“You don’t have to say anything,” Lyla coaxed. “Just know that when you’re ready, I’m here.” She caressed my jaw and pulled my chin down, where her lips pressed against mine.

My entire fucking body melted into her and I held tightly onto her hips, pulling her closer so I could feel every curve of her body. Her soft lips glided across mine until I opened my mouth and licked across the seam of her lips, begging for admittance.

She obliged with a moan and opened her mouth. I rolled her so she was against the door instead of me. With my hips pressed against hers, I pinned her against the door and ran my hands up her ribcage, dancing terribly close with her breasts. Her hands found the belt loops of my jeans and pulled me in closer.

A low moan escaped her throat, clouding my thoughts, encouraging me to take things further, to truly explore her body, but a small voice in the back of my head prevented me.

I knew I needed to step away. Guilt for what I’d done in the past stopped me. I didn’t deserve her sweetness, her kindness, her sexiness.

Frustrated with the shell of the life I had left, I pulled away and pressed my hands against the door, framing her face. Her lips were swollen, and her eyes were glazed from the heat blazing between us. She looked so fuckable, it took everything in me not to take her up against the door.

“I have to go,” I said softly, lowering my head so she couldn’t see the want in my eyes.

“I don’t want you to go.”

“Don’t make this harder, Lyla.”

“How am I making this harder when you’re the one walking out?”

“You don’t know me, Lyla. There is a whole lot of fucked up attached to me, and I won’t let you to associate yourself to that.” I took a deep breath and met her eyes. “Thank you for one of the best afternoons I’ve had in a really long time.”

Gripping her chin, I placed a soft kiss on her lips and then gently moved her to the side to let myself out of her apartment. Each step I took that put distance between Lyla and myself pained me, but I knew I was doing the right thing.

Lyla was the type of woman who stuck around, who could ruin a man with just one look, and if I let her in, if I let her past my walls, I knew she would fucking destroy me. Even though I was living a life of regret and pain, I wasn’t ready to endure the crushing blow she would deliver to me if she ever left. That was one kind of pain I knew I wouldn’t be able to recover from.

Chapter Twenty Seven

My present…

The community center was silent. The lights were shut off besides one that shined down on the bleachers of the Haze Room and one boxing bag. All the girls had left, and I was the last one left to lock up.

The day had dragged, the thrill of teaching the sport of boxing to others stolen from me the minute Madeline had joined the practice.

No, that was fucking wrong to say. I shouldn’t blame that innocent girl for taking anything from me. She’d done nothing wrong. It was my own fucking guilt eating me up.

I’d thought the pain would slowly ease, that walking this earth would be easier after a few years, but seeing Madeline, looking into Linda’s eyes¸ it was just too fucking much.

I rested on the bleachers, my head in my hands and my elbows relaxing on my legs. I was at a loss, probably the lowest point of my life. For once in my life, I truly felt like I was at a crossroads. When I’d thrown my last punch at Marshall, I didn’t really have options because Jett had been so desperate to keep me around, but now that he had Goldie. There was really no reason for me to stick around.

I’d made a commitment to Justice, to staying here and helping the center succeed, but what was I really doing to help? I was empty, I was lifeless, I wasn’t helping anyone.

It was time for a change.

A soft knock rang through the silent room, startling me for a second. Linda was standing in the doorway, clutching her purse. Taking a deep breath, I stood and said, “Hi Linda. Did Madeline forget something?”

“No,” she said while looking around nervously. “Um, do you have a moment to talk?”

“Yes,” I said warily. The nervous tension coming off her threw me for a loop.

With her purse held closely to her body, she walked up to me and visibly shook. The hand holding the strap rattled against her shoulder, and she scanned the room as if she was checking for someone to pop out of the corners.

“Are you okay?” I asked, feeling a tingle crawl across the back of my neck. What was in her purse that was so important that she was clutching?

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

My stomach bottomed out, my pulse quickened, and I instantly felt ill. “What are you talking about?” I asked, sweating.

“You were the man at the bar, the man who killed my husband.”

I could feel my skin turn white, my breathing grew at a rapid rate, my body became a complete void. I was physically unable to answer.

“You don’t have to admit to anything. I can see it on your face.” Her hand continued to shake as a tear ran down her cheek. “I knew it was you. I didn’t know at first. I had no clue who would kill my husband, but I saw someone who resembled you at the funeral, and I had an inkling. Then on Madeline’s birthday and at Christmas, I saw you sneaking presents to our doorstep for Madeline. You thought you went undetected, but I knew it was you. The moment I heard about Justice and the classes you were offering, I knew I had to make contact.”

Alarm bells were going off in my head. I stepped back and bumped into the bleachers. Linda didn’t look well. She looked almost sick, like she couldn’t believe she was going to do something out of her element.

“Linda—”

“Don’t, please don’t speak.” She held up her hand. She reached into her purse and I felt like I was going into shock. I’d waited for this moment, for my last breath, but I didn’t want my life to end. I didn’t want this to be my last minute on this world.

In slow motion, I watched Linda whip something out of her purse, and I flinched as she pointed it at me.

“Take them,” she said, pushing what was in her hand in front of me.

My vision blurred as I tried to figure out what she was handing me. I looked down and saw a pile of construction paper. At closer work, I saw crayon marks drawn across them in a child’s writing.

“Take them, Kace,” Linda repeated herself.

Obliging her request, I grabbed the folded pieces from her and then sat down on the bleachers. She sat next to me, still shaking but letting go of her purse. Relieved she wasn’t here to take my life, I started sifting through the papers.

Colors ranging from pink to blue to green were scattered over contrasting paper and each were addressed to “Dear Sir.”

They were homemade cards from Madeline.

“What are these?” My vision started to blur from the tears that clouded my eyes.

“They are thank you notes from Madeline. She wrote one for every gift you’ve ever gotten her. She would give them to me to mail to the man who gave her such precious gifts. It’s time that you read them.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, my eyes burning from holding in my emotions. I opened the cards and read what was inside.

Dear Sir, thank you for my mini purple horse figurine. I named him Clyde. I love him. 

Dear Sir, I like purse. Thanks. 

Dear Sir, baking with mom is fun. Thank u for the apron.

Dear Sir, I like my shirt. It’s big now but mom says I will grow. 

Dear Sir, magnets are fun, I like to hang things on the fridge, thanks.

Dear Sir, I wish I could thank you in person. I love my necklace. It’s so pretty.