Page 23 of Strider's Misstep

We finally end the call, promising to firm things up for meeting the day before the signing next month.

I do make her promise not to tell anyone other than StoryTeller that we’ve been in touch, and under no circumstances to give out my number.

From what she said, Strider’s been looking for me. I may think myself strong, but I don’t know how I’d react if I saw him again. I think I’d weaken and allow myself to go back to being his prop.

Three years ago, I was happy to be used for just sex. But now I know I deserve so much more.

One day, perhaps, I’ll find a man who wants me and not as a substitute for the real love in his life.

CHAPTER NINE

STRIDER

Anna might still be breathing, but it’s only a matter of time. I’ve long passed the point of denial, of disbelief that there was no cure, no hope, and nothing but a death sentence. What I had with Anna is now in the past. I still hold great affection for her. Even with my current doubts, it could still be called love. It’s been a very long time since it was the heart-racing, blood-pounding emotion that I once felt for her. She’s no longer able to wear her wedding band, her fingers too shrivelled. It’s been years since I wore mine, having taken it off when I thought divorce was what I wanted. Even when I knew that it was the illness that had taken the woman I married from me, I couldn’t regain sufficient feeling to show any visible claim that I was hers. The symbol of our vows, which we’d meant every word of when said at the time, are now a mockery.To death ‘til we fucking part. In sickness and health.

The death part? Well, I’d always thought that were more likely to be mine. That I’d be the one to go first. I ride a motorcycle for a start, the risk compounded by being a high-ranking member of a notorious club. The sickness part? I was sure we had years, decades before we’d need to worry about that. We were young, and healthy. It would be a long time beforewe would be stricken by old age. And if something like cancer hit us, we’d be able to do everything to fight. Treatments were improving all the time.

But fucking Picks Disease. How could we tackle that? It hadn’t just taken her life. In some ways, that would have been kinder. It had taken her from me, and from her? The ability to enjoy anything she once loved, including our marriage.

Before she’d become the complete shell of the person she is now, sometimes, in the night, her hand would reach for mine, squeezing my fingers. I allowed myself to believe in those moments that she was still in there, fighting to come out the other side. Maybe she had been, but even those small signs faded with time.

It’s been so long since she showed any signs of recognising me.

There’s no way back and only one way this can end. I’m just punishing myself for wanting to leave her.

It guts me now that Jasmine might have offered me a future, but my guilt chased her off. I fucked up and sent the wrong messages when I’d taken her home and introduced her to my wife. I suppose I’d gotten so used to Jasmine just being there that I didn’t expect her to take such a drastic action. Probably, I, in a very male way, thought she would stay at the club because life held nothing else for her. Even if I’d known about it, I probably wouldn’t have considered her writing to be anything other than a cute hobby. Of course, I’m proud as fuck to know she’s got a way to support herself, but selfishly can’t help but wish her books hadn’t proved a success because then she wouldn’t have been able to run.

Two weeks pass, and it’s absolutely killing me not knowing where she is and what’s happening to her. I’d have been a wreck even without my fears about her past and whether it might catch up with her.

I have to force myself to stop ranting at Data as he’s looking for the equivalent of a needle in a haystack and clearly doing his best, but it’s hard to keep my temper when he’s getting absolutely no results.

I’m working in my office trying to listen while Shotgun takes me through the finances of our businesses, finding it hard to work out from all the figures thrown at me whether they’re healthy or not, as he’s only got half of my attention.

Where is Jasmine, and is she safe?I’d felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach when I realised that unless we found her, I’d never know if she was dead or alive—unless her demise was newsworthy enough to be reported. And fuck knows, I’d hate it to be anything as bad as that. But that’s the harsh reality of it. It appears Jasmine had successfully pulled off a disappearing trick once before, and if she doesn’t want to be found, I may have seen the last of her.

With my hands clenched beneath the desk, while my head gives the occasional nod up and down to reassure Shotgun he’s not wasting his time, I can’t stop worrying about her. I realise as days go past, I probably haven’t lost this chance with her, but any chance I ever had. I’d never be able to tell her the depth of my feelings nor have an opportunity to put things right.

Shotgun clears his throat. As if I’ve been paying close attention, I gesture at the tablet he’s holding. “Carry on.”

His eyes widen slightly, then his expression is shuttered. I think he knows I probably haven’t digested one word he’s said and that I’m just going through the motions.

My phone rings. Glancing down at the caller, I hold up my hand, stopping him mid-flow. “Gotta take this.” His chin jerks toward the door, but there’s not going to be anything secret about this. “I’ll only be a moment.” I’ve recognised my home number. One or the other of Anna’s nurses, who’s on duty at the time, has often called me, usually when we’re running outof something she needs or if they think she needs to be seen by a doctor. The latter is unfortunately happening more and more, and my answer is always,of fucking course.

“Yeah?” I ask questioningly into the phone.

“Colt. I’m sorry, but Anna’s got a very high temperature. I didn’t want to wait, so I called the doctor out. She’s on oxygen, but it’s not helping much. She’s developed pneumonia. The doctor wants to take her to the hospital, but I wanted to check with you about that.”

Inwardly, I know we’ve come to the end. My breath shudders as I breathe in. However much you think you’ve prepared yourself, it seems you never have. “Can she be treated at home?”

I hear muffled voices at the other end of the line, and then a masculine voice I recognise comes on the phone. “Mr. Harman? It’s Doctor Barker. I’m afraid your wife is very poorly.”

“It’s time?” I know the medic. He’s been treating Anna for a while now. I’ve paid a fortune for him to make house calls instead of her being moved from the environment she’s happy in.

He doesn’t try to sugarcoat it for me. “I’m afraid she’s not strong enough to recover. Let me take her in and make her comfortable.”

Closing my eyes for a second and then giving a sigh, I offer an emphatic, “No.” I pinch the bridge of my nose as I try to explain my answer. “What can you do in the hospital that I can’t do at home?”

For a moment, the doctor doesn’t answer. Medical staff, in my experience, like to be in charge of who lives or dies. But there’s nothing he can say that will persuade me it’s best to let Anna spend what little time she has left in some sterile hospital room without anything familiar around her, even though she may not be conscious of them at all.

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