29. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sunny
My apartment is quiet and still, except for the muted sounds of evening traffic filtering through the thin walls and windows. It's comforting—that dull hum of life happening somewhere else, somewhere far away from me. I haven’t left my bed in days, and honestly, I don't care if I ever do again.
My whole body feels like I got hit by a truck. I'd sooner die than let anyone know just how wrecked I am though. I spent so damn long building up this badass image, convincing myself and everyone around me that I’m untouchable. But seeing Levi again? Yeah, that did it. Apparently, I’m not as unbreakable as I’ve been pretending to be.
I press a hand to my chest covering the spot where the ache has been constant. It feels permanent. The part of me that was wrenched backwards, straight into the past can't seem to find its way back. I'm lost there. Images of Levi, standing there with his hand on Zane's shoulder like it was the most natural thing in the world, are there constantly. His eyes—the ones that I spent so much time trying to forget—looked like he’d seen a ghost when he saw me.
His expression had been shock at first. But that hadn't lasted. He’d been horrified when he realized it was me. It was written all over his face. It was clear that I was the last person he expected to see, and, more importantly, the last person he wanted to see. Seeing that expression on his face was almost worse than being left by him in the first place. It’s all I can do to remember to breathe and let the minutes crawl by without drowning in them.
He's been trying to find me. I know because Benny told me he's had to kick him out of the club almost every night. Sometimes more than once. My phone buzzes for what's probably the hundredth time today, but I ignore it. It has to be Jade, or Benny. No one else knows my number.
Jade stopped by once. A few days ago, I think. She banged and kicked on the door until I finally answered—more to avoid someone calling the cops than because I wanted to see her. She’d barely gotten a glimpse inside my apartment before I shoved her out, promising her I’d eat, that I was fine, and that I just needed a little more sleep. Not one of those things was true and she knew it as well as I did. I simply wanted her gone. I need to be alone.
With a shuddering sigh, I turn over, burying my face into the pillow. Maybe if I close my eyes tight enough, I can block out everything and if I do that maybe, eventually, it'll all go away. The memories, the worry in Jade’s voice, even the buzzing phone. Everything.
But I can't seem to get my mind on board with the plan. Every time I close my eyes I go back to that night with Garrett—the soft material of the dress on my skin when I put it on, the scrape of heavy boots on the floor, the sharp crack of bones breaking, and the feel of cold metal. I wake up shivering and sweaty, clenching my teeth around a scream. I flail, reaching out and expecting to feel the sticky, wet, heat of blood covering my skin. But there's nothing. Nothing but scars.
I wish that the memories of Garrett are the worst. I wish those were as bad as it gets. But they aren’t what stick around and drag all of the things I feel up to the surface and into the light. They aren't the ones that threaten to break me apart and erase who I am. Nothing Garrett did to me was worse than being left on that floor by Levi—worse than knowing I didn't matter enough to try and save.
It’s late afternoon, and I’m exhausted, drifting in a warm, soft place somewhere between sleep and waking. A loud, insistent, sudden knock on the door, forces me to drag myself up from the bed, my limbs heavy, my thoughts cloudy. It's probably Jade again—worried enough to come over and yell at me, which honestly, I deserve.
I shuffle toward the door, not bothering to check the peephole, already preparing for the scolding I know is coming. I swing the door open wide, irritation at the ready.
“Alright, Jade, I swear if you—”
But it’s not Jade.
It’s Zane, leaning casually against the doorframe, hands tucked into his jacket pockets. The easy grin I’ve seen on his face is dimmed, his gaze soft, but serious. He doesn’t bother to hide the way he looks me over, taking in everything. I know I'm a disaster—I'm sure it's obvious in my face, and in my knotted, greasy hair and the clothes I haven’t had the energy to change in… days, I think.
"So, sleeping in, huh?" he murmurs, his voice low and somehow gentler than I'm expecting. There’s a beat where I think I could just slam the door shut, pretend he never showed up here in the first place. But I can’t seem to summon the energy to care enough to even try. I sag against the edge of the door instead, fingers curled around it.
“How did you find me?” I ask. I go still.
“Jade. She came to visit Colt at the house. She's worried about you, you know." He gives a small, almost shy shrug, scratching the back of his head.
“Jade told you where I live?” I can't hide the suspicious look on my face, the panic rising in my voice.
"I don't think she would've if you'd answered your phone the dozens of times she's tried calling. She said you'd have a harder time throwing me out than you did her. So, here I am.” His voice is calm.
I stare at him, waiting for him to tell me this all some kind of set-up. That it's a trick.
"It's okay. No one else is with me. I'm here by myself. Why don't you call her?"
"Fine." I slam the door and lock it. My heart's beating out of my chest as I head into the bedroom to grab my phone. Sprawling on the bed, I dial.
The phone rings once.
“Angel!” Jade sounds breathless—like she knew I’d call and has been waiting for this exact moment.
“So he wasn’t lying,” I bite. “You really gave him my address.”
“I needed to know you were okay,” she says, too fast. “You haven’t answered anything . No texts, no calls—nothing.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to decide who shows up at my door.” My voice rises. “You know some of what I’ve been through. You know what it means for someone to just—appear.”
She exhales hard. “I know. I know , Angel. And I’m sorry. I didn’t do it to hurt you. I did it because I’m scared for you. Because I didn’t know how else to reach you and get you to talk to me.”
“So you send Zane?” I’m pacing now, barefoot, heart pounding. “Some guy I just met and don't even know. You know I just threw open the door. He could’ve been anyone, Jade . ”
“If it helps, I trust him,” she says quietly. “I've gotten to know him over the past few days. And I thought… I don't know, I thought maybe you could use someone you could trust right now. Someone who knows more about what you're going through.”
I close my eyes, fingers trembling around the phone. “You blindsided me.”
"I know. I'll make it up to you. I promise. No one else knows anything. He's just there to make sure you're okay, for me. Will you just let him do that. Please?"
"Fine," I grumble and hang up the phone.
When I open the door again, Zane is still there. Still waiting.
Something tightens in my chest, a flicker of resistance, but it’s so faint it hardly registers. Mostly what I feel is resignation. A deep sense of I-don't-give-a-damn blended with a hollow kind of acceptance. Thanks to Jade he’s here, and she's not going to be satisfied unless he can tell her I'm fine. She needs to hear it from someone who isn't me.
"It's just you?"
"It's just me." His tone is warm, his expression open. "No one even saw me leave the house. Except Jade."
I continue to stare at him and the longer I look, the less energy I have to argue. This has all been too much.
I step back and open the door, gesturing him in. He steps inside, his gaze moving over my tiny, cluttered apartment. It's trashed, but there doesn't seem to be any hint of judgement on his face as he takes it all in.
He doesn’t seem bothered by the mess that's built up over the past week or so, or the lack of light from having the blinds drawn shut. There’s a faint smirk on his lips, but his eyes stay soft, careful, like he’s trying to take in as much as he can and still be respectful.
“So this is where the infamous Angel hides out,” he says, giving a small nod. “Nice place.”
I let out a weak laugh, though it sounds foreign to me. “You don't have to be polite. I know it’s a mess.”
He shrugs, not taking his eyes off me. “I never say anything just to be polite. There's nothing wrong with messy. Messes are... inevitable.” He leans down and moves a pile of papers over before settling down on the couch. He looks up at me like he’s waiting for me to join him. “We don’t have to talk. Not right now if you don’t want to,” he says after a moment. “I just thought… maybe you could use some company.”
I weigh the meaning of his words. If he's being honest, he's offering me kindness. It’s not something I would ever ask for or expect. I don't know how to accept it and don't have the patience to try to figure it out.
"Actually, I want to be left alone," I huff as I sink down into the chair across from him, a little unsteady on my feet. We sit there in silence, a quiet tension filling the space. It’s not awkward or uncomfortable, not really. He doesn’t press me for information, doesn’t ask what’s wrong, doesn't try to make any of this seem better than it is. He just sits—arms stretched out over the back of the couch, watching me. Like he belongs here. The corners of his mouth twitch like he wants to say something, but he remains quiet.
We sit like this for a long while. Him looking at me while I look anywhere but at him. Finally, he clears his throat. "I meant what I said Angel. No one knows I'm here. Levi’s been tearing this city up looking for you, but I'm not planning on saying a word," he pauses and sighs, "Unless you want me to, of course."
His tone is reassuring, sincere. My shoulders drop a fraction as some of the tension I've been holding since I answered the door drains away. Some small part of me seems willing to believe him.
“That would be a hard no.” I say, tilting my head, voice flat. “I'm not sure I understand why you're here. You don't know me."
He shrugs and clears his throat, looking slightly ruffled. "I was worried about you. The way you left the club was..." He pauses, choosing his next words carefully. "Dramatic."
"Oh. Let me guess... you're gentlemanly instincts kicked in and you felt the need to make sure the hysterical chick you spent two nights hitting on wasn't sitting in a corner, crying, ready to slit her wrists.”
Zane smirks, leaning forward slightly, his forearms resting on his knees. “I didn't say hysterical, I said dramatic. And, something like that. I mean, you’re not sitting in a corner right now, so that’s a win.” His eyes flicker over me, gentle but assessing. “And crying? You don’t strike me as the type.”
“Well, that only leaves the wrist slitting.” I arch a brow, my lips curving into an acidic smile. “But, as I’m sure you’ve heard… I’ve got some experience with sharp, pointy things. It gave me a phobia of watching myself bleed to death. Again. So, no worries there.”
His smile fades, and anger flashes across his face. It's gone quickly, mellowing into something more tempered, almost tender. “I'll take your word for it.”
His voice dips lower. “I needed to see for myself that you're doing okay."
I snort softly, sinking further into the chair. “Yeah. I'm just peachy. Can’t you tell?”
He laughs, and the sound is low and warm as it cuts through some of the fog in my head.
“Sure. You've really nailed the aesthetic.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, but there’s no heat in it. I glance toward the window, my chest tightening against the ache that’s been lodged there since I ran out of the club. “So tell me why you're really here, Z? I’m not buying the good Samaritan crap.”
He leans back, letting the silence settle before he answers. “I think you underestimate me. I did come to check on you. I know what it’s like to have something from your past catch up with you—I've felt the ground drop out from underneath me a few times. It can be nice to have someone around who gets it.”
Of all the things I thought he'd say, that wasn't anything close. I don't quite know how to respond to that. He doesn’t elaborate, simply leaves it sitting between us, waiting for me to pick it up if I want.
He glances toward the kitchen, and without a word stands, brushes his hands on his jeans, and strides towards it with purpose.
I blink, sitting up slightly. “What the hell are you doing?”
“Fixing you some food,” he calls over his shoulder, as he starts opening cabinets like he’s on a scavenger hunt. “You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
I narrow my eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it. He's right. I've lost track of time and can't remember the last time I ate something. For all I know it could've been days. “So, you're just making yourself at home now?"
“Yep,” he says, popping the P. He pulls out a pan, then rifles through my fridge with a low whistle. “Damn, Angel. Prison meal trays have more options.”
I can’t help the faint tug of a smile at the corner of my mouth as I stand and wander into the kitchen. I lean against the doorframe, observing. “Why on earth am I not surprised you'd know what comes on a prison meal tray?" I cross my arms over my chest watching him open cabinets that are mostly empty.
"I know it's sad. I don't cook much. I usually eat out or get something delivered.”
"Tsk, tsk, tsk. Well, not today. Prepare to be amazed.” He glances back, grinning as he holds up a carton of eggs and a sad-looking block of cheese. “Scrambled?"
“Fine,” I mutter. My stomach growls loudly at the prospect, and Zane raises a brow at me with a knowing smirk.
“Uh-huh. Thought so.”
He moves around the kitchen with surprising efficiency, his motions practiced and deliberate. The smell of melting butter and coffee begins to fill the room. It's wonderful. I could almost forget to notice the pain in my chest. Zane turns and leans against the counter looking me up and down.
“No offense Angel, but you need a shower,” he says. His voice is calm but matter-of-fact. “It'll help get your head straight. Breakfast will be ready when you get out."
I tense at the suggestion, my stomach knotting. The idea of stepping away, leaving him alone in my space, feels too vulnerable. Too dangerous. Zane must sense it because he doesn’t move, doesn’t press. He just sits there, leaning back against the counter with his hands loose on his thighs.
“You’re safe with me, Angel,” he says softly.
I snort and roll my eyes. "I keep hearing that, but I don't think it means what people think it does."
I regret saying it as soon as the words leave my mouth. He looks genuinely wounded. And honestly, I haven't picked up any insincerity or outright dishonesty behind his words. I don't feel like he's trying to convince me of anything.
“I’ll be right here. I'll stay in the kitchen. Take your time and lock the bathroom door. I won’t touch anything, and I promise I won't try anything. Food will be ready when you’re done.”
I scoff. “So, a shower is magically going to fix everything?”
“Nope.” He grins, but it’s gentler than before, his usual cocky edge tempered by something softer. “But, I think it will make you feel a little better, and that’s a start."
I exhale slowly, the knot in my stomach loosening a fraction. “You’re just going to… wait here?”
“Scout’s honor,” he says, holding up three fingers in a mock salute.
I hesitate, searching his face for a crack, any sign that this is some kind of trick. But there's nothing but steady patience.
Finally, I stand, my legs shaky beneath me. “Okay, I'm going. Be warned though. I'm taking my phone with me. If I hear so much as a single creak of the floor, I’ll call the cops.”
“Fair enough,” he says, his grin widening. “Now go. I’ve got breakfast to make.”
I roll my eyes but don’t argue. I make a production of grabbing my phone off the counter before marching down the hall and into the bathroom.