Rescue Me (Butler Island) (23 page)

Silence settled over the crowd, waiting for Lana to deny
the accusation. She opened her mouth to speak, then abruptly closed it.

What could she say?—Jenny was right. Her relationship
with Randall was anything but platonic.

Just then Lana caught a glimpse of her mother and her
son. Her mother’s hands were resting on Connor’s tiny shoulders while his head
turned from side-to-side, his six-year-old mind desperately trying to figure
out why everyone looked so angry.

Desperately trying to grasp why everyone was so mad at
his mommy…

“Yeah”, Jenny jived, “didn’t think so.”

Vision blurred, breaths quick and shallow, Lana backed
away from the podium.

Oh, God. Oh, God!

A sob escaped her trembling lips.

Run!

Palm covering her mouth, Lana bolted from the stage,
fleeing the chaos and confusion spreading through the crowd. She ran as fast as
her shuddering legs would allow.

“Lana!”

Don’t stop. Must get out of here!

Her car finally in sight, Lana snatched the keys from her
pocket.

“Damn it, Lana—wait!”

Can’t. Must go!

Lana turned the ignition, the distant sound of tires
squealing behind her. She just needed to make it home. And then she could fall
to pieces.

Chapter 29

Randall sprinted to his truck, his wheels cloning the path
taken by the small Corolla moments ago.

His mind was still frantically trying to piece together
what’d just happened. After the boat parade he’d loaded his Boston Whaler onto
the trailer, securing the vessel before hauling it from the choppy Gulf with the
intention of storing it in Mr. Morgan’s boat warehouse during the storm. He’d
then driven to the beach, expecting to find the charity auction already in full
swing.

Instead he’d stumbled upon his biggest fear: a malicious
and frankly, unwarranted attack on Lana’s character.

Turning onto Third Street he stomped on the accelerator
after spotting her Corolla up ahead, whipping his Ford F150 recklessly into her
narrow drive as she bounded from her car. “Damn it, Lana, quit running from
me!” Leaping from his truck he raced across the yard, hurdling up the steps
after her.

He finally caught up with her in the hallway, colliding
into her body from behind, trapping her against his solid frame and the wall.
“It’s okay, Sweetheart. It’s me”, he murmured softly. “It’s me…”

Lana stilled the moment his breath whispered over her
ear, his low, soothing voice weakening her defenses. Scared and vulnerable and
frail, a powerful sob worked its way up her trembling body, rising, gaining
momentum until it inevitably fled her lips. Her body shook with it, her knees
buckling as grief rippled through her small frame, but Randall was right there
to catch her.

He held her like that, her back against his front, while
she wept, whispering words of encouragement, supporting her languid body until
the volume of her cries softened.

“I-I just don’t un-understand”, she uttered just above a
whisper, turning in his arms to face him. “Why would sh-she do that?—in front
of the whole t-town—
in front of m-my son
?”

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, I knew she was up-upset with me, but—”

Randall palmed her face, needing to feel her soft skin
beneath his rough fingertips, needing her to listen to reason. “She’s bitter,
Lana. Morally bankrupt. Angry about her marriage ending and looking for anyone
to shoulder the blame instead of accepting responsibility for her actions.”

Sweeping his thumb across her sodden cheek, he wiped away
the dark lines marring her pretty face. The wind howled as he pinned her with
his gaze. Lana’s deep blue eyes were dull and listless, her long lashes matted
together with mascara and fresh tears. And those full pink lips—lips he’d
tirelessly tasted and nibbled—quivered with grief.

“We were friends”, she whispered. “Good friends…” Lana
clenched her eyes shut, then opened them again. “How’d she find out about us?
How’d she—”

“I don’t know”, he answered truthfully, because he
honestly didn’t have a clue. They’d been so careful—dotted every
i
,
crossed every
t
. “It was either a lucky guess or—”

“She saw us”, she finished.

The back of Lana’s head thumped against the wall, exposing
her slender neck. He wanted to dip his head, run his tongue along her smooth
skin, breathe in the arousing scent of vanilla and wanton woman.

What did that say about him? What kind of person could
think about sex at a time like this?

A low, pathetic, soulless man, that’s who.

The urge to touch her, kiss her,
love her
was on a
cellular level, deeply embedded in his make-up. He craved her every
minute—every second—every day, which made what he knew he had to do all the
more difficult to execute.

How did one begin to purge an essential part of themselves?—a
part tightly knitted around every fiber, tainting every cell?

You could start by taking your hands off her pretty face
.

Randall brushed the pad of his thumb over her cheek one
last time, committing the silky texture to memory before placing his hands down
by his sides.

“I can’t believe this is happening”, she muttered. “God,
the look on Connor’s face… What am I supposed to tell him when he asks me what
happened?”

“I…I don’t know.”

“Tell me what you do know, then.”

Running quivering fingers through his thick black hair,
Randall met her gaze and uttered the words he prayed he’d never have to say
aloud. “This was a mistake.”

“This?” she questioned, her brows drawing together in
confusion.

Randall shifted his weight, nodding feebly. “Us.” Damn
it, why was this so hard?

Because you’re going to hurt her
.

Because although it was the morally correct thing to say,
it wasn’t how he really felt at all. Not even close. “The night you followed me
home, I… I crossed the line, Lana. I should’ve…”

“Should have what?”

Randall blew a puff of air from his lungs and leaned his
back against the opposite wall, the howling wind nearly muffled by the sound of
his raging pulse. “I should’ve asked you to leave.”

His words had delivered a heavy, callous blow; he could
tell by the way her breath hitched, by the way her body jerked. Her reaction
was that of a woman that’d been slapped. Utterly stunned. And given the choice,
he knew she’d have preferred physical pain over the emotional sting he’d just
inflicted.

Sometimes words
did
hurt.

Because bruises would heal, fade, but acrid remarks
stayed with you, eroding your insides, leaving scars too heavy and broad to
heal. Sometimes cutting words were unforgivable. Unforgettable.

“When did you come to that conclusion, huh?”

“Does it really matter?”

“Matters to me”, she uttered softly.

Randall forced the words over his throat, steeling his
spine for the pain he would inflict again. “I knew the moment I opened the door
and found you on my front porch that night.”

“And yet you pursued this”—she gestured between
them—“anyway. Not once, not twice, but over and over again…”

“I’m no saint, Lana—you of all people should know that.”

“You’re wrong”, she whispered.

“Am I? Think about everything’s that happened in the last
year, Lana. I’m the common denominator”, he explained, placing his palm over
his chest. “I’m responsible for everything bad that’s happened to you since—”

Lana shook her head. “No. What happened to Jimmy… it
wasn’t your fault!”

Randall’s mouth stretched into a faint smile. “One of the
things I admire most about you is your ability to see the good in people. You
have every right to be jaded, empty, and yet you’re not. Don’t ever lose that.”

“I-I don’t understand, I—”

“I’m trying to do the right thing, here, Sweetheart”, he
disclosed, wiping his palm down his face.

“Which is?”

His gaze lowered to her trembling hands, feverishly
scraping the red polish from her nails. He hated himself for doing this, hated
himself for dealing blow after agonizing blow. She deserved better. Lana
deserved a worthy man. She deserved happiness—not misery and despair. He’d
tried for months to become that man, and for a while he’d even convinced
himself he was.

But that was nothing more than wishful thinking.

He loved her deep and hard, fierce and absolute. Christ,
he wished things were different, wished he could right all the wrongs, undo all
the damage he’d caused. Because standing in front of her now, he realized the
truth.

He wasn’t worthy.

He never would be.

“End this. Walk away.”

A single tear trickled down her cheek as she inhaled a
shaky breath. “So everything… the past two months… they meant nothing to you?”

“I don’t regret one minute I spent with you, Lana—just
the parts that led up to it. The outcome.”

“So you’re just going to walk away?”

“It’s better this way”, he managed in a voice he barely
recognized. Randall pushed off the wall, pointing his feet toward the front
door. He didn’t need to look over his shoulder to know she was following him.

“Better for whom?”

“You. Connor. Everyone.”

Lana latched onto his elbow several paces from the door,
digging her heels into the wood floor. “Please, Randall, don’t do this!” she
pleaded desperately. “I’ve l-lost everything—I can’t lose y-you, too!”

Randall turned to face her, swallowing hard. This was it.
He had to sever ties—before he lost his nerve. “Losing me is the best thing
that’s ever happened to you, Sweetheart. In time, you’ll see.” Peeling her from
his body he took a step back, watching as her small frame melted into a puddle
of hopelessness.

“I Love you! Please, d-don’t leave m-me!”

Randall glanced over his shoulder, one foot already out
the door. Lana sat on the floor, her legs tucked under her, a steady river of
tears cascading down her angelic face. He’d lain awake many nights wondering
what it’d be like to hear Lana utter those three simple words.

She loved him
.

Part of him wanted to turn around, scoop her grieving
body off the floor and show her just how much he loved her too.

But he didn’t deserve to be loved—especially by Lana
Phillips.

“That’s impossible, Sweetheart; the person you think you
fell in love with doesn’t exist—at least, not anymore.”

 The screaming wind mixed with the sound of weeping woman
as Randall hustled to his truck. Turning the ignition, he squealed out of her
driveway in a mad dash to make it home before the heavens opened up.

Because he couldn’t be here.

He wasn’t sure where he was headed just yet—Steinhatchee,
Jacksonville—hell, did it really matter? Where ever he ended up he’d still be
the man solely responsible for destroying the best thing that’d ever happened
to him.

Randall left the engine running while he went inside to
pack an overnight bag. He’d be back in time for his shift on Wednesday, but in
the mean time he’d seek shelter from the storm.

The one brewing over the Gulf of Mexico, as well as the
imminent metaphorical one, likely spreading across the island at this very
moment.

Chapter 30

“You were brilliant”, Mayor Cliffburg praised as the
breakdown crew disassembled the small stage behind him. “Did you see the shock
on the crowd’s faces?—the repulsion?”

“No, I—”

“If not for the approaching storm they’d have probably
burned her at the stake!”

A deranged smile spread across the mayor’s lips. He was
practically foaming at the mouth over Lana’s degradation. And while Jenny had
taken great pleasure in her vengeful outburst at the time, the euphoria had
quickly fizzled.

“What happened between the two of you, huh? What happened
to make you hate her so much?” Jenny pressed, her long auburn locks whirling in
the growing breeze. The mayor’s expression suddenly turned cold, intense. A
shiver worked its way up her spine, causing the hair on the back of her neck to
rise.

“She deceived me”, he answered through clenched teeth,
stepping so close to Jenny she had to tilt her head back. “You’d be wise to
remember that, Mrs. Carson.”

Jenny nodded feebly. What had she gotten herself into
this time?

“Listen, I need you to lie low for a few days, all
right?—allow the domino effect to continue. I’ll be in touch.”

And just like that he was gone, leaving Jenny alone with
an uncomfortable bout of remorse. She hadn’t seen the crowd’s expressions, but
she had seen Lana’s. Jenny feared she’d never be able to expunge the disturbing
image from her mind.

Ever.

Turning on her heels, she hauled her purse over her
shoulder and shuffled to her car. Particles of sand pelted her creamy skin,
making the porcelain hue appear red and raw.

Jimmy’s casket was barely lowered into the ground when
you started whoring around.

What?—th-that’s not true! You know how much I loved
Jimmy!

Sliding into the driver’s seat she closed her eyes. “God,
Jenny”, she muttered, “what have you done…?”

Pine needles writhed in the growing wind, synchronously
thrashing and swaying, whispering and sighing a heavy warning. A storm,
tropical and fierce, was quickly approaching.

Around these parts hurricane season was a double-edged
sword, signifying the end to Florida’s treacherous dry season and the birth of
atmospheric violence. Hot sultry days and clear blue skies transformed into
something wild and feared. The possessed heavens turned angry and black like
clockwork as fiery beams of jagged light leaped from dismal clouds, landing with
a thunderous roar. Thunderstorms: as tried-and-true as the changing tides.

But tropical systems were different. Unpredictable.

Powerful winds demolished.

Unrelenting rain pummeled.

The swollen ocean devoured.

Here, along the Gulf Coast, it wasn’t a matter of
if
a tropical system would hit, but rather
when
. And when the demonic
clouds cleared the cleanup would begin and soon the named storm would become
nothing more than a distant memory…

But the debacle that’d just unfolded a short time ago on
stage—the one that’d publicly outed Randall’s relationship with Lana,
humiliating her in front of the entire town—wouldn’t be so lucky.

The shockwave of destruction would linger long after the
powerful wind calmed, long after the heavy rain subsided.

Lana’s entire world was in shambles. Her character and
reputation reduced to a heaping pile of tangled rubbish. Needless to say, the
clean up efforts would take far longer than the physical damage left behind by
the first tropical system of the season.

Merging onto the desolate, two-lane road that led to
I-10, Randall turned on his wipers. Conditions were quickly deteriorating.
Guess his last minute decision to flee the chaos back home had been a little…
rash. But there’d been a method to his madness. Skipping town for a day or two
would allow the dust to settle; give everyone time to digest the news.

As predicted, it hadn’t taken long for the backlash to
unfurl. Randall had already received more than a dozen calls from Kendall and
the guys he worked with. He hadn’t answered, of course. Navigating the slick
asphalt in this weather required two hands, and besides, he didn’t need anyone
to tell him what a worthless, despicable lowlife he was—
that
he already
knew.

The winding road carved a path through the colossal
forest, Longleaf and Slash Pines rising above droves of bushy Saw Palmettos.
The canopies warped in the wind, swaying, thrashing, transporting Randall back
in time to that fateful day one year ago.

He couldn’t help but wonder the course his life would
have taken if he’d only paid attention to his environment that day. Maybe if he
had he would’ve seen the definitive signs, maybe he could’ve steered everyone
away from the arms of doom. Hell, Chief Handler had drilled the importance of
constant assessment into his brain since day one: use your senses, never lose
focus, analyze the clues in your surroundings, predict what might happen next…

He failed his fellow brothers that day. Failed his best
friend.

But that’d only been the beginning.

A hearty gust of air slammed into the side of his truck.
Randall gripped the wheel, fighting the groaning wind. He’d disappeared for
five months, leaving Lana to fend for herself. Sure, she’d had friends, her
parents, but that wasn’t the same. She’d needed him. And he’d failed her.

Randall had made it his mission to make up for his
absence upon his return last fall, stepping in as the interim patriarch of the
Phillips household. After five months of feverishly working to fill the void
left behind by Jimmy’s death with eighty-proof whiskey, he’d welcomed the
challenge. Amazingly, his presence seemed to lighten the load Lana carried,
he’d even seen an improvement in Connor’s filthy mouth. Things were looking up…

Until the night he’d driven Lana home from The Saloon.
That night had changed everything.

That night he’d seen Lana differently—not as his best
friend’s grieving widow, but rather a beautiful woman. That night he’d set the
stage for the ultimate betrayal, failing Jimmy yet again.

Failure seemed to be his mantra these days, seemed to be
the only thing he was any good at.

Squeezing the steering wheel, Randall rounded a curve as
the howling wind and pounding rain intensified, obscuring his visibility. The
blanket of water falling from the heavens was nearly horizontal now. Squinting,
Randall gently pressed on the brake, gradually reducing his speed to prevent
his tires from skidding off the slick, narrow road.

Randall hadn’t overlooked the irony: this wasn’t the
first time he’d skipped town, leaving Lana desperate, pleading, and alone. He
could still remember the shrill of her cries as he’d bounded from his seat
during Jimmy’s funeral. She’d been hysterical, inconsolable. Hopeless.

Randall pressed on the brake until his wheels rolled to a
stop, then ran his hands through his thick black hair. “Fuck”, he sighed, the
back of his head thumping against the headrest in defeat.

He sat still for a stretch, watching as the slanting
sheet of water pummeled the earth. He’d left her again. Left her to fend for
herself, left her hopeless and broken on her living room floor, pleading for
his love and support.

And he’d fucking left her!

“
I’ve lost everything—I can’t lose you, too! I Love
you! Please, don’t leave me!
”

Chaos ensued around him: the growing wind roared,
torrential rain hammered the roof of his truck. Mother Nature was exposing her
almighty power. And yet in the midst of all the commotion and turbulence
surrounding him, a whisper of calmness settled over his body…

He had to go back.

He wasn’t quite sure what the future held for the two of
them, but there was one thing he was sure of: This time Lana wouldn’t be alone.

This time they would face the fury together.

Randall gently nudged the accelerator with the toe of his
boot and yanked the wheel to the left, aiming his truck toward the coast. It was
just after three o’clock when he began his journey home, although the emerging
storm made the afternoon feel more like dusk.

It was slow-going now. Rain maliciously pelted his truck,
resembling the sound of hail. It wasn’t, of course; hail rarely accompanied
tropical systems. The robust wind bellowed as it collided into the side of his
Ford, attempting to shove the two-ton pick-up over the double yellow lines
painted on the middle of the winding road.

There was good reason why emergency officials drilled the
importance of staying off the roads when wind gusts tipped the forty mile per
hour mark. It was unsafe—which probably explained why he hadn’t seen another
car since he’d crossed the Mainland Bridge roughly forty-five minutes ago.

Seems he was the only idiot crazy enough to impulsively
leave town in the midst of a tropical cyclone. What was that old saying? Stupid
is as stupid does…?

Lord knows he’d done his share of stupid things over the
last year. And although getting involved with his best friend’s widow topped
the list, he didn’t regret one minute of it. Lana made him feel things he’d
never felt, made him want things he’d never wanted before.

Sure, there’d been a time when he’d wanted Kendall, too,
but that’d been different. Back then he hadn’t been able to see past the
physicality of their relationship—which explained why they would’ve never
worked. He could see that, now.

But with Lana it was different. Don’t get him wrong—the
physical part of their relationship was wild, hot.

Recklessly addicting.

He loved to watch her midnight eyes glaze over, feel her
soft body writhing beneath his as she surrendered to sweet ecstasy, hear her
choppy breaths and pleasure-filled whimpers as he drove her closer to the
pinnacle of release.

But it was more than that.

Because for the first time in all his thirty years,
Randall wanted the whole package. A beautiful wife, a white picket fence, and
two-point-five kids…

Which was crazy-stupid considering who he was. Who she
was. But damn if he didn’t want it anyway. He allowed his mind to wander for a
stretch, fantasizing about what his life might look like if the reverie were
real. He visualized coming home from a long shift at the firehouse to the smell
of a delicious home-cooked meal, kissing Lana’s lips before roughhousing with
Connor in the backyard. He pictured tucking the little guy into bed around nine
o’clock—so he could spend the remainder of his evening taking his new wife to
bed.

Completely absorbed by the blissful images flashing in
his mind, Randall had unknowingly increased his speed. And when a particularly
powerful gust of wind T-boned the driver’s side of his pick-up, he suddenly
snapped to attention. Startled from his musing trance, he overcorrected,
yanking the wheel hard-left. The moment his back end swung to the right he knew
he’d fucked up.

Randall quickly jerked the wheel to the right in an
attempt to regain control, but it was no use; with so much water coating the
slickened asphalt his tires had nothing to cling on to. The truck bed veered
further to the right until the length of the two-ton pick-up became
perpendicular to the road. Unable to sustain forward motion in its current
position, the truck lurched and rolled.

The sound of crushing metal filled his ears as he tumbled
down the deserted two-lane highway. No longer able to control the vehicle, he
held on for dear life, gripping the wheel with every ounce of strength he could
conjure while his body thrashed about inside the cab. The violent turbulence
seemed to last an eternity, but likely only spanned five seconds. And when the
ruthless churning eased and the first wave of pain rippled through his limp
body, a specter of light crept into his vision, taking the shape of a man he
hadn’t laid eyes on since Memorial Day of last year.

Jimmy’s brown eyes bored into his.

And then…

Darkness.

The windows rattled as a steady stream of harsh, tropical
air clashed against the glass pane, adding to the orchestra of sounds already
entertaining Lana as she lay on the couch in her dim living room alone. The
power had gone out roughly forty-five minutes ago when the eye of the storm had
washed ashore, forcing her to fetch the hurricane survival kit she kept in the
pantry in utter darkness. And after stubbing her little toe on a kitchen chair,
she’d lit the oil lamp, snatched a small metal flashlight, and returned to the
couch.

Lana had seen a lot of tropical systems in her
twenty-seven years having lived on the Gulf Coast her whole life. Didn’t matter
how many, though; hunkering down in the dark while Mother Nature disfigured the
earth was still terrifying. Night storms were always the worst. And this time
was no different.

She was completely alone, now. Her mother had phoned
earlier informing Lana that she was keeping Connor for the night. They both
agreed it was probably in his best interest, although that didn’t mean she had
to like it. Lying on the couch, she watched light and shadows dance across the
ceiling, fluttering in time with the flickering flame. Her eyes burned from the
friction of her tears, her lids gritty like coarse sandpaper. Her life was
beginning to look an awful lot like a bad
Jerry Springer
episode: the
ones where the audience practically chanted for the two-timin’ hussy’s blood.