Fight to the Finish (First to Fight #3) (5 page)

“And now, I'm turning it over to Ms. Robilard, who will be speaking about this weekend, as well as a few other pressing matters.”

They waited quietly while Reagan stood, smoothing down her skirt with businesslike brushes of her hand. She took the spot Coach Ace left and cleared her throat. “We all know the match this weekend is an important one. It's the last one before the All Military games. It's also against men you've probably seen around, working out. Many of you came from Lejeune, so these are former teammates. It's important to note that while this is meant to be a training exercise, it is also designed to be fun camaraderie.”

Graham thought several of the younger guys, with bloodlust in their eyes, could stand to be reminded a few more times before the match began. He'd be watching for them to go too hard, too heavy.

“We also need to talk about how we will be handling the vandalism.” She took a quick breath, let it out slowly in a parody of their yoga breathing. She always presented a strong, polished front, but he had a feeling she was more like a master at hiding her real feelings. “We need to keep a sharp eye out. You guys are trained to notice details. You need that. I am not saying, nor do I want you to ever accuse one of the Lejeune team members of anything. I simply want you to be on guard. There will be more people in and out of the gym, and I'm asking you to be alert. Nothing more. If you see something, do not take it upon yourself to address the situation. Call the MPs.”

Graham barely held himself back from snorting. He knew she was doing her job, asking them to bow to the closest
authorities, but there was no way any of his teammates would see someone screwing with their gym and just walk away to get better cell phone reception. From the look on Greg's face beside him, he knew his friend was thinking likewise.

“Okay, so, uh . . .” She clapped her hands together. “Have a good practice!”

“Less than two weeks,” Brad muttered as he walked over to join their group to stretch out before the afternoon practice. “We've got less than two weeks before we head to the games. And this junk just keeps on coming.”

“So we do what the lady says.” Lacing his fingers together, Graham stretched his arms high and felt the pull. “We keep our eyes open, our ear to the ground, watch everyone and pay attention. It's like when you're trying to deal with a large group of eyewitnesses. The odds are, more than one of us has seen something suspicious, but we didn't realize it at the time. Connected together, it might mean something.”

“Lawyer boy just can't keep his fancy lawyering to himself,” Greg joked.

“Maybe that's what slowed him down so much this morning during practice.” Brad inspected the side of Graham's jaw. “You're not one to get caught so easily. You're always five steps ahead. How'd you get clipped?”

Because his mind had been with Kara, not on the sparring match. He shrugged. “Off day. Whatever.”

“Short practice today, boys.” Coach Willis walked by, his head barely reaching the tops of their shoulders. “Short practice. Coach wants you home early and resting. And by resting, he doesn't mean mattress gymnastics,” he added, staring at Greg, who held up his hands in an innocent gesture.

“Short practice, thank God,” Graham murmured. He could go home and soak in his tub, lay down and read a damn book. Block out the world, including one very fine yoga instructor. For once, luck was on his side.

5

G
raham rolled up to his home in Hubert, five minutes from the back gate, and wanted to sigh with relief. Short practice his ass. Short practice apparently meant, “We're going to murder you, and you're going to like it. And after we're done, we will let you leave early to find a ditch to crawl into and die.”

He hurt everywhere. Even the roots of his hair were tingling.

As he hit the clicker for his garage door, a movement by his front door caught his eye. He glanced, and saw a short person huddled on his front step, arms wrapped around their knees. A hoodie covered their head, despite the warmth of the afternoon, their sneakers were untied and a bookbag rested at their feet.

Zach.

He was out of the car in an instant, the car door still swinging open as he dashed over and crouched down in
front of the boy. “Zach. What's wrong? Are you hurt? Is it your mom?”

The boy looked up at him, so miserable it made Graham's heart rattle in his chest. “I'm sorry.”

As he sniffled, Graham settled down beside him on the concrete, wrapping an arm around the kid. He decided to not mention the tears or sniffling. “Sorry for what?”

The boy's voice was a little muffled as he rested his forehead on his knees, but Graham could still make it out. “I came out here, and then you weren't home and I got scared but I'm okay and please don't send me back.”

In his head, Graham listed all the reasons Zach might have run away. Fight with his mom, bad grades, bad behavior at the babysitter's, bullying . . . But it was overshadowed with pride and love that the young boy had come to him when he'd needed someone. Not Brad or Greg. He'd come here.

He gave Zach's shoulder a quick squeeze and cleared his throat. “I'm here now. How'd you get out here, by the way?”

“Taxi. I used my allowance.”

Resourceful kid. Though it unnerved him that a cab had taken a ten-year-old boy anywhere alone. “Your mom has no clue you're here, does she?”

“I was supposed to ride the bus to the babysitter today. She's got yoga stuff to do. But instead I walked down to the gas station on the corner and called a cab.”

So both the babysitter and Kara were likely freaking out. “You know we have to call them, right?”

Zach's small back heaved with a sigh. “Yeah. I just can't.”

“I'll do it.” And he'd work it out so the boy could stay, at least for a bit. Whatever was going on in his life, it was clear he needed someone besides his mom to lean on. Which was not at all a slap to Kara, because she was one of the most amazing mothers he'd ever seen in action. But sometimes, a boy just needed a man to talk things out with. Or even just
an adult who wasn't a parent. “Let's go inside and get you a snack. I'm sure you're hungry.”

“Starving,” he said with a dramatic flair, clutching his stomach and rolling to his side. His sneakers kicked out and he twitched like a bug in the throes of death. “I think my stomach's gonna turn inside out in a minute.”

“Now that, we can't have. Come on.” He led Zach back into the garage and through the door into the kitchen. It was a mint green color, which he'd thought cheerful, unique and a nice contrast for the dark cabinets at the time and now felt stupid about. It was like living in a bowl of mint chocolate chip ice cream. He just didn't have the energy to paint it right now. Not when the mere idea of lifting his arms over his shoulders made him want to cry daily.

He opened the tiny pantry and waved a hand. “Pick a snack, any snack.” For a moment, he expected to see a good rendition of a plague of locusts, descending on the free-for-all food. He kept his diet pretty solid, but stocked some junk food for when he had guys over . . . especially Greg, whose taste buds gave a toddler a run for his money.

Grabbing a bottle of water and a few aspirin for himself, he turned to see Zach carefully picking up each box of food and reading the ingredients thoughtfully before setting it back down. It tore at his heart, knowing this was his life. That he couldn't do what any other boy his age would do and grab an armful of snacks and chow down. That each bite he put in his mouth could have dire effects on his health.

“Oreos,” he managed to choke out. “Oreos are good, right? I think I remember seeing that on your mom's blog.”

Zach turned, blinking sad eyes at him. “Yeah, you don't have any in here though. Can I just have some lunch meat?”

Oh, you poor, sweet, smart boy. “I've got a special stash.” He'd forgotten in the moment he'd decided to keep the cookies handy in case Kara ever happened to magically drop by with Zach in tow . . . you know, in his fantasy world. He'd
put them in a hidden spot so Greg or anyone else wouldn't scarf them. He reached on top of the fridge, pulled down a small wicker basket and set it on the kitchen table. “There's regular and double stuff.”

“Who even eats regular when you've got double stuff?” Grinning, Zach grabbed the package and dropped his book bag on the floor. He kicked his shoes off and they landed beside the bag. The hoodie came off next, landing somewhere in the near vicinity. “Do I have to eat them at the kitchen table?”

“Nah.” Graham grabbed a bag of carrots and hooked an arm around Zach's neck. “Let's go watch something bloody and violent on TV.”

He might have imagined it, but Graham thought he heard the boy sniffle a little before he let out a low, “Yeah.”

*   *   *

KARA
settled back in the break room of the gym, wondering how many more extra classes she would have to take before Henry backed down. She couldn't afford the retainer without working overtime, and she still had two more in-home private lessons to give before she was done for the day. She loved yoga as much as the next person, but even she had her limits.

Her phone buzzed in the outer pocket of her duffel bag, and she eyed it warily. If it was Tasha calling with more bad news, she didn't want it. Maybe that was childish, but she'd rather just have it pushed aside to deal with later. When her back didn't ache and her feet didn't hurt from walking on the hard wooden floor all day.

It stopped, then immediately started buzzing again. With a groan, she pulled it out and saw the babysitter's name on the screen. She answered, “Hey, Syl, how's Zach?”

“Uh, you did say he was supposed to come today, right?”

“All week,” Kara agreed. “Why, is he telling you he shouldn't be there?”

There was a short pause, then the babysitter answered softly, “He isn't here.”

The breath left Kara's lungs in one big rush that left her feeling hollowed out, empty, deflated. Her heart sank, she could actually feel it sink, down to land on top of her stomach, leaving her weak and nauseous at the same time.

Henry. Henry had come and . . . no. Not yet. He wouldn't do this yet.

Kidnappers. Had someone come and taken her beautiful boy? Human trafficking. Drug mule. God . . .

Her phone beeped with an incoming call, and she pulled it away to see Graham's name and face smiling at her.
Not now, not now.

“Sylvia . . . you're positive he wasn't on the bus.”

“I was at the bus stop when it drove by. It never even stopped.”

“Did you call the school? Maybe he fell asleep on the bus, or got on the normal bus to go home instead. Maybe—”

“I called the school. No kids were on the wrong bus. I drove by your apartment really fast, to make sure he hadn't gone home, but he wasn't there. Or if he was, he wasn't answering the door when I knocked. Kara, I'm so sorry. I don't know where he is.”

Graham buzzed again, and she nearly screamed with frustration. “Syl, I'll call you back. I'm . . . I'll call you.” She hung up, but as she hung up, it answered the other call instead. She started to hang up when she heard Graham's voice.

“Kara? Hello?”

Ask for help. Don't do this alone. You need help.
Biting back a moan, hand shaking, she held it to her ear. “Graham?”

God, she sounded weak. She sounded ineffective, weak, and young. None of which she really was, so she had to steel her spine and find her son.

“I've got Zach.”

Those three words had relief soaring through her so fast
it was painful. Her heart started back again at a sluggish rate, and her lungs burned with the effort to drag in full breaths. “Oh my God. You have him.” Her voice sounded like she'd pushed the words through a tunnel of jagged glass. She paused. “Did you pick him up from school? You shouldn't have been able to do that.”

He waited a beat before answering. “We just got in. I came home from practice and he was sitting on my front step. Taxi,” he added, answering her next question before she could ask. “Taxi and allowance money. Look, he's safe here, we're watching some TV, and I've got the rest of the night off. He said you have a lot of clients today, which was why he was going to the babysitter's. I'll keep him with me, and you can swing by when you're done.”

She slid a trembling hand over her face. The adrenaline hadn't worn off yet. “I can't ask you to do that.”

“You didn't. I'm offering. It's nice to watch sports when there's someone else to yell at the TV with.”

“You don't have any of his food—”

“He's munching on Oreos right now, and we'll figure out dinner. I'll get some recipes from your blog.” When she didn't say anything, he said, “Kara. We're fine. He's fine.”

“I'm sorry I accused you.” A lone tear leaked out, a weakness she could indulge in now that her son was safe. “That was rude of me.”

“I can hear in your voice you're frantic. It's fine. Just come by when you're done.”

She nibbled on her lip. “I really should get him now and drag him—”

“Kara.” His voice was lower, as if he wanted to keep it a secret. The faint sound of the TV was gone now. He must have stepped into another room. “He's got something eating at him. So I'm going to keep him here and let him unload for a bit. Sometimes, talking to an adult who isn't a parent just works better when a kid needs to vent. Come get him
later. Punish him later. Do the whole Responsible Mom thing later. But give him a little time first. Give yourself a little time, too.”

She should scold him for giving her parenting advice when he had no experience. But he'd once been a young boy. She couldn't discount that. “I'll call you when I'm on the way.”

“Perfect. We look forward to seeing you.” He chuckled, then added, “Well, I do, anyway.” Then he hung up.

She set the phone down on the bench beside the duffel and covered her face with both hands. Now that she actually had the time to cry, the tears wouldn't come. It was as if they knew she could afford the moment to self-indulge, and were stubbornly withholding.

Even her tear ducts were against her.

With a shaky breath, she quickly texted Sylvia to let her know, stuffed the phone in her bag, stood on wobbly legs and made her way to the parking lot.

*   *   *

HEADLIGHTS
cut through his open front window, waking Graham from the drowsy, relaxed pose on the couch. He sat up, muting the TV as he did, and checked out the window. Definitely Kara's car, though she wasn't turning it off and getting out. Was she hoping to grab him and run?

No way in hell.

But even as he watched, prepared to go out there and pull the keys out of the ignition himself, she slowly let her head drop to the steering wheel. He could see the exhaustion and worry from the front door. She wasn't trying to grab-and-go. She just wasn't ready to deal with the stress yet.

He gave her another few moments and went to check on Zach. He'd hit a slump at about eight thirty. Early for a kid his age, but Graham had a feeling the adrenaline of running off plus the excitement of being able to hang with him for a while
had taken its toll. He'd carried the boy—and what a trusting, humbling weight that had been to hold against his shoulder and chest—to his guest room and tucked him in. It was a school night, so no way would he stay. But until Kara could come back for him, it was a more comfortable place to rest.

Zach was still out, and snoring just a little. Graham smiled, then closed the bedroom door again and headed to the front door. He made it just in time to open it before Kara rang the bell and woke the boy up.

“Hey.” He held it open and let her come in. She wore yoga pants that were cropped at the calves and molded perfectly to her long legs, a flowy tank top that skimmed the top of her spectacular ass, and her hair in a long braid that emphasized how slim and tempting her neck was.

She looked around the living room, then into the kitchen. “Zach?”

“Sleeping in the guest room. He zonked out early, and I figured you might need a few minutes before you got him to go home.” When she just stood there, staring toward the hallway that contained the bedrooms, he added, “I'm sorry. I hope you weren't worried too much.”

The look she shot him was so maternal, he wondered if she'd ground him.

“‘Worried' is not the word I would use.” She let her purse drop to the love seat and sank down beside it. Her head flopped forward into her hands. He took the sofa, sitting close enough to reach out and touch her. He wanted to. But he wouldn't. Not yet.

“‘Worried' makes it sound like I sort of thought about it, but knew it would be okay. Like how I worry when he's taking a big social studies test because he hates to read about history. Or worry he'll leave his EpiPen at home . . . but never has.” She looked at him then, eyes full of tears he knew she was battling hard to not shed. “Terror is probably more accurate. I couldn't breathe. Graham, I . . .” She fluttered a hand
over her chest, and it heaved with the effort to draw in air. “I couldn't . . . oh, God.” Her voice was thin, and he could see she was a hair's breadth from a full blown panic attack.