Free Singed by Kaylea Cross Page B

against his chest. Automatically her hands came up to curl into the softness of his T-shirt and she hid her face there. This pain was unlike anything she’d ever experienced. She didn’t know how she’d bear it.
    Without a word Gage reached back to open the cabinet beneath the sink and took something out of it. He ran the tap for a second before shutting the water off and she heard him squeeze out a cloth in the sink. “Here,” he said quietly, cupping the back of her neck to tip her head up enough for him to wipe her face.
    She flinched at the cold of it, shocked back into a reality she had no desire to confront. Refusing to meet his eyes, she sat still and allowed him to wash all traces of tears and sickness from her face. He flushed the toilet, set the cloth in the sink and slipped his arms beneath her. “Come on.” The powerful muscles in his arms and chest bunched beneath her hands and cheek as he hoisted her into the air and carried her out of the bathroom.
    In the family room he eased her onto the loveseat across from the sofa and didn’t protest when she turned away from him to curl into a ball at the arm of it. He placed the throw blanket over her but she didn’t feel the warmth. Exhaustion and numbness were beginning to steal through her body and she welcomed them both.
    “Wayne, would you mind getting her a drink? She’ll have orange juice in the fridge.”
    “Sure.” Her father pushed to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen, leaving her with the last person on earth she could afford to be alone with at the moment. He’d even remembered she always kept orange juice on hand—the pure stuff, not the concentrated crap. Every morning after he’d spent the night at her place they’d sat either at the kitchen table or out on the back deck, drinking a glass of it with their breakfast. The reminder sent a fresh flood of tears to her already burning eyes.
    Rather than try to hold her again Gage sank onto the loveseat beside her and this time kept his distance. Not an easy thing to do considering how small the piece of furniture was and how much space his solid frame took up. Claire kept her eyes closed, not wanting to look at him or her father. It was all she could do to breathe with this invisible vise crushing her chest.
    The familiar scent of her father’s aftershave reached her a moment later, then he set a glass on the table beside her with quiet click that told her he’d remembered to use one of the coasters she kept there. She swallowed the hard lump in her throat and took a deep, steadying breath before prying her eyes open to face him across the room where he’d sat back on the sofa.
    “When?” she asked, her throat so raw it came out a croak.
    Her father’s stubbled jaw quivered a second, then firmed before he answered. “They think sometime early this morning.”
    He’d been gone that long, lying there alone and undiscovered? “Did he overdose?”
    Instead of answering her he shot a questioning look at Gage, and her stomach twisted again as he turned his eyes back on her. “No. Guess he wanted to make sure this time, so…” He clamped his lips together and sucked in a shuddering breath through his nose. When he had control of himself he continued. “He put his service pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.”
    Her stomach turned. She closed her eyes and turned away, unable to cope with it. Except all she saw now on the backs of her closed lids was the image of her brother’s brain matter sprayed all over the walls of his cluttered apartment. She gagged, bolted into a sitting position.
    Gage reached for her but she held him off with a mute shake of her head and swallowed repeatedly. The shivers were still coursing through her, convulsive shudders that hurt her muscles. It took more than a minute of focused breathing before she could trust herself not to throw up again. She settled back into the corner of the loveseat and looked over at her father. “Did the police call