Chapter 13 #2
My body sags, his arms go around me, collecting me up against his chest. He tucks my face against his neck and shoulder but says nothing.
I’m glad he stays silent—I am horribly ashamed of myself in this moment.
I cannot believe I’m crying. I don’t cry.
If he tried to hush me right now, if he tried to tell me how stupid I was, or anything else I would feel worse.
I stop fighting the depth of my distress and allow it to all pour out of me.
Years of stuffing it all back in, of shoving it down, of trying to keep it under wraps—all of it comes out.
His arms hold me tight, his head rests gently against mine as he settles us down to a sitting position on the end of the bed.
Fisting his shirt and jacket, holding myself against him, I uncontrollably sob.
He shifts us around some, he tugs my shoes off, I hear the heavy sounds of his boots hitting the floor.
Peeling my hands off his jacket, he doesn’t let my body move away from his at all.
My hands tuck back around his shirt as he shrugs his jacket off.
He shuffles us up the bed, then I am laying on my side with Carbon wrapped around me, a blanket over us, all as the tears keep falling.
When I wake in the morning, I am alone in some bed in the new Sacramento location for the Souls.
Pushing myself to a sitting position, I feel wrung out but worried about being alone.
When my eyes catch on his jacket, I know he hasn’t left me here.
I push to my feet, making my way into the bathroom attached to this room, flicking on the light wincing at the sight of myself in the mirror.
My makeup is a complete mess. I use the hand soap to wash my face and know my skin is going to feel like shit, but at least I won’t look like a horror show.
When my face is reasonably clean, I flop back down on the foot of the bed, my mind swirling around on all the shit from last night.
My stomach churns with the realization that I almost killed a man.
That Carbon stopped me. That I felt all the feelings.
That I cried. A key is inserted into the lock, the doorknob twists, when the door pushes open, it blocks whoever is coming in, but my gut tells me it’ll be Carbon.
He steps in and I force my eyes to meet his, even big and swollen, I keep my chin high.
I want answers, but I need to figure out how best to get them.
He holds out a mug of coffee. “Thought you could use this.”
I take it, watching him as he shuts the door, shifting over he leans against the older dresser that rests against the wall. His hands wrap around his own mug of coffee. “Gonna yell at me some more or are you ready to talk?”
My eyes hit the floor. Embarrassment floods me, he saw me at my absolute worst last night.
That was literally the lowest point of my whole life—cracking open and crying all over him—my eyes shift up and I see smudges of my makeup on his stretched-out t-shirt.
I haven’t cried in years. I don’t even get why I did last night.
No, I know why I did, it was the culmination of a lifetime of pain and feeling like my vindication was taken from me, but part of me also knows it had to be.
Why? Why do I feel that way? I consider that for a moment.
My stomach twists as reality hits me. I was sloppy.
I left evidence. Carbon was saving my ass.
I was so singularly focused. I didn’t really consider that the fucking candle jar would survive.
I am still embarrassed that I let Carbon see me crack, but I know why I did and I fucking hate it as much as I love it.
I felt safe with him.
I dip my head down, shame filling me, pushing that aside to deal with later, I lift my chin to look right at him. “I am ready to talk.”
He nods. “Do you get why I ‘saved’ him?”
I give a sniff. “I fucked up.”
“You did,” he confirms.
“How bad is it?”
“The police report reads it as an accident. He thinks he must have forgotten to turn it off. The ignition isn’t there, so even if the investigators look into it, nothing connects you.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “Sac’s Mechanic wiped any and all footage for the area.”
“He needs to pay,” I whisper, my head dipping back down, I stare into my cup of coffee.
“I agree.” My head snaps up to look at him, his words fill me with hope. “But we do it my fucking way.” His finger jabs at his chest.
I nod. “As long as he pays.”
He sets his coffee cup down on the dresser, pushing away from it, he steps right up in front of me, his hand wrapping under my chin. Our eyes meet as he cradles my chin in his fingers. “I’ll make him fucking pay.”
My insides tense. I am not sure how I feel about his fingers on my face, nor how I feel about him wanting to help me get what I want. I decide to not face those feelings now, diverting away, I question him, not understanding how he came to be here to save my ass. “How are you here?”
“I never went on the run. You think I didn’t look into that fucking address?
You think I didn’t put the pieces together to know my woman was about to get herself in over her fucking head?
” he grits. “Wake the fuck up Harry, you are not fucking alone anymore. You haven’t been in a long fucking time.
It is damned time to start asking for help and relying on the people around you. ”
His hand releases my chin and shoves through his hair.
“I don’t mind having to put together the fucking puzzle pieces, but we came real fucking close to disaster last fucking night.
” While I am listening to him, my mind keeps rolling back to what he said.
My woman. He rolls his eyes. “Yes, I fucking called you my goddamned woman. Did you hear the other shit I said?”
I nod. “You said I’m not alone, and I need to start asking for help.”
He sighs. “Small graces.”
“What now?” I decide to not dive into the whole possessive thing right now. Even though I am definitely feeling like my spine wants to straighten and I almost want to gloat. Yeah, totally wanna fist pump and crow to the heavens.
“You and I are going to go the fuck home,” he grumbles.
“Okay,” my word comes out so quiet because I know I am about to face a world of shit, but my mind gets the better of me. “What abou?—”
“I told you we will do it my fucking way. We need the drama around him to die the fuck down, then I will collect that fucker. Until then, he gets to go on his merry fucking way. That is the result of you not trusting me.” He drops onto the bed next to me, bending he starts to lace his boots that are already on his feet. “Put your fucking shoes on.”
“Are you going to keep being mad at me?” I ask feeling really off kilter right now. I hate this feeling—like I let him down.
He huffs out a breath. “For a bit longer, yeah.”
Setting the coffee cup down on the bedside table, I reach for my shoes, slipping my feet into them.
I follow him out to the yard, a few of the brothers stop him to talk, I hang back a bit because I don’t want to be more trouble.
I am feeling so off, so exposed, so raw.
I need space to lick my wounds before I can come out swinging again, but that is going to be pretty hard to do when he is so angry with me.
They lift a part of the tarp up, he digs around in the backseat of his car, then straightens away holding out a knit sweater and a hoodie. He holds both up for me to look at. “Pick one.”