Page 63 of Grant’s Flame

“Grant. Damn it! I can’t do this. I can’t!”

Silence.

Taunting me. Tempting me.

So maybe I’d called the fucker’s bluff.

My hands trembled as I retrieved the smooth white matchbook from the hidden pocket inside my purse. Six dedicated soldiers still stood in my army. But that was all. Just six.

I rocked back on my heels, pulling my hair in desperation. Shit. Why was this so hard? Why did I keep fucking everything up? I knocked on the side of my head with the heel of my hand and instantly thought of Grant’s anguished face every time I’d given in to one of my dark episodes. I never remembered much from any of those visits in the shadows of my psyche, but emerging from them brought agony I couldn’t describe.

Grant had been there every time—with pain across his face that gutted me.

But maybe that’s why he wasn’t here now. Perhaps all of this was simply some elaborate setup to get rid of me. To be free of my fucked-to-shit drama.

“Enough!” I shouted aloud, battling another flood of self-loathing when Robert started and glowered out at me. “No,” I muttered to myself. “Just no. Not now. Just get your shit together, okay? You aren’t spinning out of control right now. You don’t have time for this crap. Grant needs you, so get your ass off this boat and get home.”

At least I knew when I left this room, all I had to do was survive a straight shot down the freeway to my house. No, wait. Maybe I could just go to Grant’s downtown condo. He’d shared the key with me one day after stating the obvious: it was much closer to the prep kitchen. But right now, I was thinking more about law enforcement offices, local and international, than the kitchen. I had no idea who had jurisdiction over an event like this, in waters hundreds of miles off the coast, but I’d be much more readily available for anyone and everyone who needed my help. The only issue would be not having Kendall. Christ. Where was my car? What made me think I could help save the man I loved from fucking pirates when I couldn’t even keep track of a Fiat?

Elijah swept me into his embrace the moment I reached the bottom of the angled plank.

“Thank you for coming. I didn’t know who else to call.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t be anywhere else,” Elijah said before kissing both my cheeks. “Try to keep your voice down while we’re here though. You never know who may be feeding the press. So far, we’ve managed to keep it out of the media. Okay?” He made his greeting look so effortless when it was actually an opportunity to issue his advice about keeping our voices low.

“Right. Of course.” I nodded and then looked around with open curiosity. I wasn’t sure if Sebastian had come or if he was waiting to debrief at home behind closed doors. “For some reason, I expected Shark to be here with you.”

He looked boyish when he shrugged with more swagger than should be legal for one person. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“You know what I meant,” I clarified. “But let’s get to the more important point.” I curled a taut hand around his forearm. “Tell me right now. Have you made any headway with finding him? Please, Elijah, I need some hope to hold on to.”

The look on my face had to be pitiful by the time I got the statement out, but there was nothing I could do to change it. Nothing I cared to do either. I needed the information more than I needed my next breath. If he thought I was going to delay the question as a breezy conversation filler once we hit the 405, he was thoroughly mistaken.

But Elijah came back with an answer—okay, a nonanswer—just as telling.

Grant’s handsome friend, appearing just as pleasant as the moment before, motioned to the bags on the ground around us. “Is this everything?”

Either the guy didn’t have a shred of an update to relay, or a change of subject was his desperate ploy to save himself from having to comfort a woman on the verge of tears. Either way, I got the hint. After hitching my big-girl panties a little higher, I turned in a full circle to take in all the luggage. Grant had left behind one bag, along with another that he’d originally packed for me. In a third suitcase were the souvenirs and gifts we had picked up in Hawaii. I held Robert’s carrier in one hand, but where was my handbag?

“Crap,” I groused, realizing I hadn’t grabbed it on my way out. “Can you load this stuff in the car while I go back for my handbag?”

“Sure. I’ll pull right up to the loading zone, by that white van.”

I hurried back up the gangway and then aboard the boat. But just a few steps on deck, and they were already faltering. My limbs were shaky and mushy. I stopped completely, struggling just to get in air.

Already, I knew the disgusting reason why.

I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave this yacht and the life-changing events that had occurred on it. I thought I’d be able to, but I couldn’t. This was worse than mere nerves. I was in the throes of an anxiety attack. It wasn’t like saying goodbye to the East Coast, not knowing what waited for me out here. It wasn’t even like the day Abbi and I signed the lease on the bigger kitchen space in Inglewood. Neither of those occasions came with this terrible feeling that if I drove away from this yacht with Elijah, I wouldn’t be leaving just the boat behind.

I would never see Grant again.

The dread persisted as I forced my feet deeper into the vessel. My hand trembled as I tried the knob to our cabin. To my joy, it was still unlocked. The cleaning crew was making their way around the boat but hadn’t come by our room yet, thank God.

I slipped inside, treasuring the close comfort of the familiar space, before coming to an irrefutable decision. The only option left.

I had to destroy the entire yacht.

“Yes,” I declared softly. “Perfect.”