Chapter Four
Emma
Aiden shows me my room for the night and the bathroom. He places my bag on the queen-size bed and leaves me to get settled. I call Kenneth right away. I tell him all about Aiden and the things I’ve found out. He replies with monosyllables, except when I ask him about his new DJ gig. Then we talk for a whole hour about that. I’m hurt he doesn’t show much interest. I’m confused about our relationship in general right now, but I’ve had my fill of emotion for the day and can’t really handle much more.
“I wish you could be here for my gig,” he says.
“Me, too.”
“It falls on your birthday, so you could actually come. I’d buy you drinks all night.”
“I’d love to be there, but I have to finish this for my mom.”
“I get it, babe. Just promise me I get to see you in your birthday suit as soon as you get back.”
“Any luck on apartments?” I ask, redirecting the conversation. I want to alleviate one of the nagging worries spiraling through my head.
“Not much out here in our price range. I’ll keep looking, though. I should have some leads by the time you get here. Even if I don’t, you can always crash here for a while. The guys would be cool with it.”
I imagine living in the tiny apartment with no privacy and sleeping in Kenneth’s twin bed in a room he shares with another dude. “Keep searching. Not to sound ungrateful, but I really can’t handle living with three guys who haven’t figured out that the toilet seat is on a hinge.”
He chuckles. “Don’t worry, babe. I’m on it.”
“We don’t have to move in together, Kenneth. I can find a place on my own or something.”
“Where’s this coming from? You getting cold feet? Wasn’t this always the plan?”
I’d been living in the dorms for the past few years, but that isn’t an option now that I’m no longer a student. Kenneth is right that this is the plan. I had been confident in it once, except for the part about telling my dad, who’d never cared much for Kenneth even though our parents were best friends. I cringe, remembering the way the vein in my dad’s neck pulsed as he launched into a lecture that usually began with a stern You’re smarter than that, Em, but would always end with an I love you.
“I just don’t want us rushing into something.”
“Rushing? We’ve been together for three years. We’ve known each all our lives. Relax, Emma. We got this.”
I swallow back any more arguments because he’s right. Kenneth is my comfort zone. He’s my best friend, my first kiss, my sounding board, my guy. My life has been on this out of control, crash-and-burn course for so long, that I’m oversensitive.
We kiss our good-byes. I call Natalie next. Kenneth and Natalie are the only two friends I have left. I haven’t exactly been the most social person.
Unlike Kenneth, Natalie listens as I tell her about the mysterious ex-stepbrother I never knew. After I reveal Aiden is a Marine and an MMA fighter, she demands a picture of him. I try to steer us back to the fact that he rescues abused dogs and he’s part of this secret life my mom had, but she keeps demanding a photo. I refuse to take a snap of him, despite her begging. Finally, she does the thing I should have done before coming here. She Googles him.
Nat squeals so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear.
“You found a picture?”
“Yep, it took a minute. He’s not on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter, but I found a pic on a site about up-and-coming MMA fighters. Holy hotness, Batman. Your stepbro is seriously cut. With a face like that, he could be a freaking model.”
“I know, right?”
“Em, if it was me, I’d drag him to Middle-of-nowhere, Texas and show him just how good I can beg for a piece of his meat.”
“Um…thanks for that visual.”
“Just saying. So why doesn’t he want to go with you?”
“Well, I didn’t actually ask him to go with me. I asked him to meet me there. He didn’t really say much except he’d rather go to hell than Linx. Then he gave me some creepy Scooby-Doo-type warning about how I should turn around and head home. “
She giggles. “Did you take off his mask to find out he’s really old man Withers trying to keep you from discovering his buried gold?”
“There is nothing old man about Aiden.” The closed door seems solid but I lower my voice just the same. “He does wear a mask, though…at least around me. He’s a little rough.”
“Rough around the edges can be hot.”
“Rough as in a little mean and insensitive.”
“So he’s got anger management problems?”
“No, not like that. I don’t feel threatened by him.” I thought about the way Theo jerked his head whenever I went near his missing ear. Something about that reaction rang true for Aiden as well. “It’s almost like a protection mechanism. He’s more shield than sword. Maybe something happened to him in Afghanistan.” Thinking about the scar on his face and the way he lashed out when I asked too many questions, it made sense.
“For real?”
“We hear about soldiers being captured every day. Beaten and brutalized. It’s not really a stretch.”
“So he’s got PTSD?”
“Maybe. I doubt he’ll tell me. He’s not the easiest person to talk to.”
“Why do you care, Em? If he’s a jerk, then he’s not worth your time.”
I don’t have an answer for her, except I do care.
After I hang up with Nat, I take a quick shower. I’m pretty sure this is the same bathroom Aiden uses. The refreshing mint shampoo smells like him. Since my shower stuff is in my other bag, I squeeze out a large dab and run it through my hair, hoping Aiden won’t mind.
Once I’m showered and dressed in jeans and my comfy Chuck Berry T-shirt, I head downstairs to find my hosts. Mac is making dinner. He refuses my offer to help at first, but I insist. Aiden’s nowhere in sight. That’s probably for the best. Whereas Aiden’s aloof, distant, and callous, Mac is just the opposite. He radiates warmth like a fireplace. He puts me to work peeling and chopping apples.
I like this house. It reminds me of my home, not in style or size, but in personality. Every loved house has that same feel of comfort.
Mac takes my bowl of prepared apples and starts on the homemade apple crisp that will be our dessert tonight. Soon, the fragrance of warm apples, cinnamon, and nutmeg permeates the air.
Theo and Otis are lying by the fire. They are good dogs. They don’t beg for food or anything. I, on the other hand, am not as well trained. I close my eyes, sniffing the air and trying to inhale the heavenly scent.
“It smells delicious.”
“How about we spoil our dinner?” Mac suggests.
“No arguments here. Spoil away…please.”
“A few more minutes in the saucepan, I think, and then we’ll have ourselves a little treat.”
“Hey, Mac, I wanted to thank you for having me. I’m really sorry to put you through this trouble.”
“You insult me with your gratitude. This house needed a smiling face more than you needed shelter.”
I’m so overwhelmed by his kindness and generosity that I have no response. Luckily, he doesn’t wait for one.
“You’re good with the dogs. Theo usually stays away from strangers,” he says.
“That’s hard to imagine. He’s so loving.”
“He is with other dogs, and with Aiden, but he generally doesn’t trust people. Dogs are the best judges of character, though. Theo adores you, which must mean you’re a good person.”
Warmth flushes my cheeks. “Well…he’s a good dog.”
“Did you have dogs growing up?”
“No. My mom was allergic, but I always wanted one.”
He scoops the cooked apples into two bowls and tops them with ice cream. He sets them on the round oak table and takes the chair opposite me, where Aiden sat a few hours ago. I close my eyes, savoring the taste of crisp, hot apples coated with caramel and brown sugar and topped with a scoop of cold sweet vanilla. It’s decadent and rich and gooey and perfect.
“Good?” he asks.
“Good? I want to devour this dessert and then turn back time so I can do it again.”
“It’s nice to meet someone who shares my sweet tooth.”
“Aiden doesn’t do dessert?”
“He generally stays away from it.”
Aiden’s body is a clear indication of how his choices have panned out. “Well, more for us,” I say, digging my spoon in for another heaping bite. “I swear, Mac, I’ve had apple crisp before, but this…this is how apples always wanted to taste but never had the self-confidence.”
Mac’s brown eyes crinkle. “A squeeze of fresh lemon is the secret.”
“I’ll remember that.”
“It works for life, too.” He winks at me like we’re conspirators.
“Lemons are the secret to life?”
“In a way, mija. Bitter always makes the sweet last longer.”
“Wise words, Mac.”
“Aiden told me about you.”
I focus on the ice cream as it melts into the warm apples. How would Aiden describe me? Probably as some poor, helpless girl he had to help out.
“I am so sorry for your loss, Emma.”
“Thank you.”
“Aiden can be abrupt sometimes. But beneath the tough exterior, he has a good heart.”
“I suppose a good heart is a prerequisite for the kind of work you do.”
“You’re exactly right. Aiden’s seen more than his fair share of horrific things.”
“I imagine there are a lot of tragedies when you rescue animals.”
“There are, but Aiden’s known such things before he came here. That might be why he’s adapted so well to this type of work.”
“Because of what he experienced in Afghanistan?”
Mac shifts in his seat, his spoon hovering over the bowl. We’ve veered onto a path he probably didn’t want to take. Obviously, it’s none of my business, but Mac smiles warmly. “That’s part of it. Some people have a knack for this. It’s impossible not to absorb sorrow when you see it every day. You aren’t human if you don’t feel it. Although Aiden processes it, he’s able to overcome it, too. He can train the animals to respect him and also give them the love and attention they crave. It’s a tricky balance. Unfortunately, he has more difficulty when it comes to humans.”
“I understand.”
I set my spoon in the empty bowl, resisting the temptation to lick it clean. Mac stands and takes our bowls to the sink.
“We should get back to it.” He hands me a colander full of rinsed green beans. As I get to work snapping them, I ask Mac to tell me about himself, partly to change the subject, as I sense he’s uncomfortable discussing Aiden behind his back. But I’m genuinely curious, too.
Unlike Aiden, Mac is an open book. He tells me all about his interesting life. His Cuban mother and Irish father met at a young age when his father was on vacation in Havana. Although they had everything against them, they managed to fall in love. Mac’s father even moved to Cuba. As the political landscape of the country changed, though, his parents worried for their only son. So, with only a few hundred dollars and all their good intentions, they sent Mac to America.
“I think I’ve had every kind of job possible, mija,” he says, chopping carrots with speed and accuracy. “I was a gardener, a bus driver, a factory worker…” The list goes on. I admire his free spirit. He’s lived in ten cities, from the East Coast to the West, starting over with a new town, a new job and a new life around every corner.
“How did you settle on opening a dog rescue?”
He smiles. “It was a happy accident. This isn’t a career. It’s more of a calling, but it’s nothing I planned. You see, I’ve always loved dogs. I had many growing up. I missed the companionship of a faithful friend. But a single man travelling around the country can’t provide a stable life for a dog. Truthfully, I’d grown tired of new adventures. I wanted to settle down and lay roots…quite literally, in fact. I was going to be a farmer.”
“Really, a farmer?”
“Yes, mija, I’ve always wanted my own land, a place to sow seeds, churn the earth, and nourish it. I wanted to sit on my front porch at night and watch the fruits of my labor prosper around me. Over the years, I’d saved a lot of money…well, a lot for me, at least. I happened to be in the area when this parcel came up for sale. My mother always said there are no real coincidences. I purchased the land on impulse. It was spontaneous and, in hindsight, very stupid. Also, it was the best decision of my life.”
“Why isn’t it a farm?”
“It was at first, but as it turns out, I didn’t inherit my mother’s green thumb. Not to mention, I’m a horrible businessman. The land was cheap because crops are difficult to grow here. It was so infertile, I figured this piece of earth was either salted or cursed. My version of the American dream became a nightmare. I was ready to give up. I approached a neighbor about purchasing a few acres from me, and I noticed an old dog lying miserably in the front yard. The man told me the dog was going to be put down because no matter what he did, he could not train him. I’d almost forgotten how much I loved dogs.
Instead of him buying land from me, I took the dog off his hands. The mutt was aggressive at first, but I worked with him, gaining his respect first, and later, his trust. Soon, people asked me to take in other dogs. Incontinent dogs, aggressive dogs, homeless dogs, and sick ones, too. Then I was going on rescue missions. Eventually, I turned this place into a charity. We make enough with adoptions and contributions to keep us going. It’s definitely a poor man’s ambition, but I never had any false ideals of becoming rich…only happy. Funny how your dreams don’t always come to pass the way you imagined. Turns out, this barren land is actually a place for nourishment and growth, but instead of crops, it is spirit, faith, and love that thrive here.”
“That’s beautiful. I admire your passion.”
He shrugs off the compliment. “It’s a labor of love. But I better step off my soapbox before I fall.” He lifts the lid of the large black pot on the stove and stirs what’s in it. The aroma of simmering tomatoes and garlic fills the kitchen. “Would you mind telling Aiden dinner is almost ready? He’s in the basement. I’m sure he’ll want to take a shower before he eats.”
“Of course.”
Mac points me toward the basement door. I wonder what Aiden’s been doing for the past few hours. As soon as I crack the door, the sounds of “Who Are You” by the Who hit me. It’s eerily appropriate since I’ve been asking that about him since Mom mentioned his name. I pause on the creaky steps as soon as he comes into my vision.
I saw an MMA fight once on television. I shudder, remembering the way those guys went at each other. I shudder even more now, watching Aiden punch and kick a bag. Once more, I am at an advantage, able to view him without his consent.
The basement is full of workout equipment, but I barely notice. Aiden’s shirtless and barefoot, wearing only black shorts. His back is to me. And what a back it is. The muscles flex as he slams his fists into a heavy-looking bag. Occasionally, he kicks it with his bare feet. The bag sways with each impact as if it’s filled with air. His thick, dark hair is damp, his skin slick with fresh sweat, but it’s the myriad of scars crisscrossing his ropy muscles that freeze me. They are like a roadmap, thin and thick welts intersecting each other, some faded while others rise up in rebellion against a sea of beautiful golden skin. They confirm my suspicions that, like the dogs he rescues, Aiden Sheffield suffered some serious trauma of his own.
He moves with the agile grace of a dancer and all the power of a sledgehammer. The sounds of his grunts and fists are in tune with the music. The marks on his body hurt to look at, yet I can’t look away, either. A conflicted mixture of rage toward whoever did this to him and deep sorrow for him paralyzes me.
“What do you want, Emma?” He demands without turning. Does he have eyes in the back of his head? And if so, are they the same intense green? Or maybe he can just smell my ripe fury. So much for going unnoticed.
“I…me, um, dinner…food.” I gesture awkwardly to the open door. Yeah, articulation is definitely not my strong suit.
He turns around. His front is even more devastating in both its beauty and wounds. He puts down his hands and puffs up his chest, offering me a full view. I think he expects me to run away. My mind tells me to do that, all the while my feet shuffle toward him.
I look down at the cut muscles of his abs, studying the many small, circular wounds marring his flesh. They almost form a pattern, dotting around one long jagged line across his waist. That scar is the deepest yet. Inked right above that brutal slash is a single word in tiny script—Freedom.
I reach a shaky hand toward him. He backs away from me as if my touch will injure him further. “Why don’t you take a fucking picture,” he snaps, the deep pitch of his gravelly voice causing my skin to prickle.
“Who did this to you?” I whisper.
His gaze falls to my hands. His lips turn up in amusement. The expression is so strange until I realize he’s staring at my clenched fists.
“You aching for a fight?”
“Who hurt you, Aiden?” I ask again. My fingernails dig into the flesh of my palm.
He leans closer until his mouth hovers close to my ear. “You gonna fight my demons for me? Will you kill the monsters who haunt me? Nah, not you, Cooper. That’s not your style, is it?”
“You don’t know my style.” I tilt my face up to meet his. Both of us are standing way too close, our harsh breaths colliding.
“Don’t I? You wear your emotions like a fucking red cape. I can spot them a mile away. No matter how hard you try, you’re always going to be naked. But let me lay a bit of harsh truth. You don’t want any part of my nightmares. They will fuck with your mind until you never sleep sound again. You understand me, girl?”
A cold shiver travels down my spine. I can’t stop trembling.
He steps back, blinking until his expression turns contrite. “Jesus, I’m scaring you. I’m sorry, Emma.”
I control myself, managing to stand straight and still. The red cape is a fitting analogy, since I feel like a matador trying to remain calm while not getting trampled by a bull. “You have me all wrong, Sheffield.”
He arches a brow. “How so?”
“I’m not scared of you. I’m scared for you.” The difference is one tiny word, yet the gap as wide as the Pacific. Okay, so right now, maybe I am a little scared of him, too. But I’m not going to admit that. He wants me to steer clear of him. I should probably heed his warning. I don’t. “But you’re right, it’s none of my business. I’m sorry for the intrusion.” There’s something about Aiden that’s like a wounded animal. I shouldn’t corner him, demanding explanations I have no right to. I offer a weak smile, trying to lighten the mood. I walk toward the bag behind him and push it with both my hands. Just as I suspected, it barely swings. “My Jiu Jitsu instructor would be so impressed with you. You’ve got some mad skills.”
He doesn’t reply. Giving up on any cordial conversation, I turn to leave. He grabs my wrist as I pivot. The intense green of his eyes makes me feel…naked. “What belt?”
“Huh?”
“Jiu Jitsu. What belt did you make it to?”
“Purple.”
“Not very high.”
“Just enough so I know what I’m doing.”
“You think you can defend yourself?”
“I can defend myself.”
“Show me.”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Are you planning on attacking me?”
He grins, baring his teeth. “Just wondering if you’re as capable as you claim.”
“I am. My father taught me basic self-defense, too.”
“Spar with me.”
What? He can’t be serious. It’s like asking a mouse to fight a dragon. I’d be burned alive. “You’re kidding, right?”
“I won’t hurt you.”
“I know that.” How do I know that?
He comes toward me, lifting his arm. I flinch. He sighs and steps back.
“What? I wasn’t ready.”
“You think someone’s gonna give you a warning?”
“No.”
“Try again. This time, be ready for me.”
As if I could ever be ready for him. He lifts his arm. I block it with my wrist.
“Better.”
He does it again and again. He’s testing my responses, watching my movements carefully, and searching for my weaknesses. He’s a predator playing with his prey.
Led Zeppelin belts out “Black Dog.” Man, this playlist is almost eerie. Our eyes lock, his blazing with intensity. I don’t shrink away, though. He expects that. Maybe in some twisted way, he even wants it. I refuse to give it to him. There is something incredibly intimate about the way we dance around each other.
He suddenly grips my neck with his large hand. He doesn’t squeeze, but his strong fingers press into my flesh.
“What do you do in this scenario, Cooper?”
I back away, but his grip hardens.
“Wrong. Just because you’re small doesn’t mean you lack power.”
I am not a petite girl, but anyone would be small in comparison to him. “What should I do when someone is choking me?” I have no idea how my voice is calm during the freaking avalanche of fear and adrenaline.
His thumb moves back and forth, rubbing against my neck. It’s almost a caress, one that heats my entire body. This is crazy.
Stop this, Emma.
But I don’t.
“Take your left hand, place it over my wrist to keep it steady,” he commands in a firm whisper.
I follow his directions, trying to ignore the deafening beat of my heart.
“Now squat, and lift your other arm. Then bring down your elbow with as much pressure as you can.”
I do it. His arm doesn’t budge.
“That the best you got?”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
He laughs at that. It is a silly statement, considering the difference between our frames.
“Hit me. Hurt me. Do your damage.”
I try again, bringing my elbow down with as much force as I can. This time, his arm moves, but it doesn’t fall away.
“Better, but not great. Twist away from me. Then strike my face with your fist.”
“I’m not going to hit you, Aiden.”
“You’re right. You won’t because I’ll stop you. You’re thinking about this way too much. Stop thinking and trust your instinct.”
Twisting out of his hold, I swing my fist. His hand swipes through the air catching my wrist before I make contact. He grips it hard, his eyes unyielding. Someone has turned down the volume on the music, or perhaps we mask it with the heavy thump of our heartbeats. His rich, woodsy scent drifts toward me. It’s a mixture of soap, earth, cedar, and mint. I’m sure there’s some C-4 and brimstone in the mix, too, because my instincts tell me an explosion is coming.
“Now what, Cooper?”
Somehow, in the sparring, he’s backed me up against the wall. It’s me in the corner now. I lift my leg to knee him in the groin, but he catches the underside of my knee before I can, not taking his eyes off me. Even through the denim, I feel the slight caress of his fingers. Swallowing hard, I wonder if he might kiss me. If he does, I will punch him.
He smiles, leaning closer. “I’ll admit your balance is good, but your reflexes are slow.”
I shove him. He drops my leg and backs away.
“That’s interesting, Aiden, because your reflexes are sharp, but you are definitely not balanced.”
I walk to the stairs and take them two at a time. “Dinner’s almost ready,” I say before shutting the door. “Wash up.”
…
Emma
The room is full of flowers. My feet sink into the plush, rose-colored carpet as I walk toward the casket. The long, ornate wooden box shifts into a hospital bed, the same one Mom lived in the last few months of her life. A white sheet is draped over a figure on the bed. I rush toward it, feeling a surge of urgency spiked with dread. The faster I run, the farther away it seems. My gut wrenches as I sprint toward the bed. Finally, I make it. Except it’s a casket once more. Trembling and out of breath, I lift the lid. The woman inside is hollow, her papery skin sunken in. What’s left of her honey blonde hair is limp and dirty. Her once sparkling blue eyes are dull and lifeless as they stare at me.
“Mommy.” I call out, shaking her gently.
She sits up so fast a rush of air fans my face. Her thin, bony hands grasp my shoulders. “Take a deep breath, Emma.”
She disintegrates in front of me, turning to dust. The small bits of grit linger, gathering in a cloud of doom. The dust gets in my pores, my nose, my mouth. I can’t breathe. It fills up the room. I swing my arms and legs, swatting the fragments, but it’s like swimming through sand. My mouth opens to scream, but nothing comes out.
“Don’t leave me! I need you.”
I wake up in a cold sweat. It takes a minute to realize I’m in the guest bedroom at Mac’s house, tangled in a plaid comforter. I turn on the lamp, letting my eyes adjust. Falling back on the bed, I let out a groan. “Mom?”
The urn isn’t in here. I want to talk to her and hear her voice.
Shit, Aiden had left the urn on the coffee table downstairs. I meant to bring it up but I forgot. I need it. I need my mother.
And, also, a glass of ice water.
And probably some serious therapy, but that can wait.
The dinnertime conversation was awkward. Aiden didn’t acknowledge me. Mac filled in all the empty spaces, inviting Aiden and me into the conversation frequently. I did my best, grateful for Mac’s hospitality. Aiden barely said a word, spearing his food and nodding occasionally. He never met my eyes, as if he was ashamed by what happened in the basement. Then he excused himself, taking the dogs out for a late run. How much did this man work out? I’d been here a day, and he’d spent most of that running or punching or grappling.
I’m torn because I don’t like Aiden. And also, I like him. And worst of all, there is something wildly beautiful about him. I remind myself for the millionth time I have a boyfriend, but it’s hard to remember that kind of thing when said boyfriend doesn’t return your texts. Still, my mom raised her daughter better than that. Betraying the people you’re committed to is self-treason. But as much as I want to flip these feelings like a light switch, I can’t turn them off. I can’t even dim them a little. What I can do is control my actions.
Why am I even thinking of Aiden Sheffield? Tomorrow, with every passing mile, the memory of him will fade. I am sure of it.
Right now, I just want the urn. I creep out of bed and down the hall, skating my socked feet against the wooden floor until I get to the stairs. As my foot lands onto the third step down, I pause, taking in the shadow of the man on the couch. It’s large and looming and it flickers against the fire in the hearth.
Theo lies beside him. The dog jerks his head in my direction. I hold a finger to my lips as if he can understand. Except the thing is, he does understand, because he lays his head back down. Aiden sits on the leather couch, a bottle of clear liquor in his hand. He takes a long swig before slamming it on the table. Theo cocks his head. His master pets him reassuringly. Aiden bends forward, elbows on his knees. He places a hand on each side of the brass urn that rests on the coffee table.
“Don’t be sorry,” he says in a low voice that’s barely audible over the crackle of the fire. “You were there for me. I wish I could have been there for you. I’m the one who is sorry.”
Oh my God, he’s talking to the urn.
Aiden doesn’t make a sound, but his broad shoulders shake. His body tenses before it shakes again as if he’s trying to physically damn up the emotions threatening to spill out.
I’ve invaded his space too many times. He needs to say good-bye to mom more than I need the urn. I pivot and swiftly make my way back to the guest room.
I get under the covers and say a little prayer.
It’s okay, Aiden. Put down your shield. You’ve been carrying it for a long time.