Free Laying a Ghost by Jane Davitt, Alexa Snow Page A

Nick had slapped both hands full force against the wall. “No!”
    John had no idea what else to say. Should he offer to go get help? Was the man mad? Having some sort of psychotic break?
    “You’re wrong!” Nick’s voice was loud again. “I can’t. No. I don’t want you here.”
    Setting his teeth against the sudden flare of hurt, and telling himself that Nick was too out of his head to know what he was saying, John reached out once more for the door handle. The door was locked, which came as no surprise, and although he thumped his fist against it, his temper rising because it was easier to feel angry and it pushed away the unease, it stayed that way.
    He stepped back, breathing unevenly. One more time. The shadows in the hallway were gathering darkness into themselves, his palms were slippery with sweat, and he wanted nothing as much as to be out in the sunshine, breathing clean salt air, but he’d try one more time ...
    “Will you open the door? Will you let me see that you’re all right?”
    Nick’s voice was rising in a scream before he’d finished speaking, “Will you just fucking leave me alone ?”
    John didn’t remember starting to move, but he remembered the feel of the stair rail under his hand as he grabbed at it to halt his fall when his hurrying feet missed a step. Remembered the sound of his feet echoing in the emptiness as he left the house in a stumbling run, harsh breaths painful in a throat swollen with tears that got no further than that.
    And then his hands closed around the steering wheel of his car, warm from the sun, and the anger took him, shaking the disjointed puzzle pieces of his flight from the house and organizing them neatly into something normal, something that didn’t mean he’d run because he was scared, or because he was aching with the loss of something he’d never had.
    He brought his fist down hard against the dashboard, bruising it and loving the pain that followed because that he could understand, that made sense.
    Nick didn’t.
    “Fucking Yank,” he whispered savagely. “Fucking tourist -- ”
    He drove away without looking back, heading for the beach where his boat lay waiting on the white sand, scoured clean by the wind and the sea.

Chapter Four
     
    Two hours later, John sighed and headed for shore, pulling hard at the oars, feeling the clench of his arm and thigh muscles with every stroke. The time spent sitting in the sunshine had done a lot to restore his calm, even though he’d never had so much as a bite while holding his fishing rod. He hadn’t cared; he’d only wanted the ritual of it to soothe the edges of his anger; to un-ruffle his feathers, so to speak. And it had.
    It wasn’t until he was a hundred yards from shore that he saw a huddled figure; small, arms wrapped around itself, up on the rocks. He knew immediately that it was Nick -- he’d recognize anyone else, and Nick’s dark hair was different enough to any of the locals’ that there was no question.
    Turning the boat around and heading back out to sea, John told himself, would be childish, but the temptation was definitely there for a few moments. Still, he continued to row and was nearly to shore when he saw Nick stand up and begin to head toward him, picking his way across the rocks with less care than he ought to have.
    Slimy with seaweed, exposed by the receding waves, the rocks weren’t easy to navigate at the best of times, and as John watched, his eyes drawn unwillingly to the man who was to blame for him feeling about as miserable as he’d been in months, Nick’s foot slipped and he fell heavily, his outstretched hands smacking hard against a patch of sand.
    Even out on the water, with the slap of the waves loud against the hull, John heard the sound Nick made as his injured wrist took the brunt of his fall, and he pulled hard on the oars, beaching his boat and jumping out while the water was still deep enough to soak his jeans to above the knee. Grabbing the rope