The Groom (5 page)

Dan snorted and leaned back in
his chair as Lyle took his seat on the other side of the desk. “Doubtful. She’s
too nosy for her own good and too meddlesome to be chased away that easily. She
may give you the cold shoulder for a few days, make you eat ham sandwiches for
dinner, but she’ll come around. Just make sure her Christmas bonus is a big
one.”

Lyle shook his head but knew Dan
was right. Twila wasn’t the type to tuck tail and run because of a few harsh
words. It would take some groveling, but she’d forgive him for his behavior
eventually.

“I’m surprised to see you back so
soon,” Dan continued as Lyle logged onto his work computer.

“That’s what the Chief said.
Everyone’s looking at me like someone died and they don’t know what to say to
me.”

Dan raised an eyebrow. “Come on,
Lyle. You don’t have to play this game with me. I know this can’t be easy for
you. It’s okay to admit you’re not okay.”

Lyle sighed and removed his
glasses again, setting them on the desk and rubbing his tired eyes. He’d barely
slept the night before and was suffering for it now. “I’m not, and I’m okay
with admitting that to you and you only. It hurts like hell, but what am I
going to do? Holly made her choice and it wasn’t me. I wish her nothing but
happiness.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“I really do.”

“Some part of you must be mad at
her.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I’m
absolutely furious. But, at the end of the day, I know she’s happier with him.
You were there, Dan. You were one of the only people close enough to see that
look in her eyes when he came running down that aisle, begging her to marry him
and not me. When she let go of my hand to go to him, I knew I’d lost her
forever. Honestly, I don’t think I ever really had her to begin with.”

“You’re a better man than me. I’d
be fit to kill someone right about now.”

Lyle shrugged but then shot Dan a
mischievous grin. “You’re right, I am the better man.”

A balled-up piece of paper
smacked against his chest before falling to his lap.

“I’m still a better golfer than
you,” Dan challenged. “And I can drink you under the table any day of the week.”

“Is that a challenge? ’Cause I
was just thinking that a couple of drinks might be in order for after work
tonight.”

“Ah, now I see why you’re so cool
about this. Drowning our sorrows?”

Lyle shrugged. “Not really. I
found this place after the wedding. A bar and grill with live music. I just
like the atmosphere.”

“A bar, huh? Haven’t been to one
in forever. Count me in for after work. We’ll see who ends up under the table,
eh?”

_____

He was back. And this time, he’d
brought a friend. Katrina had told herself if she saw him again that she
wouldn’t stare. Yet here he was again, and she couldn’t help but continue to
wonder who he was and what story his life would tell. After hearing Angie’s
account of his rumpled tuxedo and bruised knuckles, Katrina was more curious
now than ever.

Who was the man with the tightly
drawn face and haunted eyes?

She sighed as she lowered herself
onto her stool, resting the curved guitar against her thighs. It had been a
long couple of days, and she was ready to go home, but singing paid the rent
and gave her something to do. Her gig at Parson’s deserved a large portion of
the credit for her sobriety, and she clung to it like the last tissue in the
bottom of the box. Being here was necessary.

She started strumming, listening
for strings that needed tightening before her set. The guy sitting with him had
dark hair, pale skin, and sharp features. They both gave off the same vibe:
high-class, deep-pocketed members of the upper echelon of society. It was odd .
. . most of the men frequenting Parson’s were blue-collar, working-class people
grabbing dinner and a drink after a hard day’s work. These guys hardly fit the
profile, yet were seated in the dining area with beers, chips, and salsa, as if
they belonged here. Her Sad Guy eyed the stage with expectancy and whispered to
his friend. The dark-haired companion swiveled to take in the stage—and
her—before turning back to his friend and speaking again.

Wondering what that exchange was
all about, but knowing that she needed to start her set, Katrina flicked on her
microphone and launched into her opening act.

“Good evening, everyone.”

Cheers and whistles greeted her,
and the sounds of conversation died.

“Tonight I’m going to start my
set with a song that’s been stuck in my head for a while. Anybody out there
ever heard of Jessie J?”

Applause answered her, and she
smiled. “Of course you have. Now, you know I don’t cover a lot of popular
artists up here, but I’m a big fan of Jessie, and she’s a real talented girl.”

“So are you!” A man yelled from
the back of the crowd.

Katrina laughed. “Thanks, babe,
that’s really sweet. Anyway, while her live acoustic sets aren’t all that
popular, I find myself more drawn in to her lyrics when I listen to them. I
think you will too. I’ll be singing ‘Who You Are.’”

She lowered her head in
concentration as she looped the opening chords, playing them again before
launching into the song.

Losing my mind on a tiny error

I nearly left the real me on
the shelf

Katrina put her all into the
song, the lyrics pulling on her memories, reminding her of a time when she’d
been lost to herself, unsure of who she really was. For some reason, it felt
appropriate as she watched the mysterious stranger dubbed “Sad Guy.” Why was he
sad? Who had hurt him? Something about him made her want to know. It made her
want to be the one to set it right.

Tears don't mean you're losing

Everybody's bruising

Katrina launched into the chorus
again, opening her eyes as she belted the lyrics, not realizing she’d closed
them at the onset of the song. As she sang the last line of the chorus, she
glanced up and locked eyes with her mystery admirer. Her voice hitched on the
last words and trailed off breathlessly as she caught sight of a lone tear
trailing down his cheek.

Her audience went wild, as always,
and Katrina used the opportunity to gather herself. Sad Guy noticed her staring
and scrambled to swipe the tear away. His gaze dropped from hers and into his
frosted beer mug. His companion was wolfing down one of Parson’s famous burgers
and was oblivious to his friend’s pain.

Katrina went on with the rest of
her set, trying not to dwell on what she’d seen for too long, but it was
difficult. Where once it had been hard not to think about him, wonder about who
he was, she was now finding it nearly impossible.

_________

LYLE
DRAINED WHAT was left in his beer mug and stood, stretching his long limbs as
Dan did the same.

“All right,” Dan slurred,
wavering on his feet. “You win. Obvioushly your pain hash given you the ability
to imbibe ridiculoush amountsh of liquor. I needa go home and shleep this off
before work tomorrow night.”

Lyle laughed and allowed Dan to
lean on him. “All right, man, I’ll get you in a cab.”

“Perfect. Good call on thish
place, by the way. Good food and mushic. Think I’ll shtart bringing my dates
here.”

Lyle tossed enough money to cover
the tab and tip onto the table before starting off toward the door. Unlike Dan,
Lyle wasn’t even slightly buzzed and had decided to enjoy the warm summer night
and walk home. Once on the street, he hailed a cab and tucked Dan inside.

“See you later,” he said after
giving the cabbie Dan’s address. Dan was snoring by the time Lyle slammed the
car’s door shut.

With a chuckle, Lyle removed his
glasses and tucked them into the pocket of his suit jacket, deciding that he
was done hiding behind them for the night. The warm breeze ruffled the hairs at
the back of his neck and he removed his jacket before rolling up his
shirtsleeves and starting off for home. The walk would take him at least half
an hour, but he had nothing better to do and lots of pain to face back at his
penthouse.

The wedding gifts still sat,
untouched in his living room, and Holly’s knick-knacks and things still
littered every surface of the living room. Her shampoo still rested in the
shower caddy in the master bathroom, and a few articles of clothing hung in the
closet beside his. Twila had offered to take everything away, but Lyle had
refused, for what reason he wasn’t quite sure.

He’d made it about a block when
he heard voices, one of them stirringly familiar. He paused, recognizing the
sounds of distress and the low, sultry vocal tones of the singer from Parson’s.
Brow wrinkled in concern, he rounded the corner and started down the dark alley
at a jog, following the sound of her voice. A dim and blinking overhead light
revealed her, struggling with a large thug shrouded in black. Lyle barely had
time to register her wide, fearful eyes and a gloved hand around her throat
before he acted.

“Hey!” he bellowed as he picked
up the pace, running toward the struggling pair. “Hey, let her go! Leave her
alone!”

Dropping his jacket, Lyle
approached them just as the silver metallic flash of a weapon caught his eye.
He lunged for the guy without thinking, narrowly missing taking the knife in
his ribs. The assailant flung the girl away from him, and Lyle distinctively
heard the sickening crack of her head against the brick wall. She crumpled to
the alley floor beside her guitar case, which had fallen in the scuffle and was
now open, revealing the instrument and pink lining.

Lyle grunted, struggling as the
man took another attempt at stabbing him with the knife. He gripped the
attacker’s wrist, twisting until the man yelped in pain and dropped the knife
to the sidewalk. Lyle ducked to avoid a wild right hook before bringing his own
fist up under his opponent’s chin in an uppercut. He gasped as pain radiated
from his already bruised knuckles through his hand and up his arm. He shook the
throbbing appendage, grateful that his blow had knocked the attacker out. Lyle
didn’t think his knuckles could take another punch.

Ignoring the pain for now, Lyle
crossed the alley and knelt down beside the singer, who’d collapsed right next
to a pile of refuse, narrowly missing being buried in garbage. He felt for a
pulse and was grateful to find a strong one, but still very concerned about the
large gash across her forehead. The coppery smell of blood filled his nostrils,
and Lyle fumbled around in his pocket with a curse before coming out with a
clean handkerchief. He pressed it to the wound, hoping to staunch the flow of
blood. On contact, she moaned, stirring in the arm that was holding her up
inches from the ground.

“You need to be as still as
possible,” Lyle said softly, keeping pressure on the wound. “You’ve been hurt,
and you might have a concussion. You definitely need stitches.”

Her eyelids fluttered open and
dark, fathomless eyes widened in surprise. “Hey,” she whispered, wincing in
pain between words. “It’s you . . . Sad Guy.”

Lyle frowned. “Sad Guy?”

She shrugged. “I didn’t know your
name, and you always look so sad. It’s what we call you.”

Great, now he’d become the poster
boy for sadness down at Parson’s. How the hell had that happened?

“My name is Lyle, and I’m a
doctor. Do you think you can stand on your own? We really should get you back
to Parson’s and call the police. You were just attacked.”

Her eyes widened even more, and
she tried to sit up. She went flopping back into his arms with a whimper of
pain, her hand coming up over his where he held the handkerchief in place over
her forehead.

“No,” she groaned, her chest
heaving with the force of her rapid breath. “No cops. It was just some random
mugger, and you know by the time they get here, he’ll be long gone.”

“That is if he hasn’t woken up and
tried to kill you. We need to go before he comes to. Are you sure you don’t
want to call the police?”

Everything within Lyle told him
that this was a matter for NYPD, but he didn’t want to upset an already ruffled
woman so he placated her when she said, “No, please. Can you just put me in a
cab? I’ll make my way home.”

“Are you kidding me? Didn’t you
hear what I said about you possibly having a concussion? You need medical
attention.”

She shook her head. “I don’t have
medical insurance. A night in the hospital would cost me a fortune.”

“That’s not important right now.
You’re very hurt.”

“Says a rich guy.”

Lyle felt frustration edging the
tension already racing through him. “You need stitches, Miss, and you need to
be monitored.”

“So help me, Doctor. Don’t you
guys carry around bags or something?”

Lyle shook his head, unable to
help his small snort of laughter. “No, but I’ve got one at home.” He glanced
down at her and then back at their unconscious attacker before nodding
decisively. “Okay, fine. Will you at least come to my apartment so I can stitch
you up and check you for signs of concussion?”

She shrugged. “So long as you can
promise me you’re not a rapist or a murderer.”

“No, just a doctor and,
apparently, a vigilante bar brawler.”

“Then I’m in good hands. You’re
totally my hero, Doctor.”

“Call me Lyle.”

She pulled the handkerchief away
from her forehead and cringed at the blood staining the white cloth. She looked
a bit green as she gazed up at him and forced a smile.

“Call me, Katrina.”

“Katrina, can you stand now? If
we can get to the street, I can hail a cab.”

“I think so,” she said, allowing
him to help her into a fully seated position. After a few seconds in which she
paused to get her bearings, Lyle helped her to her feet. She leaned against the
wall as he bent to retrieve her guitar case. He slung it over his shoulder and
allowed her to lean on him as they made their way down the alley.

“I want you to talk to me, okay?”
he said as they paused on the curb. He focused on trying to keep Katrina on her
feet while hailing a cab. “So I know you’re not losing consciousness on me.”

Katrina sighed and her head
lolled against his shoulder. Lyle tried not to think too long about how good
her hair smelled, like papaya and grapefruit. When a cab finally came to a stop
at the curb, Lyle settled Katrina inside and slid his long frame in beside her.
Within seconds they were on their way, with Katrina pressed tightly against his
side to make room on the seat for her guitar case. Lyle sat, straight and
erect, trying as best he could not to sink into the soft, womanly curves beside
him. She nestled against him with a sigh and Lyle glanced down at her to ensure
that she was still awake. Their eyes met, and he felt like he always did when
watching her from across the room, only more intensely because of her close
proximity. He felt as if someone had breathed fresh air through his insides,
and his body instantly relaxed against hers.

“Still with me?” he asked softly,
surprised at the husky timbre of his own voice.

She swallowed and nodded, slowly
and gingerly. “Yeah, but I’m so tired. I just want to go to sleep.”

“No, no. Not yet. You’ve got to
let me examine you first, okay? Why don’t you talk to me so I know you’re not
nodding off.”

“All right. I’m really hungry,
Lyle. I want a slice from Di Fara’s. Best pizza in the city, don’t you think?”

Lyle shrugged. “I don’t know. I
don’t eat a lot of pizza.”

She gave him a look that said she
thought he needed to be committed. “You can’t be a native New Yorker.”

“Of course I am! I am just very
conscious of what I put in my body. I want to live a long life, don’t you?”

“Sure. My grandmother was raised
on chitlins and fatback. She’s still alive and kicking at ninety.”

“What in God’s name is a
chitlin?”

She laughed, but it was a
different sound than the one he’d heard her use on stage. This one was just as
throaty and sexy, but was deeper and fuller . . . a real laugh. Lyle decided
that he liked the sound.

“You know, chitterlings? Pig
intestines.”

“That sounds . . . so repulsive.”

She laughed again, and Lyle
wondered if she even noticed how much closer she’d nestled against him.
“They’re pretty gross, but my grandma was poor. They didn’t have much, and
chitlins are cheap. Besides, you put a little hot sauce on them and they’re
almost edible.”

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“I’d still prefer that slice,
though; all gooey with cheese and extra pepperoni. Oh God, my stomach is
growling.”

“After I check you out, we’ll get
you fed, I promise.”

He endured the rest of the ride
and tried not to laugh as Katrina mulled over the possible contents of his
refrigerator. By the time they reached the front of his building, she’d made
him promise not to give her any tofu or bean sprouts—neither of which he
was fond of, but he humored her. He hustled her past the front desk and the
curious one-man front desk night crew and into the elevator. She swayed on her
feet as she continued pressure with the handkerchief under his instruction. He
kept his arm around her waist until the elevator slid open on his floor.

Since he lived in the Penthouse,
there was nothing but a short corridor leading to his front door. What he found
framed by the doorway astounded him, bringing both he and Katrina up short and
sending her guitar case clattering to the floor. Soft, brown eyes snapped up
and met his, going wide as the woman they belonged to leaped to her feet.

She’d been reclined on the floor,
leaning against the door, a Kindle e-reader clutched between her fingers. Her
open purse rested on the floor, the usual hodgepodge of her things scattered
about inside. Lyle wished to high hell he was still wearing his glasses. They
would have at least partially hidden the mingled expression of anger and shock
that flickered across his face at the sight of her.

“Holly,” he whispered, his voice
grinding out from between clenched teeth.

“Lyle, I…” she trailed off,
swallowing noisily as her eyes darted between him and Katrina. “I didn’t
realize you’d have company.” She frowned as she noticed the blood dripping from
Katrina’s forehead. “Is she okay?”

“Don’t mind me,” Katrina remarked
dryly as she removed the handkerchief and made a face at the blood staining the
white material. “Just bleedin’ to death over here.”

Lyle grimaced and pulled Katrina
toward the door. “Attempted mugging. She doesn’t want to go to the hospital,
but she needs stitches. What are you doing here, Holly?”

He fumbled in his pants pocket
for his keys and avoided Holly’s eyes as she retrieved her purse from the
floor.

“I came to . . . to talk. To
apologize for—”

“Yeah, can you get the door
open?” he interjected as he located his keys. “And maybe grab that guitar
case?”

“Sure,” she answered, lowering
her head with a swish of her ponytail and doing as he asked. She had the door
open within seconds.

“You didn’t have to wait outside,
you have a key,” he said as he ushered Katrina inside. Really, he was just
being polite. He’d probably have a coronary if he’d walked in and found Holly
sitting on his couch.

“I didn’t think it was
appropriate,” she said, standing in the middle of the living room as if she
didn’t know what to do. Shame flooded her face as she took in the jumbled
assortment of wedding gifts taking up half the massive living room. The
“Congratulations Holly & Lyle” banner had come loose a bit and was hanging
halfway to the floor, obscuring the fireplace. “Oh, Lyle,” she whispered, her
lashes fanning down over those wide doe eyes that had so captivated him the
first time he saw her.