Bring Me to Life. Kira Sinclair
Читать онлайн книгу.
could pretend her life was okay, that her heart hadn’t been ripped from her body and stomped on by fate and some military mission she didn’t have the clearance to know the details about.
Her floral business gave her a purpose, a reason to get up every morning and keep going.
Tatum’s focus shifted to the reflection of her friends in the window, and she tried to pull her emotions back from the brink of melancholy. Hope didn’t deserve her moping.
Taking a deep breath, she pushed the sad memories deep beneath a layer of false bravado. Later. She could wallow later.
Willow was fussing with Hope’s train, repositioning the long layers of silk she’d pulled up into a bustle. Even now, after the ceremony and a large chunk of the reception were already over, she couldn’t seem to keep her hands off the dress.
Reaching behind her, Hope grasped Willow’s arm and pulled her back onto her feet. With exasperation, she said, “Will you please leave it alone? You aren’t supposed to be working. You’re my bridesmaid not my dress designer.”
A frown tugged Willow’s dark brows. “Can’t I be both?”
“Not if it means you’re on your hands and knees while the rest of us are sipping champagne.”
Willow sighed, looked longingly at the folded edges of the train—that from Tatum’s point of view looked perfect—and then studiously turned her back on it, taking one of the glasses of sparkling wine.
“Hope, are you ready to go?” Gage’s deep voice came from the other side of the closed door.
“Just a minute,” she called, twirling with a swish of material against the floor.
She grabbed the last two glasses of wine, and thrust a cool flute into Tatum’s empty hand.
Flinging an arm around her shoulders, Hope beckoned everyone close. They crowded together, a tight circle of people Tatum hadn’t known existed a few years ago.
Now they were her best friends. Her strength.
Hope’s gaze traveled around the circle, her eyes going misty. “I love you guys. Thank you for being part of my day and making sure it was perfect.”
There were murmurs and answering tears, glasses clinking and gulps of champagne.
And then Hope was gone, folded beneath Gage’s arm and ushered out into the chilly December night.
Tatum trailed slowly behind the other girls as they rushed to watch the newly married couple race for the waiting car ready to drive them into Charleston to catch their flight.
Hope and Gage rushed through a gauntlet of bubbles mixed with snowflakes and ringing good wishes. Tatum stood at the top of the steps, watching the scene below, unable to fight the sensation that she was on the outside looking in.
When she’d first moved to town, that sensation had been pretty much constant. As a transplanted Yankee—from Detroit, no less—arriving in Sweetheart had felt a little like landing on another planet. But that’s what she’d needed. A fresh start. Something completely new.
In the last two years, the out-of-place sensation had faded to little more than an unpleasant memory. Until tonight. Something about tonight had made her feel off-kilter.
Grasping the edges of the black velvet shrug that accompanied her deep burgundy dress, Tatum hugged herself. She thought she was alone, everyone else focused on Hope and Gage’s escape, until a soft hand landed on her hip.
Startled, she gave a little jerk as Willow’s arm settled around her waist.
“Hey, chickie, you’ve been quiet tonight. Wanna tell me what’s up?”
For the briefest moment, Tatum thought about unloading on her friend, telling her every second of anguish and anger she’d dealt with over the last three years. But that wouldn’t exactly be fair.
She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”
Willow squeezed, pulling her in tighter. “You know I’m not buying that lie, right?”
“It isn’t a lie.”
“Oh, it is. But I’ll let you get away with it. For now.”
Below them, Hope folded into the backseat of the car, yanking the voluminous layers of skirt in after her. Willow cringed, making a small, wounded whimper.
Tatum’s mouth twitched. Finding something to smile about was a gift she hadn’t expected, even if it had come at Willow’s sense of affront as the dress’s designer.
It was her turn to wrap a comforting arm around Willow’s shoulders. “Maybe it would be better if you didn’t watch.”
With a resigned sigh, Willow said, “No, I want to see them leave.”
The driver closed the car door and ran around to the front. Trails of steam hit the cold air and billowed from the tailpipe, leaving a hazy cloud behind as he finally pulled away.
The minute the car disappeared, people streamed past Tatum into the reception, rushing for warmth, another slice of cake and a chance to enjoy the DJ waiting to crank the party up another notch and let them dance into the wee hours of the morning.
But Tatum couldn’t move to follow them.
Her body was frozen, her eyes trained on the vision of a ghost, propped against the sleek chrome of a badass bike parked against the curb across the street.
He couldn’t be real. It must be her imagination. Memories. And possibly too much champagne.
Although, that didn’t stop the frantic pace of her heart as it picked up inside her chest. Her body turned hot and then cold. She couldn’t breathe. Tears pricked the back of her eyelids, just as painful as the day she’d learned he was gone.
Why would her imagination play such a cruel joke?
She’d forgotten Willow was beside her, until her arm tightened around Tatum’s waist. “Who is that guy?” her friend asked.
Tatum’s mouth and tongue wouldn’t work.
Willow grasped her hand. “Are you okay? You’ve gone seriously pale.”
Somehow, she found the power to whisper, “You can see him?”
“You mean the guy with the bike staring at you like he wants to throw you on the back and race away? Yeah, I can see him. Why wouldn’t I be able to?”
“Because that’s my husband...and he’s dead.”
* * *
SHE LOOKED AS though she’d seen a ghost, which was pretty much true.
No, she looked amazing, but then Tatum always had. Different, but that was to be expected. It had been three years.
They’d both changed.
Evan watched her, waiting. Beneath the lie of his relaxed posture, his body was strung tight.
There was no way to anticipate her reaction. Although he’d sure as hell tried.
In the dark moments, the ones where he thought it might have been better if he had died on that night three years ago, she had been the only thing that had drawn him back from the brink. When he’d watched men, women and children killed in front of him. Hell, when he’d done the killing, trying to justify his actions by remembering the men dying deserved what they had gotten.
The memory of her had kept him going—her rasping laughter, the rare times when her eyes danced with delight and the feel of her body rubbing against his, reminding him there were good things in the world. And that once, before his life had turned to shit, he’d been a part of them.
Evan desperately needed her now. Needed the connection to what he’d left behind.
Without it, he was afraid the darkness would swallow him for good.
Tatum