Hard Break (Deadlines & Diamonds, #5) by Morgan Kearns Page B

in the ass. She only wished she knew what she’d done to warrant such a harsh backlash.
    She’d get through it, ‘cause—she laughed—it’s not like she had a choice. Her children needed her to be strong. And she didn’t need anyone. She’d figure out how to take the job with Dr. Monroe and she’d get her family’s happily-ever-after back. Even if it killed her.
     

 
    Nine
     
     
    I an had had enough!
    Contention. Drama. He wanted n o part of them and Kayla bought both in spades. He may love her and adore her children, but… damn! Every time he managed to distance himself, she managed to suck him back into the insanity.
    He snapped his fist forward to hit the punching bag, then danced back on his toes to avoid the backswing. Punch. Punch. Punch. Releasing his frustration and bottled up aggression this way grounded him. He got in nice and tight, pummeling the weighted bag in a quick succession of rabbit punches. The throb in his knuckles pushed him to continue. At least if he could concentrate on his fists maybe he’d be able to forget about his heart.
    This crap was seriously for the birds!
    When his doorbell rang, he ignored the interruption. Finishing his workout was priority number one. All else be damned.
    He stretched his fingers, wiped at the sweat on his brow and went back to work on the bag. With every impact his mind cleared and his resolve strengthened. Screw the Blacks. From here on out, he’d put his own life, his own desires, ahead of them. No matter what.
    Knocking joined the incessant ringing. Seriously! His visitor, whoever it might be, could go screw himself.
    “Go away!” he yelled in the direction of where the front door would be. No way the idio t on his porch would hear him. Or maybe they did, because the disruption to his peace and quiet evaporated.
    He turned his attention back to the bag. His makeshift home gym took up what was meant to be the family room. He glanced over at the kitchen island, only to have the bag reward his momentary lack of concentration with a slap. Thankfully, his ass didn’t get intimate with the tile.
    Never a good sign when instead of hitting the bag with his fist, he considered using his forehead. Pound some sense into himself. Damn, he should consider seeing a shrink.
    Instead , he’d settle for a drink. He crossed the room and pulled a bottle of water from the refrigerator. The damp tank top and gym shorts he wore stuck to his heated skin, cooling him off. Sweat trickled down his back. His muscles ached in the best way possible.
    He’d just placed the cold rim to his lip when movement in his backyard caught his attention. What the hell? A tip of the head. A furrowing of his brows. A frown. Yeah, none of that helped him comprehend why Chase was skulking through his backyard. Although it did explain the persistent demand from the front stoop.
    Ian put the bottle on the counter, leaned against the granite and crossed his arms. What was he doing?
    The kid glanced back over his shoulder and that’s when Ian saw his face. Streaked with tear tracks, his cheeks were flushed. His eyes were puffy and red. Ian didn’t wait another second. He ran to the door, hurtling a basket of unfolded laundry.
    Whipping the slider wide, he grabbed the kid by the shoulders. Chase shrieked, his big blue eyes going dinner plate. He put his arms around Ian’s waist, sagged into him and sobbed.
    Ian’s protective instinct jackhammered through his body. As much as he wanted to give Chase the comfort he so obviously needed, Ian needed to figure out what the hell was going on. He pried the death grip from his waist.
    “Sorry,” Chase mumbl ed, going about the task to man up, wiping a hand over his eyes and swallowing hard. Five, make that six times.
    Ian dropped down to his knee, giving Chase the height advantage. “Hey, man, what’s going on?”
    “Do you have a hammer?” His voice cracked, and not because puberty hung out on the horizon.
    “Yeah.”
    “I need to borrow a