My Kitten only wants to be sure I’m alright. Which, of course, I’m not. Not by a long shot.
I clasp her hand instead of my own. Her sure, made-for-me fit stills the brewing storm. Doubt it will last.
I need to hit something. Someone. God? Drake?
Drake is probably a better choice. God’s a little above my paygrade.
When they found Mom’s cancer, it was already too late. The ovarian cancer had consumed her ovaries before moving on to her kidneys, spleen, intestines, and lymph nodes. The brain was probably next, if she’d survived long enough to have treatment. Then survived long enough to make the dismal five-year mark that most stage four ovarian cancer diagnoses don’t make.
Mom was a stickler for her yearly checkups. According to Dad, her symptoms led the doctors in so many other directions first. It wasn’t until they decided to do a complete hysterectomy that they discovered cancer.
I didn’t even know she was having surgery. She never told me. I didn’t ask.
It’s not something you ask in normal conversation. Hey, Mom, any surgeries this week? No, good. Great news.
She. Should. Have. Told. Me.
Right there on the operating room table, the surgeon took one look and closed her up. The damage was too extensive. They were going to try chemo to see if it shrank the tumors before attempting surgery again.
That didn’t happen.
She rolled over in the middle of the night, grasped Dad’s hand, told him, “I love you,” and took her last breath.
Her last fucking breath was to give the reassurance of her love to the man she devoted her life to.
Fuck. Me.
Reese squeezes me, leaning in, her head on my shoulder, swiping at her tears.
My Kitten will never know my mom. Not in the way she deserves. Mom would have loved her. I think she already did in the months I talked about my girl.
Mom knew.
It took me a while to get my head out of my ass over Frankie. Mom understood that too. That’s why I loved her so damn much.
The vise grip on my chest is crushing my heart and making it hard to breathe.
“Cam,” my girl cries into my chest. Does she feel it?
Wrapping her in my arms, I bury my face in her shoulder, gritting my teeth to hold back a sob. Crying is okay, but my grown ass weeping in the middle of Mom’s service is not.
Dad squeezes my shoulder from the other side. Next to him is Taylor. She is sobbing into Drake’s chest. Thankfully not being a jerk at the moment, he comforts her with tears looming in his eyes.
He loved Mom too.
Everyone did. There was nothing not to love about her.
Once the church and gravesite services are over, I grab Reese’s hand and all but drag her to my car. There’s a reception at our house.
Why it’s at our house instead of somewhere else is beyond me.
Mourners do not want get-togethers at their home where they have to entertain and clean up. It should be elsewhere so we can show up, make an appearance and get the fuck out.
One and done.
“Do you want me to drive?” Reese tugs on my arm, getting my attention.
Shit. I really am dragging her.
I shake my head and slow my steps. “I got it.”
At the car, I open her door but hold her back. “I’m sorry, Kitten.” It’s a shit day. I’m in a shit mood.
She snakes her hand into my hair, tugging me closer. Nose to nose, she kisses me once. Soft, quick, but a touch of her tongue to my lip has my mood softening.
“You don’t need to apologize. You have every right to be upset, out of sorts today.” With a pat to my chest, she slips inside the car.
I have permission to feel lousy. I might just take her up on it. Or I might convince her to let me take out my mood on her body.
Nearly home, her hand resting on my forearm on the console between us, she clears her throat, glances at me, her lips stuck between her teeth. “You need to hit something, don’t you?”
She’s perfect. Made. For. Me. “Yeah, I do.”
She nods. “Well, I’m no sparring partner, but you’ve got quite a home gym. Maybe I could keep you company while you beat the hell out of the punching bag or hold those punching gloves thingies while you whack at my palms.”
Damn, she’s cute. I crack a smile. “Punching mitts?”
“Yeah.” She holds up her hands, weaving in her seat in demonstration.
The idea of taping up my hands and taking swings at her, even light jabs, ties my gut in knots. I’d never hurt my girl. I don’t know if I’d recover if I flipped her PTSD switch while sparring.
“I could teach you how to throw a punch.” I offer an alternative and catch her glower out of the side of my eye. “Some self-defense moves?”
She narrows her gaze. “I know how to defend myself.”
Good.
“You think Gabriel would let me live alone if I didn’t?”
The baseball bat behind her apartment door comes to mind. “You can try to kick my ass then. Show me what you got, Kitten.”
The thing is, she can’t stand another man’s touch. How can she possibly defend herself if she’s in the middle of a PTSD episode? I’m sure Gabriel showed her some moves, and she practiced them on him. But she’s not afraid of Gabriel touching her. She’s not afraid of me either. Any training she has is useless against anyone who means her harm if they trigger an episode before she can react.
My bad mood just went to defcon one.
Rowdy doesn’t take me up on my semi-sparring offer. Or my gawking at him while he works out his frustration on a punching bag.
I won’t take it personally. It’s his day to be shitty and feel shitty. He gets a pass.
I truly would love to watch him work out. Though, it would be more for my enjoyment than his. I can’t really stare at him in the gym at home. It wouldn’t be professional. Plus, hella embarrassing.
Leaving the scowling man with his father and sister to mingle with their guests, I search out a bathroom not occupied or with a line. Finding none on my first couple of tries, I decide heading to Rowdy’s wing is probably the quickest bet, though farther away.
I text him so he doesn’t worry and take the opportunity to taunt him with a game of pool. How ridiculously big is this place that I’m texting so he doesn’t worry about me?
I’ve seen the billiards room in passing but haven’t checked it out. Today seems like a good day for mindless distractions. Plus, it’s on the other side of the house, closed off from the reception area.
In the bathroom, I slip off my heels, giving my feet a break. As much as I love the way they make my legs look, I don’t wear heels enough to be comfortable in them for more than a few hours.
Is anyone? Really?
Taking a few extra moments, I touch up my barely-there makeup, then bite the bullet and don the torture devices for feet again.
I reply to a few texts from Cap, Gabriel, and Frankie, pausing here and there in the halls so I don’t trip or run into a wall. Not getting a reply from Rowdy, I scurry down the outer corridors, avoiding the main rooms where everyone is gathering, and make my way to the billiards room, which is in the opposite wing from Rowdy’s.
He might be there.
The room is dimly lit when I enter.
Hmm. Romantic.
And… Empty.
Disappointed, I text him again and mill about, hoping he’ll join me.