Covertly Strong (The Strong Series Book 1) (22 page)

She laughs as she takes in the cheesy grin that’s etched on his chiseled jaw.

“You fucking killed it!” he exclaims as his strong arms tightly wrap around her, lifting her into the air. “Color me impressed,” he voices with an affectionate tone.

A giggle escapes her pink lips, and Nix’s heart feels like it might explode inside his chest. The visual of her smiling and laughing and enjoying the moment is almost too much to bear.
God, she’s never looked so damn beautiful.

And that’s exactly how he keeps her—happy and living in the moment. For several hours, the two of them take turns riding the waves, surfing and enjoying being together. They laugh and playfully flirt with each other, savoring every second of this time. It’s almost like no time has passed—like they are teenagers again.

For the first time in a very long time, both Nix and Sloan are truly happy…together. To an outsider looking on from the sand, they look like an actual couple who is blissfully in love.

HE CARRIES HER OUT OF the water, her perfect frame piggybacking his large form. Once he reaches the sand, Nix slides her body off his despite the fact that he wishes he could keep her there forever.

He sets his board in the sand and turns towards her. His blue eyes shining with affection as he looks down at her. His fingers cup her jaw, urging russet irises to lock with his. Nix’s gaze soaks up every inch of her—her beautiful eyes, her parted lips, her perfect curves. This visual of her will forever be etched in his memory.

She leans up, offering her lips to his.

Before he can take advantage of the opportunity, his focus notices the black ink etched on her olive skin. It’s hidden underneath the black bikini strap that rests above her rib cage. Curiosity gets the best of him and his fingers slide up her side, moving the wet material out of the way.

21°15′35.0″N 157°48′42.3″W

Cerulean orbs inventory the numbers that mark her skin.
GPS coordinates.

Sloan’s fingers quickly cover up the tattoo, but it’s too late.

His military mind has already registered the coordinates—the exact location. His jaw drops in absolute shock as he realizes what her tattoo signifies.
Diamond Head Beach.
She has branded her body with a symbol of where they met—the first place he laid eyes on her—their favorite spot. It was where he first spoke those three perfect words—
I love you
.

His brain is barely able to comprehend the meaning behind all of it. So many questions race through his mind, and he can’t help the pissed-off emotions that prick at his nerves. The vision of her tattoo—that fucking tattoo—has anger boiling beneath his skin.

WHY? Why would she mark her body with that
?

That special place—
that moment
—is one he’s treasured his entire life, practically to the point of pain, and now, he has to see a reminder of it
on her skin
. The significance of it is not lost on him and leaves Nix wondering why she would want a reminder of this.

Why?
Over a decade ago, she walked away from him so easily...

Does she still love me?
Does she regret giving up on what we had?

Sloan stands frozen in place, her facial expression filled with shock. Her petite hand stays firmly over her rib cage, covering the tattoo.

“What is that?” he questions, staring at her intensely.

“It… It’s nothing,” she stutters.

“Tell me what it means,” he demands as his hands cup her face. His blue eyes bore into hers—frantically begging for the truth.
Just tell me, Sloan! Fucking tell me the truth!

“No!” she shouts, anxiety leaking into her voice.

“
Tell. Me,”
he stresses, desperation visible on his face.

“
Stop.
Please stop,” she cries as she steps away from him. “I can’t do this,” Sloan mutters quietly. “I need to go home.”

He grabs her wrist as she starts to turn away, pulling her body flush against his. “Please don’t,” he begs. “You don’t have to do this. You can tell me. You can tell me anything,” he voices adamantly.

“I’m sorry,” Sloan says through her tears. Her chest heaves up and down, pressing against his with each harsh movement.

His strong hands grip her waist as she buries her face in his chest, her tears streaming down his tan skin. Each soft cry that escapes her lungs feels like a knife to his already battered heart.

“Take me home. Please just take me home,” she pleads.

HER TEETH CHATTER TOGETHER IN a furious rhythm as she rubs her hands up and down her arms to bring warmth to her shivering body. Goose bumps are permanently fixed on her olive skin. The drive from Solana Beach ends faster than it should, silence consuming the interior of his car.

Words
. There are so many unspoken words, and neither Nix nor Sloan is able to verbalize them. The truth hovers over them like a funnel cloud—threatening to swirl and twist and turn—ready to wreak havoc between them.

Clouds have now taken over the sky as a thunderstorm moves in. Sloan stares out the window, mindlessly taking in the large pelts of rain sliding down the glass. Each full drop shatters her insides as it makes its descent. The sky is dark,
too dark,
like an omen—a promise of what’s to come. Black clouds move quickly through the sky and daylight is lost behind them.

A breaking point whispers in her mind.

She’s balancing on the edge of disaster, time running through her fingers like sand inside an hourglass. She’s so close to saying it. So very close to opening her lips and allowing everything to fall out in a tumbling wave.

But she doesn’t.

Sloan doesn’t say anything during the drive. She doesn’t say anything when Nix pulls in front of her apartment building. And she doesn’t say anything as she slides out of the passenger’s seat and walks into her building.

Nothing.

Nothing is said. Not a ‘goodbye’ or an ‘I’ll see you later’ or even a ‘have a good night.’

The unspoken silence is deafeningly loud.

The tension fills her up, leaving her feeling gluttonous. Her heart is so full and bursting from pain that she has the intense urge to stop outside her apartment building and vomit right there in the rain-covered roses lining the walkway. But she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t turn around. She just keeps walking—marching through the lobby doors and never looking back.

The visual of Nix sitting in the driver’s seat, tense and jaw clenching, is the only vivid image behind her mocha eyes. Her feet stomp up the two flights of stairs, her hand slamming the door shut with brute force.

Her feet pace and pace and pace.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Her strides dominate the living room in a manic rhythm. The wooden floorboards squeak loudly in response. It’s like they’re protesting her being here, pissed at her for having walked away from him with the intention of never going back.

Is this really it? Is she just going to let him go?

A ball of dread takes up residence inside her stomach, heavy as a bowling ball. Memories of the past are ever present and relentless. Images of him flow through her brain, refusing to stop.

Anger and rage and furious thoughts are uncompromising.

He did this to them. He gave up. He walked away. He never responded, never sought her out. His letters ended, his phone calls ceased, and her heart was crushed beyond repair. No one would ever be able to mend that kind of devastation.

He broke her.
Broke her into twenty thousand pieces and made her unfixable for anyone who came after. And then, after all of that time, he pursued her after that stupid dinner. He found her in the crowd and seemed adamant about spending time with her.
Why now?

Why is he trying to become a fixture in her life now? After she gave up a chance of normality—gave up the possibility of them being together again. She moved on in the only way she knew how, and now, he’s back. He’s back and silently pleading for her to tell him the truth, to open up to him, to be with him in the right way, the real way.

WHY?
The question screams loudly inside her brain.

Her fingers brush across her rib cage, tracing her tattoo—the one thing that started this entire dilemma in the first place. But is it really what started it?

No
. This was an inevitability that had been threatening to burst the moment they had come face to face. She tries to placate her true feelings with concrete facts on why she needs to let this go, but nothing is working. Her head is spinning and her mind is racing and her entire body pushes her to do something she knows she shouldn’t do. Every cell inside her small, petite frame demands that she go to him. One tiny part of her brain—the one that thrives off control—screams for her rationality, but she can’t stop herself from throwing on her shoes and walking out of her apartment door.

And she can’t stop herself from marching down the two flights of stairs.

And she can’t stop herself as her feet run across the wet concrete.

The rain pelts against her face. Her hair is drenched and her socks are waterlogged inside her shoes, but she continues to run. She runs like her entire life depends on it. All logical, rational thought is gone. The only thing left is desperation to know the truth.

She ignores the wind and the harsh, cool rain smacking against her face. She ignores the horns honking in protest as she runs across the main road without looking. The only thing she hears is the hammering of her heart, the ragged breathing from her chest, and the pounding of her feet as they hit the pavement.