Authors: Sally Bradley
Dillan had prayed for help, and a second later he’d been out of her arms, racing for his place. “What determines the answer?”
“What’s best for us. What God’s will is.”
“God’s will.”
“Like when Garrett’s grandfather passed. We prayed that God would heal him.”
“What was wrong?”
“Just old age. He’d had a third heart attack. We prayed for healing because they didn’t want to see him go. But at the same time, they knew he’d be in heaven. He’d be better off there. So we prayed, ‘God, heal him if that’s your plan,’ knowing that it might be God’s will to take him to heaven.”
“So your prayer didn’t work.”
“No, it did. We made our request known, but at the same time it was with the idea that God’s will be done. Our prayer for his healing was for us, so he would be here longer. Eventually we all die. In his case, he’d lived a long, full life. His body was weak. What was best was that he went home to be with God.”
Miska held her lip between her teeth. She thought of Liam, of Tracy’s prayer that she’d be free to talk, of Dillan’s prayer for help.
Help to get away from her.
It had been answered. Which meant what was best for Dillan, God’s will for Dillan, was to keep away from her.
Her nose tingled. Her eyes filled.
“Miska?” Tracy grabbed her hand. “What’s wrong?”
She shrugged. How could she say it? Tracy would probably agree. She wasn’t good for Dillan. Wasn’t right for him. God, if he were real, had made that clear.
“Honey. Tell me.”
How calm Tracy was, how concerned for her when twenty-four hours ago she’d caught her fiancé cheating. Miska shook her head again. “I can’t.”
Tracy studied her.
Now her nose was running. She held out a hand for the Kleenex box. Tracy passed it, and Miska pulled out three tissues, nodding when another popped up.
Tracy smiled.
Miska blew her nose and dried her eyes. “I shouldn’t be crying.”
“Miska, can I tell you something?”
She balled the tissues. “What?”
“Do you know I prayed about you? Before we even met. And God said yes.”
She swallowed, that annoying tingle returning. “What did you pray?”
“That you and I would be friends. That I’d be able to tell you about God.”
Here they were, true friends, and she’d listened to Tracy talk about God more than once. “Why would you pray that?”
“Because I knew you were lost.”
She closed her eyes. How true that was. “I’m tired of feeling lost, Tracy.”
“I know.”
“How does God fix that?”
“He fixes it by making us his child. We humans who rejected him, who sinned and cut
ourselves
off from him—for us God sent Jesus to pay our punishment. On our own, we’re heading for hell. But when we accept Jesus’s sacrifice and give him our lives, then we become God’s child—and we realize how free and safe we are, that everything we’ve been searching for was in him,
was
him.”
“And that’s why he’s home?”
Tracy smiled, tears in her eyes. “Exactly.”
God, are you real?
Miska closed her eyes. This was crazy, talking to someone who wasn’t there. But it had worked for Tracy, for Dillan, the people she respected most in the world. She swallowed her uncertainty.
Tracy’s starting to make sense. Is that because… you’re there?
Feet propped on top of her headboard, back flat on the mattress, Miska prayed to whoever was out there that this phone call with Mark would go well, that they’d both sense they were right for each other. “How’s your shoulder?”
“Bad, and I’m just resting.”
News about his injury had hit the media Friday afternoon. The article she’d read said he’d had two MRIs, one with contrast and one without—whatever that meant—revealing mild strain in some muscle.
“When did you throw last?”
“Wednesday.”
“That’s three days ago.”
“Yep.” He sighed. “Not good.”
“You’re worried?” He’d sounded so calm before. Maybe it was more serious than he’d let on.
“It’s not the usual pain, you know?”
“Can’t say that I do.”
He chuckled. “You know what the good side of this is?”
“What’s that?”
“I can come see you.”
Her feet slipped off the headboard, and she pushed herself upright. “Oh. Umm—”
“You okay?”
“Sure. I just— Hang on.” She opened the drawer of her nightstand. “Sorry. I’m getting my calendar out.”
“Why? You busy?”
“Actually, yes.” Where was her Mark-and-Kendall calendar? “Lots of editing.”
“That’s great. Last we talked you were losing a client.”
She mashed her lips together and made a fist. Right. “Still losing them, but I’m overbooked right now. Trying to make money while I can.”
“You’ve got to have a few free hours.”
She found the calendar and flipped it open. “I’m swamped, Mark.”
“Miska.” He groaned. “I want to see you. What about Tuesday?”
Kendall was arriving that noon for Wednesday’s game. “Tuesday doesn’t work.”
“Wednesday?”
“No. Not Thursday either. I have a big deadline that day.”
“What book?”
Seriously? “You know I can’t talk about them.”
He sighed. “What about Monday?”
“This coming Monday?”
“Yeah. If I head out when Darcie leaves, I can be there by ten. We can order in. I can leave by one.”
She squeezed her eyes shut. She had to make it work. “Monday should be okay—”
“Oh, wait. Got a meeting.”
Relief spilled through her. Having them here so close together was risky. She needed to end things with Kendall.
But the money…
“Miska?”
She startled. “I’m here.”
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Yes. Monday doesn’t work. Sorry I’m so busy.”
“I’ll have to settle for thinking about you.”
She smoothed the hair on the back of her head. He sounded okay with her no. “If I get my work done early, I’ll call you, okay?”
“Please do. Hey, Darcie’s back. Gotta run.”
They hung up. She lowered the phone and let gravity pull her across her bed. That had been close.
But she’d prayed.
How’d that go, God?
What answer fit best? Yes, no, or wait? And how long until she found out?
When Dillan came in from his run Wednesday morning, Garrett stood in the living room, knotting his tie and watching SportsCenter. “What’s it like out there?” Garrett asked.
“Kinda cold, actually.” Dillan wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “For June, anyway.”
“I hear it’s summer in the ’burbs. We should visit Mom and Dad.”
“Maybe they’d feed us.”
“That’d be spectacular.”
Behind the TV, something thumped against the wall.
Garrett stilled. “What was that?”
“Got me.”
He muted the TV. “Sh.”
A faint voice broke the silence. A man’s voice—angry, raging. Another thud. Another sound. A cry?
Dillan stiffened. “Miska?”
They dashed for the door.
Garrett reached the hall first, only to freeze.
Dillan slammed into his back. “Garrett—”
Mark Scheider slumped against the wall but jerked upright at the sight of them.
Sounds of a fight filtered into the hallway.
Dillan tried Miska’s door. Locked. “Who’s in there?”
“Kendall Sullivan. I walked in on them—”
Something shattered. Miska screamed.
Dillan shook the knob, threw his shoulder against the door.
Garrett kicked it. “You call the cops?”
“No. No cops.”
“Are you kidding?” Dillan pounded the door. “Call them now!”
Garrett held out a hand to Mark. “Hey, your keys.”
Dillan flung himself against the door.
“Your keys!”
He spun.
Mark stared at Garrett.
What was the matter with this guy? “You coward! You got in there, didn’t you?”
“She can’t have us both. She has to learn—”
Garrett rammed Mark against the wall. “Gimme your keys. Before I take them.”
Mark dug them out of a pocket.
In seconds Garrett unlocked the door. “Call the police,” he hollered.
Dillan pushed him forward, and they raced inside.
The living room looked trashed—Miska’s desk toppled, a lamp shattered beside it. An end table destroyed, her coffee table flipped—
Beside the master bedroom, Kendall jerked Miska up.
“Hey!” Dillan hurdled a toppled chair, relishing the startled expression on Sullivan’s face. Garrett went around the couch, and Sullivan dropped Miska to face them.
Blood streaked her face.
Dillan got to him first. He grabbed Sullivan’s shirt and shoved him into the wall.
Sullivan swore, fists flying.
Dillan blocked his right hand, but the man’s left got past his casted arm and connected with his cheek. Pain flashed through his vision, and he stumbled back. He blinked away the sting in time to see Sullivan double Garrett over.
That was
it.
Sullivan turned to him, throwing another right hook.
Dillan let it fly by, then drove his fist into the unprotected side of Sullivan’s face. The blow rocked through his hand, but it sent Sullivan toppling to the floor.
Gritting his teeth, his hand throbbing, Dillan hauled Sullivan up.
The man’s head wobbled. He wasn’t a threat anymore.
Behind him Garrett coughed. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Nice job. What’d you do there? Trip him into submission?”
“This clown didn’t know he was fighting a lefty. Isn’t that the first rule, Sullivan? Know your enemy?”
“And here he thought he was fighting a woman.”
Sullivan shook himself.
Dillan let go. “You’re a real catch, beating her up like that.”
The loser wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “What do you know, huh? Or maybe you’ve slept with her too.” He glared at Miska, curled in a ball in the doorway. He called her a name and kicked her leg.
Dillan grabbed him again, plastered him against the wall.
Sullivan’s head banged the doorway’s trim, and the man grimaced.
Pleasure soared through Dillan. “Do it again, Sully. Let’s see how you leave then.”
Sullivan raised his hands in silent agreement. Dillan let him go, and the man eased away.
In her bedroom doorway, Miska pulled herself to a sitting position, bent over, shoulders shaking. A red slice glared across her exposed back. Only then did what she was wearing register, a silver, lacy spaghetti-strap nightgown with a low back.
And probably a low front.
The bed’s silky red comforter caught his eye. He stepped past her, tugged it free of the sheets, and draped it around her shoulders.
She clutched it tightly.
In the living room, Garrett spoke to Sullivan.
Dillan searched her bedroom for anything that belonged to the creep. A closed suitcase sat tucked into a corner. Men’s shoes lay beneath one corner of the bed. Dillan lugged the suitcase to the living room and tossed the shoes after it.
“His wallet’s on the dresser.”
Dillan studied her, huddled beneath the comforter. “You okay?” he asked.
She nodded.
“Anything else I’m missing?”
She raised her head to look.
Dillan sucked in a breath at the bruise forming on one cheek, the blood that had spilled from her nose and split lip, the space where tears had washed her face clean.
“No,” she whispered.
He shouldn’t feel sorry for her. She’d caused her own mess. What did she expect from sleeping with two athletes? For money? He grabbed the wallet and walked into the living room.
Sullivan stood by the island, zipping a tablet cover.
“He about done?” Dillan asked.
Garret nodded. “He’s cutting it close, don’t you think? Cops have got to be just outside.”
Sullivan sulked as he jammed his feet into the shoes. One eye was swelling shut. Huh. Right where he’d nailed the guy. He’d done good there.
“Dill, whatcha got?”
“His wallet.”
Sullivan jerked his head up and reached for the wallet. Garrett snagged it first. “What do you pay her, Sully?”
He growled his answer. “None of your business.”
“Hmm.” Garrett pulled out a stack of plastic. “Let’s see. We got a Visa. Two Visas. Oh, look, Dill. His library card—”
Sully snatched the wallet. Still holding the cards, Garrett propped his hands on his waist and cocked his head like he was appalled.
Dillan snickered.
“Give me my stuff.”
“You pay her?”
“I told you it’s none—”
“Miska.” Dillan glanced over his shoulder. “What’s this guy owe you?”
She shook her head.
“What about damages?”
“I’m done with him. I want him gone.”
Good. “You heard her. Get your stuff and get out before the—”
“Cops get here.” Sully snatched the plastic. “Yeah, right. What cops?”
True. They should have been there by now.
He took a few steps toward Miska, and Dillan stepped between them, ready for him to try it.
Sully grabbed the suitcase. “I’m leaving. You can have your whore.”
Garrett tsked. “And what you did here doesn’t make you a whore?”
Sullivan shot him a deadly look.
“Dude.” Dillan waved a hand toward the hallway. “Go already.”
Sullivan straightened and started to leave, swaying a little. Garrett followed, Dillan behind him. At the door, Sully flashed them an obscene gesture, then left.
Classy guy.
Dillan caught the door before it closed and poked his head into the hallway. Sullivan vanished into the lobby. The rest of the floor was silent. Empty. “That idiot Scheider left without calling the cops.”
“Figures. Hey.” Garrett nudged him. “‘Dude’? Really?”
“Works for you.”
“It does. Thanks for having my back.”
“You too. Let’s not do it again.” He stepped over the remains of Miska’s desk, something crunching beneath his shoes.
Miska glanced up at the sound, then ducked her head.
She was ashamed. Or embarrassed. Or… something.
He crouched before her, where she could see him if she wanted to.
She kept her head lowered and sniffed, wiping the corner of her eye.