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Her soft, cool hands pressed to his shoulders, then slid over him. He knew she was only checking for injuries, but his heart stumbled nonetheless. Maybe if his skin didn’t feel like an overcooked hot dog, he’d actually enjoy her touch.
“I don’t remember,” he mumbled.
What he really meant was I drank myself into a drunken stupor. And I think now I’ll go do it again, thank you. Go ahead and run away now. This time, I won’t blame you. And this time, he thought, he’d try tequila. Anything to erase the memory of humiliating himself in front of the girl he’d been in love with since the first grade.
He sighed. “The last I remember, I was hanging around the Bellagio. Hadn’t even cracked my first beer.. Some Navy jackass called me out. Picked a fight with ten of his buddies. Next thing I know, I’m waking up with a mouthful of sand.”
“How long have you been out here?” She felt his forehead. He could’ve told her without checking; he was running somewhere between fricasseed and hot as hell, Fahrenheit.
He gritted his teeth. “No clue.”
“Come on.” She slung an arm under his and gave him her shoulder. “In the car. You’re probably dehydrated. I have some bottled water.”
He’d have laughed if it didn’t hurt so much. Jeremy had a good foot or more on Eric
a. She’d hit five foot one when they were eleven, and hadn’t grown an inch since. He still remembered her marking off her height on the doorframe of her family’s antique frame house, and finally giving up after it didn’t change for six straight months. Sad that he still remembered that—her pretty, slim fingers curled around the marker, the way she pouted.
But he always remembered things like that. Story of his life.
It was more stubbornness than strength that got him back on his feet. She wrapped her arm around his hips, as if she had even half a chance of supporting him. His heart gave a painful lurch, and his gut tightened. He ignored it. His body and heart never could be objective where Erica was concerned.
She was only helping him, he told himself. Taking pity on him after finding him in a pathetic heap on the side of the road. She didn’t care about him. She hadn’t then. She didn’t now. She was just a good person…and to her, he was practically a stranger. Too many years had passed, and too much had changed.
Including Jeremy.
One grueling step at a time, they dragged back to her silver Porsche Cayenne. Of course she had a classy car. She’d always had the best taste in…well, everything. Probably why she’d never dated him, even after his confession. She’d never stoop so low as the son of a lowlife, no-account, good-for-nothing criminal. He couldn’t blame her. She deserved a prince, not a knuckleheaded piece of shit Marine.
He still remembered the look on her face when he’d told her. She’d turned ghostly white, and her pretty little mouth had tightened. Then she’d run away. Just like that—run away from him as if he were diseased. He’d never been able to face her, after that. Her or her brother, after things had turned sour between them. Maybe it was better that way, but his self-esteem sure as hell didn’t agree.
And his self-esteem wasn’t too happy about seeing her now. He looked like a damned bum, and he was getting sand all over her elegant business suit.
Brilliant, Jeremy. Absolutely brilliant. Next you can puke on her shoes.
Come to think of it, he might have done something like that last night, somewhere between the fight and the second bottle of hooch. That might account for two or three of the fresher bruises throbbing on his chest.
Erica helped him wedge into the passenger’s-side seat, strapped him in, then slipped in on the driver’s side and passed him a large water bottle. The condensation on the sides almost froze his palms, and he had to stop himself from rubbing the damned thing all over his body. He was tempted, but her pretty brown eyes stopped him, concern written all over her face.
“God, Jeremy, you look like shit.”
“I know.” He groaned, twisted the cap off the bottle, and took a deep draught. The dry stinging in his throat eased, and he let out a heavy sigh. “Thanks.”
She started the car and cranked up the air conditioning. Cold air blasted him in the face, and he closed his eyes and sank against the seat. Thank God. The last time he’d been this hot, he’d been stationed in Afghanistan, camped out in the hellish desert and dodging a hell of a lot of unfriendly fire.
Still more comfortable than sitting here with Erica, sweating all over the plush upholstery of her car.
“Are you on leave?” she asked.
He watched her from the corner of his eye. How did she know he was in the Marines? He’d kept up with her life now and then, but had she cared enough to follow his?
Her eyes dropped to the dog tags currently burning into his chest like branding irons, and his face heated. No. Of course not. He needed to get his wayward emotions under control.
He shrugged and took another sip of water. “Yeah. Took a month. Though I could use some R&R.”
“Relax?” She raised a brow. “This is what you call relaxing?”
He stiffened. Of course she’d look at him like that. Like the loser he was. He wanted to tell her she had no right to judge him—that she’d given up what power she held over him long ago—but he’d be lying. One look and he still felt that same desperate, agonizing emptiness; the hollow knowledge that he loved her, and she’d never love him. Never even consider it. She was a different Erica now, grown up after seven years.
But he was still unworthy of her, and no amount of commendations or medals would change that.
