Handle Me. Kira Sinclair
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Numbness, desperate numbness, had finally begun to spread through his body thanks to the expensive bottle of whiskey Ty Colson had brought to his best friend’s wake.
Ryan would be pissed at all the somber faces and tears. They’d served together, so had talked about what they wanted if the worst actually happened.
Ty always thought it would be him.
It should have been him.
Hell, there wasn’t a single soul in his life who would care if he died. At least, not now that Ryan was gone.
But his buddy... Ty’s swimming, unsteady gaze dragged across the crowd of people who’d forced themselves into Ryan’s parents’ home. His buddy had so many people who would miss him.
An ache centered in the middle of Ty’s chest. He countered the pain by pouring another shot of liquor into the glass beside him, then slammed it back.
“Is this really how you want to pay your respects to my brother?”
Savannah Cantrell’s smooth, smoky voice slipped down his spine. Another ache, a familiar one, centered much further south, kicked into overdrive.
His gaze dragged from the golden-brown liquid sloshing over the side of his glass, up the perfect black dress that hugged her body, across the pale skin of her face to eyes that were pinched, unhappy and full of judgment.
So what else was new?
Van had hated him for years. No doubt blamed him for Ryan’s death, too.
She wouldn’t be wrong. Not really.
“Yes, as a matter of fact it is,” Ty said, happy to realize none of his words slurred. A shit-ton of whiskey might be coursing through his veins, but he’d be damned if he’d let anyone realize just how wrecked he was.
Especially Van.
“Ryan wouldn’t have wanted this melancholy bullshit and you know it.”
Van’s mouth compressed. He expected her to start spewing a diatribe. Instead, to his utter shock, her chin began to quiver.
He hadn’t seen her cry once today. And that bothered him. Not because he didn’t think she was heartbroken over Ryan’s death—he knew she was—but because he understood, better than anyone, that she needed the release.
Van didn’t like anything messy or out of place. She liked her life perfect and controlled. He could have told her that was only an illusion, one easily killed by a single bomb blast.
Even now, her eyes glistened, but her jaw clamped tight, her will kicking in as she refused to let a single tear fall.
“Well, shit,” he growled. He couldn’t just let her stand there, fighting alone.
Ty reached for her, wrapping her in his arms. He offered her the only thing he had—comfort and understanding. Even as he braced for the inevitable rebuff.
Van hadn’t wanted anything from him in years.
But to his surprise, Van melted into him. Her body sagged as she buried her face into the crook of his neck. Her sweet, tempting scent ballooned around him. Something soft and feminine. Expensive.
Awareness crackled across his skin. He tried to ignore it, but that was difficult. Especially when she was right there, wrapped in his arms, his better judgment dulled by half a bottle of whiskey.
They stood for several moments, silent. She didn’t cry. That was a battle he’d always known she’d win. But her body trembled. The soft, almost imperceptible quiver running just beneath the surface of her skin as she fought to regain control impacted him more.
After several moments she breathed, “Get me out of here.”
She didn’t have to ask twice. Grabbing the neck of the bottle with one hand, Ty wrapped his other arm around her. He ushered her through the throng of people, effectively cutting off several who tried to engage her in conversations she couldn’t entertain, then headed out the back door.
He was in no shape to drive and it was already dark, so their options were limited. But there was a tree house in the very back corner of the huge lot. If nothing else, it would give her some privacy and a break from the well-meaning mourners.
He and Ryan had helped Van’s dad, Nick, build the tree house when they were younger. Ty remembered the heat, the pain of smashing his thumb with a hammer and the sense of pride when they’d all stood together after weeks of work to admire the finished product. One of Nick’s arms had been slung around Ty’s shoulders, the other around Ryan’s. In that moment, he’d felt like he belonged.
From the ground, Ty watched Van climb up the pieces of wood nailed crookedly to the trunk of the huge tree. More memories flashed through his mind. Van, her dark brown hair in a single long braid, twisting around and sticking her tongue out at him. She’d tattled to her mom because he and Ryan wouldn’t let her up. Margaret had come out and given them both a lecture about how they should treat little girls.
But now, he broke every one of those rules as Van’s skirt belled out from her legs, flashing a glimpse of round curves and pale skin covered in black lace panties. A gentleman would have looked away; Ty couldn’t claim that title, no matter how many lectures Margaret had given.
His body responded with purpose at the tantalizing view. No whiskey dick for him.
This wasn’t a good idea.
Ty thought about turning around and heading back into the house when Van tipped backward and looked over her shoulder. “You coming or what?”
There was something taunting about her tone. Something that spurred him into action.
Grasping a rough-hewn board, Ty hauled himself up the tree and through the entrance they’d cut in the floor so many years ago.
The memories of building this place were some of the best of his childhood. At the moment, they were also some of the worst. Knowing his friend could never come up here again hurt like hell.
Here, the past assaulted him more than anywhere else, weighing him down with regret. Until his unsteady gaze drifted around, finally landing on Savannah.
The past and the present merged. Maybe it was the alcohol, or the day, or his grief. But he could see the child she’d been lurking inside the strong, stubborn, successful woman she’d become.
Savannah Cantrell was the girl he’d always wanted. The woman he could never have.
Van reached out and grabbed the bottle of whiskey from him. He hadn’t remembered he’d tucked it under his arm. She lifted it to her deep pink lips and took a big gulp.
She sputtered, grimaced, sucked in air, then did it again.
“Easy, princess.” Ty moved for the bottle, but she pulled it out of his reach.
“I need to catch up.”
“You need to slow down or you’re going to end the night with your head hanging over the toilet.”
Savannah stared at him for several seconds, her expression blank. Then she tipped her head back and laughed. Belly-clutching, rolling laughter that was so out of place it felt ragged and painful.
All Ty could do was growl at her, “What the heck is so funny?”
“Do you know I’ve never gotten so drunk that I puked?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing.”
“I’m thirty-two years old, Ty, and I’ve never been really drunk. I’ve never had a one-night stand. Hell, I can count on one hand the number of men I’ve slept with. And I promise you most of them weren’t worth the effort.”
What the hell was he supposed to say to that?
“I’ve spent my entire life doing the right thing. Making the right—safe—decisions. Working hard. Hell, I save lives for a living.