Thankfully, Livie takes care of that. “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.” Her voice is hovering in that in-between stage, where she no longer sounds like a little girl but she’s not really a woman yet.

“Continue.” It’s all I can think of, and then I purse my lips, waiting for her to scream, “Fraud!” That, or this door is about to be thrown open and I’m gonna have to make a run for it.

“Okay, so I’m lying to you already. I’m so sorry. I’m not here for me. I know you’re not supposed to go to confessional for another person, but Father Murray and I had an agreement.” Her words tumble out of her mouth. “I’m here for my sister. She needs all the help that she can get.”

My breath hitches. “Continue.”

She heaves a sigh. “Thank you, Father. So, Kacey is her name. And I’m Livie. Anyway, last weekend she threatened to set fire to the Bible that my aunt keeps leaving on her nightstand.”

I struggle to stifle my chuckle. It’s not funny, really, and yet knowing that Kacey might still have some spunk buried deep inside gives me hope.

Livie doesn’t seem to notice. “And she’s saying all kinds of things about our uncle. Bad things.”

“What kind of bad things?”

“That he’s . . .” She drops her voice. “That he is starting to look at me that way.”

“What way?” I snap, and then check my tone. “I mean, do you see that?”

“No! He’s always been nice to me. Granted, he’s usually drunk.”

Huh. So saintly Aunt Darla doesn’t have such a saintly husband.

“And your sister? Is she drinking? Or hurting herself in any other way?” I know that’s a risky question to ask, but I need to know.

“No, not for over a year now.”

Really? “What made her stop?”

“Me. I think. I mean, I tried not to let it all get to me. Be strong for her, you know? But one night, I was sitting up with her, like usual—”

“You sit up with her?”

“Well, yeah. I used to. I had to. And on this one night she started throwing up in her sleep and then choking on it. If I hadn’t been there . . .”

Livie would have lost her sister.

I would have lost Kacey.

I shake my head, amazed at how strong and smart this little girl seems to be. “And now?”

“Now all she cares about is kickboxing.”

That explains that rock-hard body of hers. A body I shouldn’t be having thoughts about right now, as I pretend to be a priest and pump her little sister for information.

I’m so going straight to hell.

Livie’s words cut into my private, dirty thoughts. “That, and making enough money to move out.”

All thoughts of Kacey’s body vanish. “Where does your sister want to move?”

“Oh, who knows? It’s not likely to happen. I just started high school and my uncle gambled our inheritance away, so it’s not like we can support ourselves.”

Strike two for Uncle Raymond.

I hesitate before I ask, “What happened to your parents? . . . My child.” Man, that sounded awkward.

Her voice drops, sadness filling it. “They died in a car accident, a little over three years ago now. A bunch of college guys, coming home from a party. Driving drunk.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I swallow, afraid to ask the question but knowing I’ll probably never get another chance like this. “Do you or your sister ever think about talking to them?”

“Well, we can’t. They died. Two of them did, anyway. One lived. I don’t know where he is now.”

“Perhaps it would give your sister some closure to see him. Talk to him?”

“Kacey?” Livie snorts. “No, I don’t think that’d help her. Kacey wants nothing to do with anything that reminds her of the accident. I don’t think she cares whether she lives or dies, to be honest.”

I could sit here all day with Livie, but I’m starting to get anxious, my eyes darting furtively through the crack. Any minute now, that priest is going to appear. I can’t be here when he does. “It sounds like you are a very good sister. She’s very lucky to have you.”

There’s a long pause and then I hear the low whisper. “I just want her to get better.”

So do I. “Say ten Hail Marys for your sister, Kacey.” And I will too, though I know she needs so much more than that.

“Thank you, Father.”

“No. Thank you, Livie.”

Chapter 18

January 2012

From what I can see, O’Malley’s isn’t a gym for the average Joe. That’s what the website says, anyway. This place focuses on high-endurance sports like boxing and MMA fighting. And the kickboxing classes that Kacey takes. Led by this jackass, I surmise, looking at the picture of a sweaty, rippled guy in nothing but shorts and covered in tattoos—I’m assuming it’s him—nailing his opponent in the face with his elbow.

To: Kacey Cleary

From: Jeff T.

Re: Strike combo from my match last week

Stay late and I’ll teach you how to do this. Just you and me.

Just you and me. “Fucking ass**le,” I mutter. What kind of coach sends pictures of himself to his students? A student. A beautiful red-haired girl named Kacey, with a chip on her shoulder. I’ve been good, staying away from Kacey and her family since the confessional hijack. Up until I read this email. It wasn’t hard to figure out where she goes. It’s the only gym of this kind in town.

The smell of sweat and cleaner hits my nostrils the second I step in.

“Doors close in fifteen,” the young punk behind the desk hollers at me, flexing his biceps—proudly on display in a wife-beater—as he sizes me up. I’ve got a sweatshirt on and the hoodie pulled over my head. Totally acceptable against the frigid blast of a winter storm outside right now.

I stifle my smirk. I’m twice the size of him. “Just wanted to check the place out, actually. Do you think you could give me a quick tour?”

He shrugs and then slides out of his chair, fingering the heavy gold chain around his neck as he comes around the counter, amplifying a swagger that he probably practices on a daily basis in front of his mirror. His pants hang halfway down his thighs, held up by a belt.

Sash and I used to make so much fun of those idiots.

“Where you from?”

“Detroit. What are the hours here?”

He starts rambling off information as he walks me through the main room, with the fighting ring and the punching bags. I’m beginning to think she’s not here, until we pass by a set of doors.

He skirts past it. “There’s a class going on in there right—”

“Great.” I push through the door and stick my head in. Three sets of guys square off against each other, practicing combat moves. And, in the corner, a red-haired girl punches the shit out of a sandbag.

Jesus.

I hear the desk clerk talking behind me but I ignore him, all my focus on Kacey as she hammers that bag over and over again like an unstoppable machine, sweat soaking through the pair of tight shorts and T-shirt she’s wearing, her muscles straining. And then she seems to decide her T-shirt is in her way because she stops just long enough to tear if off her body and whip it at the ground, leaving her in only those shorts and a cropped sports bra.

Giving seven sets of eyes one helluva body to look at. And they do.

The guy from the picture is holding the kick bag, a wide grin on his face as he watches her continue. Like he’s proud of her. Like he doesn’t feel all the rage and hurt and pain that I can feel radiating from her, all the way over here.

“Great job, Kacey!” He lets go of the bag, forcing her to stop, her chest heaving in and out as she attempts to catch her breath.

“Yo,” the idiot clerk behind me calls, loud enough to attract attention.

I duck out just as Kacey turns my way. That was close. “Thanks. I’ll be back later this week to sign all the papers,” I lie, taking long, fast strides out of the gym until I’m back in the safety of my car, my heart racing.

And I wait. As snow pelts my car from all angles, I wait for almost an hour, long after all the gym rats have left and the lights are off, until my gas gauge is hovering over empty and I’m one of only two cars in the parking lot.

My agitation growing with each breath.

When the door finally cracks open, it’s to let Kacey and her “coach” out, both their heads hidden within hoods and bowed against the snow. He throws an arm over her shoulder and my gut clenches. She shrugs it off immediately.

I crack my window slightly to listen, letting a blast of cold air into my otherwise toasty car.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not interested. And if you don’t stop hitting on me, I’m going to drop your stupid class.”

With a light chuckle, he answers, “No you’re not. You love my class.”

“No, I like your class. But I don’t need it anymore. I could save the money. In fact, consider this my notice.”

The smile stretches across my mouth before I can help it. She’s not into him. That makes me happier than it should.

“Whoa! Take it easy!” He lifts his hands in surrender and she begins marching toward the black pickup parked beside me. She moves past it, though.

“Where are you going?” Jeff calls out after her.

“Home.”

His head drops back, like he’s exasperated with her. I don’t doubt Kacey tests people’s patience on a regular basis. “Don’t be stupid. Come on, let me give you a ride home.”

“Don’t need it.”

Fuck. Is she nuts? We’re in the middle of nowhere, at night, in a blizzard, and her house is at least two miles away.

“You’re going to freeze, Kacey!”

“No, I’m not. I’m just not going with you.” Suddenly she’s turning. And walking toward my passenger-side door. And throwing my door open.

Holy shit.

I sink back into my hood as casually as possible, thanking God that I still have it on.

Willing myself not to turn and give her a good look at my face. Even in the dark, it’s too risky.

The thing is, she doesn’t even turn to look at me. It’s like she doesn’t even care whose car she climbed into. “Do you mind dropping me off at the corner of Main and Church?”

“Um. Sure,” I mumble, keeping my voice low, in case by some crazy chance she may recognize it. Pathetic disguise. I pull out of the parking lot, my car slipping and sliding as we creep along the dead streets in silence. Her fingertips—the ones I held for almost an hour that night so long ago—tap against a thigh. I’m betting any edge she feels right now has nothing to do with being in a car with a complete stranger, but with being in a car, period.

I wonder if she can tell I’m ready to shit my pants. How the hell do I keep getting myself into these situations with her? Oh yeah . . . because I’m basically stalking her.

“Just up at this corner on the right is fine.”

I know that the second I stop, she’s jumping out. So I don’t wait to ask, “Do you normally get into the car with complete strangers?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “Do you normally drive complete strangers around when they get into your car?”

She has a point, I guess. Still . . . “I could be a murderer.”

“Well then make it quick, or pull over because I need to be up early for work tomorrow.” Completely deadpan, no hint of humor. No hint of fear.

Kacey’s clearly not afraid of anything anymore, and that’s a scary place to be. Every person needs a healthy dose of fear, something that gets their blood rushing. Something they can’t bear to lose.

My brakes squeak as I stop. And, just as I expected, Kacey is gone with barely a “thanks” trailing behind her, a solitary figure disappearing into a blur of snow and darkness.

■ ■ ■

It takes twenty minutes under the shower nozzle at the roadside motel to warm the chill from my bones after tonight. I still can’t seem to shake the odd buzz coursing through my body. The one that Kacey left behind. I can’t quite explain it. She’s so dark, so harsh, so wounded. Her prickly exterior would keep most everyone away.

And yet all I want to do is get closer.

Break through that wall she has erected to feel the warmth that I just know used to be there. That’s hidden by that sharp tongue and powerful body.

That body . . .

Blood begins rushing downward as an image of her in those tight shorts hits me, with one of those asses that seem unreal, as hard and round as it is. That would feel incredible in my hands. As would the rest of her.

Shit.

There’s no point lying to myself; the raging hard-on now gripped firmly in my palm is impossible to ignore.

I’m seriously attracted to Kacey.

“Fuck.” My forehead falls to the tile. It was one thing when I was just looking out for her. Though who the hell am I kidding? How long ago did she hook me? The visit to Starbucks, this trip tonight . . . When did this become about more than watching out for her, about making amends?