30. Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty
Peach
A deep, guttural scream rings through the hallway and I jolt to a stop. I’m pivoting when it cuts off, sprinting when something inside Mac’s room crashes.
I don’t bother knocking.
But when I go to push inside, something bars the way.
“Mac!” I call out and give another push.
There’s a groan from the other side, a sound that’s somewhere between pain and a sob and I push harder.
It gives enough distance for me to squeeze through, and I clamor over the overturned couch in my way.
“Mac.”
He’s standing in the middle of the chaos, a pillow in his grip, feathers falling out with each inch that he rips it wide open.
“Okay,” I murmur and ease closer. “I looked this shit up, okay?” I raise my hands and take another step. “Sleepwalking and trashing shit, huh? This is a new one for me.”
I risk another step, only to rock back when his wild eyes swing on me. They’re wide and hardened, the whites beyond bloodshot, the green-blue nearly swallowed by the dark center.
That’s new .
And terrifying.
“Shit,” I breathe out. “This is worse than last night, bud. What’s got you fucked up?” I keep my voice low and as even as I can. His chest pumps with his rapid breaths as it has for the past three nights. His hands working apart the shit he’s holding is a new development.
Normally, he just wanders around. Ends up in the bathroom, propped up and sleeping in the shower or sitting straight up on the couch like he’s wide awake.
Hell, I even caught him ready to walk out into the hallway one night two weeks ago.
But it’s not the torn pillow or the sweat wetting his shirt that’s got me rethinking coming in here without radioing for assistance.
It’s the dead look in his eyes. The tightness of his face.
The way he sounds like he’s crying, sobbing, and yet not a tear gathers in his eyes.
Definitely new.
All of which is nothing like what has happened every other night since we’ve been on the road. Normally, he listens. Walks his ass back to the bed or a couch and settles down.
“Mac,” I whisper, that gaze of his searing right through me. Unseeing. “Can we sit? Will you do that?”
No change.
“How about some water. Let’s get some water.” I have no clue if it’ll do anything. I’ve officially hit the extent of the research I did and while I don’t want to give him something to throw, I also know that trying to do anything else is basically asking for another broken nose. Best case .
When I turn away to find a bottle of water, he follows, trips over the bed, and falls face first into the mattress with the shredded pillow pinned beneath him.
I let out a giant breath, relief washing over me only to halt when he speaks some kind of gibberish. It gets thicker, more jumbled as I work closer, almost like a plea.
Real tears leak through his squeezed eyelids, and he lets loose the smallest, most gut-wrenching whimper that has me dialing before I can think it through.
“Peach?”
“I didn’t know what else to do,” I whisper, Mac’s voice echoing mine with more marble-filled phrases that don’t make sense except one.
“ Jordan ,” he cries softly, his frame shaking with the emotion.
Jordan’s end of the line goes silent and then, “Put me on speaker.”
Chills rack over me with the demanding tone and suddenly, I feel like an intruder in whatever relationship these two think they don’t have. Like a man between a man and what’s his.
Doing as he asks, I press the little speaker option and set the phone next to Mac’s head.
“Stress makes it worse. It’ll help if you get in with him—”
“No,” I whisper-snap.
“—but for the love of God, keep your hands where I can see them ,” Jordan growls– legit growls! –and my hands shoot up on instinct.
“This is a fucking phone call, jackass,” I murmur back but again, do as he asks and climb into the bed with the sleep-talking, sleepwalking rock star.
I give them my back in hopes of some semblance of fucked up privacy as Jordan starts talking into the open space.
Mac still trembles against me, but the deep, guttural sobs have stopped.
There’s a moment of silence that stretches, free of mumbles, and I turn my head the tiniest bit to see that Mac has started to unfurl from his fetal position. Legs just curled up instead of tucked into his chest, his arms laying loosely around the phone.
“Stay there,” Jordan demands into the phone. “Soft snores mean he’s out for the night.” Oh, he’s talking to me .
“I’m sorry I calle—”
“ Promise me you’ll stay with him,” he rasps and my heart breaks at the vulnerability shining through.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
“I’ll see you in twelve hours.”
These two are idiots.