you are, since I've seen him kiss you.”

Thank God that's all you've seen.

“But then you guys don't go out a lot, and I don't know.” He sounded miserable, as if talking about this was the last thing he wanted to be doing, but couldn't resist knowing.

“Honey . . .” She sighed. Giving false hope would be pointless. “Graham and I are friends. We like hanging out. I hang out with a lot of adults, like Marianne and Reagan.”

“You don't kiss them,” he said defiantly, then the corners of his mouth twitched as if the idea was funny.

“No . . . it's a complicated thing, adult friendships. It's—”

“Why don't you want to date him? He wants to date you. I like him. What's wrong?”

She fought hard not to cry. This part was the worst. She'd vowed early on she would never say anything negative about her son's father, or her parents, in front of Zach. It served no purpose to poison the well. But it was moments like these—moments when she longed to explain why she couldn't move on with her life—when she could cheerfully murder Henry six different ways with her bare hands and not think twice about it.

“Nothing is wrong. It's just not . . . the timing . . . it's . . . not going to work. Graham is a great guy. And I'm so glad you two have become friends. I hope that continues. But he and I . . .” She lifted her hands, let them fall back into her lap again. Fought hard against the tears. “It won't work.”

“You won't let it work,” he accused, his hand fisting hard around the wrapper. The crinkle of the foil sounded harsh in the kitchen. “You won't let it. He could have been my dad, and you won't let it work. I hate you.”

He stood back so fast the chair tipped over, clattering to the linoleum floor. He flung the wrapper at the trash—missing by a mile—and ran back to his room where he slammed the door.

Some mothers might have stormed after him and demanded he apologize. It was tempting. But Kara knew far too well what that would do . . . push him further away. He was a preteen, and going through changes that must confuse him daily. Given his normally sunny nature, she knew it would soon pass. Giving him time alone before approaching him would be the best option. Everyone was entitled to feel their own emotions. Kids just didn't know how to hide them like adults.

A tear escaped before she could stop it. She used the heel of her hand to wipe it away. Stupid, pointless tears would do nothing to make the situation better.

She wanted Graham to call now more than ever. She wanted him to never call again. She wanted . . . so much. Too much.

Almost as if by design, her phone rang. Graham's smiling face appeared on the screen. It would be better to let it go to voice mail, especially when she was this upset. He didn't deserve to be burdened with her emotional junk.

The phone stopped ringing before she could make up her mind. And then it started back again. She'd missed calls from him before, and she knew his score. He'd try twice, then text and say he'd try back later. Graham wasn't one for playing games when it came to following through.

So she answered, because what else was she supposed to do?

“Hey, you.”

“Hey, beautiful.” He groaned, and she pictured him sitting on the couch or stretching out in bed. She wanted so, so badly to be there with him. Curling up beside him on the couch, or tucked against his shoulder in bed. “How was your day?”

“Boring. Busy. The usual.” She wiped another tear away. Maybe she should give herself a break. Like Zach's ever-changing hormones, she couldn't forever battle back her emotions and walk around like ice.

There was a long silence, then, “Kara? Everything okay?”

“Fine, yeah. Everything's fine. We're all . . . fine.” Lame, so very lame.

Graham must have agreed because she heard the squeak of his bed rails—a sound she was intimately familiar with after their lunch hour rendezvous—and he obviously got back out of bed. “I'm coming over.”

“Graham, no. I just had a fight with Zach, that's all. I'm sad about that. Please, don't worry about anything.”

Don't come over here. I'll lose my everlovin' mind. I can't resist you.

“I'm coming. Fifteen minutes.” He hung up before she
could argue further. She could send a text, but that wouldn't matter. He would ignore it.

She got up, shaky yet on her legs, and closed her laptop. Even without Graham coming over, her productivity was shot for the night. She got a bottle of water and stood beside the door, waiting for his text that he was there. At this time of night, she knew he wouldn't knock in case Zach went to bed early.

She was proved right when the text came ten minutes later.

I'm here. Please let me in. Don't turn me away.

She opened the door and stood, watching him. He looked tired. Exhausted, actually. “Is everything okay?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.” He stepped in as she widened the door, shut it behind him, then enveloped her in a strong, unbreakable hug. She wanted to be resistant, but couldn't, and her arms came around him, seeking comfort.

“Hey, hey.” He cupped the back of her head as she nuzzled in, whispering softly and swaying as if they were on the dance floor instead of in her apartment. “What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong.”

“I . . .” She fought back the tears, fought so hard, then decided now was as good a time as any to let some release. “I'm sorry but I'm about to—” She hiccupped, and that was the end of holding back. She burst into tears.

*   *   *

WORRIED,
Graham held Kara while she cried. She'd mentioned a fight with Zach—natural enough for most parent-child relationships, but not for theirs—yet this crying jag seemed disproportionate for a simple fight with her son.

“Let's . . . okay, then.” He held her tighter when she sobbed. “Let's sit on the couch for a bit.”

She shook her head vigorously against his chest, but didn't say more, just kept crying.

So he stood and held her, knowing it would eventually pass, wondering what in the world had set her off. Kara was a practical, intelligent woman. She wouldn't break down into tears over something silly. It had to be real, and it had to be important.

Zach peeked around the corner, his eyes wide with surprise. “Mom?” he mouthed.

Graham shook his head, giving him a hand signal that said,
Give it a minute.

The boy took another few cautious steps toward them. He was completely out of Kara's line of sight—though everything was, with her face buried against his shirt like that—and he seemed to want to stay that way. His eyes watched his mother's shoulders shake, sadness and regret clear in them. “I made her cry,” he whispered.

“She'll be okay. Can you put yourself to bed tonight?”

He nodded rapidly, ready to prove himself worthy of the task. He tried one more step forward, then turned and ran back to his room, shutting the door quietly.

They'd be alone for the night, Graham knew. Nothing turned a boy's blood cold faster than his own mother's tears.

They were doing a number on him, and he was nearly thirty.

When she didn't seem to slow down, Graham took matters into his own hands and picked her up, carrying her to her bedroom. The couch might have been closer, but he sensed they needed privacy for whatever was bothering her. Because, while he had no problem letting her cry on his shoulder, giving her some space to get the worst of the emotions out, there was no way he was leaving without hearing the issue so he could help. He had to help her, damn it.

Settling back against her headboard, he cuddled her in
his lap and let the tears run their course. After another five minutes, she sniffled and sighed, hand clenching in his shirt.

He smoothed back a few strands of hair stuck to her temple. “Better?”

“Sorry,” was her watery, muffled reply.

“Never be sorry. You're allowed to cry when you need to. If you don't let it go sometimes, it makes you sick. I have a feeling you haven't been letting it go for some time now.”

“Who has the time for a weep session when you've got a son to raise?” Though they could have been, the words weren't spoken bitterly. Simply said with the practical curtness he knew she took on when attacking a task at hand. “I'll be better in the morning. Thanks for letting me cry on you.”

“No way. We're not done.” When she lifted her head to glare at him, he smiled and kissed her between her brows. “The whole mean mug loses its effectiveness when you do it with red, puffy eyes.”

She gasped at him, then slapped at his chest and hopped down. He watched while she walked to the tiny attached half bath and closed the door. He'd give her another few minutes to pull it together, and then they were going to discuss what the hell was going on with her. And because he didn't believe in keeping people he loved in the dark—and hell, yes, he loved her, and Zach—he'd tell her about the brick. She might have insight on who could have done it.

When she opened the door a few moments later, Kara was pulled together. Or as pulled together as she could be in sweats with dried paint flecks, red eyes and a red nose. Her hair had been tamed though, and her jaw was firm.

“Don't even try to send me away,” he warned before she could speak. “I'm here, and I'm going to hear your problems, then you're going to hear mine. That's what people in a relationship do. Then we'll talk about what I'd wanted to discuss with you this evening before all the other shit went down.”

That pulled her up short, and she sat on the edge of the bed, not touching him. “Was that part good?”

“Yes. So let's take our medicine now so we can have our treat as a reward after. You first.”

She shook her head, and he sensed she might need a little more distance before she was ready to go into it. “You first, please. I'm . . . I need a minute.”

“Okay.” Lacing his hands behind his head, he settled back. If he had his way, she'd ask him to stay the night. Had, in fact, packed a bag so he could run straight to practice in the morning. But being the smart man he was, he'd left it in his car. “My car was vandalized today. No, not quite right. My car was attacked.”

She stilled, all motion halted, not even a blink. Then she was beside him like a shot, cupping his cheeks in her palms. “Oh my God. Graham. Please tell me you're okay. Are you okay?” She ran her hands down his shoulders, his arms, his torso. “How fast were you going? Where was this? Was anyone else hurt?”

“Not a wreck, I wasn't driving. I'm not hurt.” He didn't mind her stroking and searching hands, though. She could keep that up all night. “It was in the gym parking lot. Someone heaved a brick through my windshield. Badly, at that.”

That made her rear her head back to stare at him funny. “How does one throw a brick through a windshield badly? Isn't it always bad?”

“It didn't go through. The result is the same, I guess, in that I had to have my car towed so the damn thing could be replaced, but overall the interior was saved.”

“Who would do something like that?” Fire heated her eyes, and her hands fisted against his chest. Gone from memory was the woman fighting to maintain composure. “What kind of sick person throws a brick?”

“Good question. We're still trying to figure that out. Any ideas?”

“It fits with the same profile of the vandalism from the gym.” She tapped her lip a moment, then scooted around to sit beside him. “Was yours the only one hit?”

“Yes, which only adds to the confusion. When the guys' tires were punctured, it was everyone's car who was parked at the barracks. Why only mine? Simpson's car was there, too. Was it an attack on me, personally? Or was it another act of vandalism by the same person or people who have had it out for the boxing team from the start?”