Page 62 of Eight Years Gone

“That’s really nice, Grace.”

“Thank you.”

He settled his forehead against hers. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed this—all of it. Everything.”

She sighed, sliding her fingers through his hair. “Me, too.”

He brushed his lips against hers, keeping the kiss gentle as his tongue sought hers. “I want to be with you again,” he whispered.

She opened for him, welcoming him, sighing her pleasure—her contentment—as she held his gaze, slowly moving with him.

Fourteen

Jagger gripped the blanket around his naked shoulders as he sat on the pretty wooden bench in Grace’s backyard.

The moon glowed brightly, illuminating dozens of fall flowers and a growing oak tree.

He shook his head, staring down at the blue jeans he’d pulled on before he headed outside, unable to find the peace the beautiful space was meant to provide.

He’d been restless since Grace fell asleep wrapped up in his arms. Holding her close was everything he’d wanted and needed since the moment he walked away, yet he hadn’t been able to shut off his thoughts.

Everything Grace had said by the water—the pain in her voice and her endless tears—still made him clench his jaw. But as he glanced at the flowers again, heart-sickening memories flashed through his mind, shaking him to his core.

He’d found ways to block them out for long stretches—to keep his life compartmentalized. But not tonight. Logan’s gory wound and the blood. There had been so damn much.

Over the last eight years, he’d seen his fair share of horrible things, but nothing would ever be as bad as watching his best friend die.

He should have called for the ambulance. He should have driven faster to the hospital. But what ate at him the most was that he never got a chance to tell Logan goodbye. He’d been too busy fighting to save his life.

But even before that, their last real conversation had been angry words spewed back and forth. Neither of them had had a chance to apologize—to take them back.

Jagger hurried after Logan as he stormed out of the mansion, heading for his Porsche. “Get back here, you selfish bastard.”

Logan whirled. “Fuck you.”

Jagger continued walking Logan’s way but stopped a few feet from his friend’s car, afraid that if he moved any closer, he’d punch him. “What the hell is up with you yelling at her—with making her cry? That seems to be all you do these days.”

“Grace is fine. She has you, doesn’t she?”

Jagger steamed out a breath, staring at a man he hardly recognized anymore. Logan’s clean-cut good looks had gone to hell. His too-long, greasy blond hair needed shampoo and a pair of scissors, and his typically muscular build needed a solid fifteen pounds. “Look at you, man. I don’t know how to help you anymore.”

“I don’t want your help. When are you and Grace going to get that?”

“Just when you need your ass bailed out of jail, right? Was last night the third or fourth time? It’s getting hard to keep up.”

“Grace can afford it. She’s still helping herself to Dad’s pot of money.”

“You used to help yourself to the same pot. You’re the one who got yourself cut off. He warned you several times. He gave you more than enough chances.” For some reason, Logan always seemed to forget that part.

“Am I actually hearing this? Now you’re defending my father?”

Jagger shook his head as he turned away.

“You stole my life, man.”

Jagger whirled back. “What?”

“The golden boy, Jagger Tennyson. The guy from the wrong side of the tracks makes good. Perfect grades and even better looks. The fucking athleticism.”

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