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Chloe sighs and lowers the binoculars then climbs back to the ground. She toys with asking her gran about the man. She knows everyone in the area but thinks better of it. As with the rest of her family, the second they get the slightest whiff of a love interest for her they pounce. If she asked her gran, she knows Dorothy would try to find him so she could set them up. That’s one way to scare away any potential men.
She’ll just have to try to bump into him herself. Chloe nearly laughs at that idea. The mere notion she’d be able to saunter up to a stranger and ask them out is ridiculous. Her sister is the confident one. Steph would have no problem asking anyone out. Chloe preferred to hang in the side-lines and watch as every suitable single guy was snapped up while she tried to motivate herself to act. And she’s also assuming the guy on the horse is single, which she very much doubts.
She looks back up the beach, but the horse and rider are a dot in the distance.
∞
Tate opens his eyes and stares up at the dark figure looming over him. He curls into a ball as the blows come, hard and fast, bruising his skin and breaking his bones. He pleads for the man to stop, but he doesn’t. The more he begs, the harder the man hits him. Tate turns his head and sees the woman crying in the corner, screaming at the man.
The man grabs his shoulders and starts shaking him. Tate buries his head under his arms and begs the man to let him go.
‘Relax, Tate. It’s me. It’s me.’
The bedside light turns on and Tate scrambles up the bed, slamming his back against the headboard. He wipes his sweat-soaked hair off his forehead and takes a few deep shaky breaths. His dad is sitting on the edge of the bed looking seriously worried. ‘You okay? You were shouting in your sleep.’
‘I’m good. Thanks. Just a bad dream. You go back to bed.’
‘What was the nightmare about?’
‘I can’t remember.’
His dad quietly looks at him and Tate has no doubt he doesn’t believe him for one second. ‘You fancy watching some TV for a bit?’
‘I’m grand. You go back to bed.’
‘Tate-’
‘I said I’m grand!’ He curses himself and takes a few breaths to calm down. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just tired.’ His father nods then gets to his feet and closes the door behind him.
Tate climbs out of bed and goes into the en-suite. He splashes water on his face, trying to clear the remnants of the nightmare away with little effect. In frustration, he slams his hand against the sink.
‘Fuck!’
Four months and the nightmares are getting more vivid by the day. Who’s he kidding? It’s not a nightmare. It’s a memory coming back to him. Something from his past that he had locked deep in the back of his mind. Now it’s been set free, he can’t shake it. Can’t shake the feelings it brings back. Can’t get rid of the helplessness, the absolute terror, the crippling guilt that the woman is dead because of him.
He’d pushed too far. He’d wound up the man who was maybe his father, maybe not. He doesn’t know for sure. What he does know is that she was trying to protect Tate from him and now she’s dead.
Tate makes the mistake of glancing down at his hands and sees her blood smeared all over them. He closes his eyes and takes a slow, deep breath before looking down again. The blood is gone.
He pushes off the sink and shuffles back into the bedroom. There’s no way he’s going to risk sleeping again tonight so instead he slumps back on the bed and turns on the TV. The choice is limited at four in the morning, so he flicks through looking for anything half decent to take his mind off the dream.
Instead he finds a music channel playing one of their songs. He’d usually change the channel, but not today. Nothing like reminding himself what he’s lost to cheer himself up. Seems he’s in luck today. It’s a whole hour of their songs. The next song comes on but he can’t remember the words. He doubts he’d remember the chords either.
Fuck this. Staring at the TV until morning isn’t going to improve his mood. After throwing on an old pair of jeans and hoody, he creeps outside, wincing as every footstep seems to find a creaking floorboard in the old house.
Once he makes it outside without waking everyone, he locks the door behind him, and breathes in the cool morning air. He loves this place. Not just his parents’ house, but this stretch of coastline. He’d grown up here and, no matter how long or short his breaks from work were, he made it his business to come back here every single time.
There was something about the rugged, unspoilt beauty of the place that calmed him. His life was... had, been crazy. When he was working, he could be going for twenty-two hours straight for days at a time. His schedule was gruelling, but he would never complain. He loved what he did but needed a break from time to time. Needed to be with his family and not worry about his celebrity status. Here he’s just Tate. Now he’s not so sure who he is anymore.
Tate’s mood lifts when he nears the stables around the back of the hay shed. His black Irish Draft, Jove sticks his head over the door and snorts loudly at him. He rests his forehead against the horse’s head and rubs the side of his face.
‘Morning, buddy. Fancy blowing off some steam?’ He saddles his horse and leads him out of the stable and across the yard towards the welcoming sound of the waves crashing on the beach.
He waits until he’s out the small gate to the path that leads to the beach before he climbs up and adjusts the stirrups. Since his career took off, he hadn’t had as much time for things like this. His grandfather got the orphaned foal from a friend years ago and Tate had instantly clicked with the animal. Two lost souls who had been given a second chance.
Gran and Pops had always joked they were made for each other. Something his mother didn’t quite agree with. She thought the Draft was far too big for Tate, but then Tate didn’t stop growing for quite a bit. When he finally stopped he was a shade over six-foot-three, and more than a match for the impressive horse.
He guides Jove along the path and down to the vast beach. The smell of salt and seaweed instantly soothes him. Jove knows exactly where he’s going so Tate sits back and tries to turn his brain off. The gentle waves lap around Jove’s legs as he wades into the sea, stopping just as the water hits Tate’s boots. He couldn’t care less if he’s getting wet. Being on Jove like this with no one else around is the only thing that calms him. Who needs expensive therapists when you’ve got a horse and a beach?
