“But mostly women with a super-charged Liberator Libby vibrator,” Harper chimed.
It seemed like a dream.
She glanced between her friends when the blur of black returned, and the crow landed next to a smattering of wildflowers—indigo-colored blooms. They were the same type of wildflowers Raz had picked for her the day they’d left for Moloka’i.
A peacefulness set in as she drank in the color, and she focused on the bird.
Could that have also been the crow that crapped on Derrick Dawson?
She had so many questions.
Was that her mom?
Or was that bird, that crow, the harbinger of the past, present, and future, simply reacting to the energy created when Ida had helped her mother craft a heartfelt intention?
As if the crow had read her mind, it stilled, then spread its wings, and flew away, disappearing beyond the towering birch trees.
She’d gotten the message loud and clear.
It was time to spread her wings, follow her dreams, and trust in the power of her mother’s intention.
This was her path.
Would she walk it with Erasmus Cress?
She didn’t know. What she did understand was that whichever way he went, whatever road he followed, it had to be his choice. Her path had led her here, and with an open heart, a heart ready to take risks and even break, she knew what she had to do.
“I just need a second,” she said, pulling her cell from her pocket. She opened her texts and tapped the icon to write a new message.
To:
She typed three letters: D, A, D.
Message:
Can we meet up? I’d like to talk.
Send.
This was moving forward. This was trusting in her mother’s love—and maybe, just maybe, her path would cross with Sebastian and Raz’s again.
Picture a time when you were truly happy. Hold that feeling inside your chest, close to your heart.
She inhaled deeply, then exhaled a cleansing breath as a memory unfolded like a butterfly climbing out of its cocoon. It was a replay of the moment she banged her gong like a wild woman outside the boxing gym.
That was the moment when everything had changed.
The moment triggered by her mother’s cherished wish.
It was time to live the life her mother wanted for her.
She visualized the night it all started. She could see Raz’s face, stricken with disbelief, and then she recalled the first words out of his mouth—those silly words that spoke to her heart.
She turned to Cleo and Laney and bit back a grin. “What do you think of naming my vibrator the Wham, Bam, Thank You, Libby Lamb?”
Thirty-Three
Erasmus
Raz stared at the road. His eyes were open, but he didn’t see anything. Trees, buildings, and street signs passed in a blur of color. Every once in a while, a bus would pass with his image plastered across the side and the words Pay-Per-View Main Event blasted in bold letters. Nothing registered. Nothing made him look twice. The city had adorned flags with boxing gloves to the light posts lining the major Denver boulevards. The Mile-High City had set its sights on professional boxing, and the clock was ticking.
He usually fed off the energy.
Not this time.
He’d been holed up in the gym, eating, sleeping, and breathing his sport, doing anything and everything to dull the pain and distract himself from the soul-sucking doubt.
Aug stopped at a light as a local sports talk radio program played in the background. The voices melded together, droning like a sea of jabbering gobbledygook. Every so often, he heard his name, then Silas’s, then more chatter. He leaned his head back and stared at the roof of Augie’s SUV. He was barely there, a ghost, an echo, a man intent on one thing and one thing alone.
Victory.
It was the day before the big fight, and despite wanting to pound the bag, Aug had insisted he take it easy. He shifted in his seat, nervous energy coursing through him like he had ants in his pants. But that energy would soon come to serve him well.
Tonight, the cameras would roll, recording live the much-anticipated weigh-in. He and the Snake would growl and hiss and parade around the stage, hamming it up for the cameras before stepping on the scale to record their official weights.
The intensity would be set to pure alpha.
The air, electric.
Two animals sizing each other up, itching to tear the other apart in the ring.
And why was the press in near hysterics?
Three words: another viral video.
It would be the first time he and Silas would meet face-to-face since the incident at the airport.
The entire world had gawked and gaped, watching as he swung and missed, and the Snake dodged and hit.
Twice.
That was the last time he’d looked at his bloody mobile. He’d turned it off. No silent mode. No vibration. Off. Gone. Dead. Do not disturb.
His heart had been put through the wringer.
His confidence, slaughtered.
He hadn’t spoken a word to Aug on the drive from Rickety Rock to Denver. They’d pulled up to the gym, and fifteen minutes later, he’d wrapped his hands, gloved up, and had started swinging. It was the only way to put meaning to his pain. The only solution to his agony and the only path forward.
Path.
He recalled the path leading from the barn to the Victorian, darkened from the rainfall, then pictured Libby’s face as he tried to explain why he had to leave. When his foot hit the rock stack, the crack of the stones mimicked the cracks in his heart as he stood there, staring into her eyes. Their last words to each other returned to him every night in his dreams.
No, his nightmares.
I don’t have a choice.
You do, and you’ve already made it.
There wasn’t another way—at least, not one that he could see.
Between the crippling doubt and the visceral clawing pain, all he had left was the fight.
Truth be told, he didn’t care what the media had to say about the matchup. He wasn’t fighting for them. He’d done a decent job shutting it out, but he’d heard snatches of conversation between Augie and Briggs.
Unprecedented excitement.
Highest Pay-Per-View preorders ever recorded.
The fight of the century.
Let them concern themselves with that piece of the puzzle.
He’d gone into boxer zombie mode.
All that mattered was strapping on gloves and fighting like the devil.
He’d pounded the heavy bag until his knuckles bled. He’d knocked out hundreds of combinations and sparred with multiple partners. He didn’t need rest. He barely required fuel.
When he was in the grind, slick with sweat, limbs trembling, and breaths coming fast, it masked the ache. Like a machine, he’d gone numb. It was as if his head had overridden his heart, turning off the emotions to do what had to be done.
And that was to win.
Beat Silas Scott and send the Snake back to Ireland, a bloody bruised loser.
He pulled the hood of the same hoodie he’d been wearing since he’d left Rickety Rock over his head and felt the jostle of the items in his pocket.
Libby’s aquamarine stone, the timepiece with Mere’s picture, and the small wooden box.
He could have grabbed another hoodie. God knows he had a dozen of them hanging on hooks in Aug’s gym. But he kept going back to this one—like a child reaching for a cherished teddy bear.