Chapter 7
Layla
The drive to the bridal boutique is quiet after I finish eating, which wouldn’t be unusual, considering Russell’s nature, but it’s charged. Like I’m missing something, but I’m not sure what since I don’t think he saw anything when he barged into the bathroom earlier. I’m ok, though, with the quiet, given how embarrassed I am by the scene I caused at the diner, falling asleep on the job and then having to be carried out when I told everyone I was fine.
Russell pulls into a parking spot in front of the boutique’s doors. I lean across the console to stop him when he puts his hand on the door handle, knowing he’s going to get out and open my door for me. I don’t need him doing anything else after everything he’s done for me already today.
His brows shoot up to his hairline when I kiss his cheek, my lips skimming the tidy edge of his beard. Neither of us expected me to do that, and I blink a few times before forcing out, “Thanks for…for caring so much about me.” I jump out of the truck, closing the heavy door with a bang so I don’t do anything else I shouldn’t .
I have the boutique’s door open a hair when Russell pokes his head through his window, stopping me from going inside. “Are you off at ten again?”
I nod, tension coiling my muscles.
“I’ll be here.”
I knew it. I try to smile. “That’s ok. I can catch a ride home with one of my coworkers.” I wave him off, my anxiety multiplying at his grumpy expression, his lips pressed in a thin line. The only thing worse than taking advantage of him—a near daily occurrence—is how unhappy he is that I don’t want to take advantage of him, so no matter what I do, I feel guilty.
Three years of this, and it still doesn’t make sense to me. I’m beginning to lose hope that it ever will.
* * *
A man with a soft voice laced with concern speaks up from behind me. “Why are you still here? You should have left an hour ago.”
I scream in the middle of throwing the black garbage bag in the dumpster behind the boutique. It snags on the sharp corner, tearing the bag open, half the trimmed fabric and cardboard coffee cups skittering across the concrete in the wind.
I bend over, bracing my hands on my knees to catch my breath after nearly having the piss scared out of me. “Why are you here?”
Russell crosses his arms, eyes narrowed slightly, zipping all over me. “I knew you were lying about getting a ride home.” He clicks his tongue with disapproval.
I straighten, crossing my arms, too, because it’s cold out here as the wind picks up, whipping down the alley behind the small strip mall.
“I didn’t lie,” I say through chattering teeth, shivering. “Mrs. Larsen said she would pay me to do a deep clean after closing, and I didn’t want to ask anyone to wait for me.” I shift sideways, tilting my head. “But really, why are you here, Russell?”
He grunts instead of answering and points to the back door of the boutique, which I’ve left propped open with a loose brick. “Let’s get you inside and warmed up.”
Once inside, Russell double-checks that the door is locked behind us, then follows me around as I collect and store the cleaning supplies. From the stockroom to the employee break area, the dressing rooms, and finally the front, he’s on my heels like a shadow.
He eyes me when I set the alarm, then lock the front door, his passenger side door already open and waiting for me before I’ve dropped the key in my tote bag. We’ve made it halfway to my apartment, with me twisting the handles of my bag on my lap before he finally speaks. “How were you planning to get home, then?”
I drop my head back, dreading the impending well-intentioned lecture.
“You were going to walk, weren’t you? Eleven o’clock at night, and you were going to walk all the way home in the dark, by yourself, in the cold, when you’re already feeling unwell?”
“Please don’t make it a big deal.”
“Your safety is a big deal. Definitely more important than inconveniencing anyone for a ride, which is how I know you see it. Don’t give me that look,” he says sharply .
We’re stopped at one of the few traffic lights in town, not a single other car on the road, and I fix my face as my dad would say, wiping the oh, please expression off of it. The only sin worse than being lazy is being disrespectful to my elders.
Russell taps his fingers on his steering wheel with agitation while we wait for the light to turn green. “We need to have a serious talk about why you have such a visceral negative reaction to someone doing anything nice for you, darlin’.”
The endearment warms me more than the heat in the vents directed at me, my body relaxing into the leather seat, sleep tugging at my consciousness. “Please, Russell. I’m too tired to do this right now.”
“Exactly my point,” he says beneath his breath before dropping the subject.
* * *
“Layla.”
I jerk awake at Russell’s low whisper of my name, his fingers in my hair, combing it back from my face. For the second time today, I’ve woken up in bed after Russell has carried me inside. The beep of the microwave draws my attention away from his handsome face cast in dark shadows, the only light on in the apartment coming from the one switched on over the stove.
When I look back at Russell, ready to apologize for falling asleep in his truck, I find him rustling through my dresser. He goes to the microwave, then returns to my side, placing my heated rice pad and one of my folded nightgowns beside me.
It feels like hours have passed while we look each other in the eye before he finally breaks the silence. “I’ll pick you up in the morning to drive you to the diner if you don’t call off.”
“I won’t.”
“I know.” Then, as if in slow motion, he bends and kisses my forehead, his lips lingering on my skin for so long that I close my eyes with pleasure, lifting my chin, wishing he would kiss me somewhere else. I love it so much that I reach up to cup his jaw, dragging my fingers through his beard.
Russell shivers and braces his hands on the mattress on either side of my shoulders, our noses bumping. “Goodnight, darlin’.”
I open my mouth, ready to ask him to stay with me, when he straightens and moves to my front door. I want to tell him that even though I love my apartment and new freedom, it scares me to be here alone at night. But that would give him the wrong impression. It would give me the wrong impression, too, if he did as I asked—laying beside me in bed, holding me close, maybe giving me a few more kisses goodnight that would travel down from my forehead to my mouth, then maybe lower…
Just because he has this weird sense of responsibility toward me and my safety, and he’s apparently a very tactile person, touching me here and there when he’s assuring himself that I’m ok, it doesn’t mean he sees me as anything more than a girl who still has a lot of growing up to do. I’m reading too much into it.
After I’ve gone to the restroom to wash my face and change into the pale pink nightgown and—my cheeks heat just thinking about it—white panties Russell picked out for me, I go to the front door to lock it. I’m stumped that it’s already locked, and it takes me a few seconds to figure out that Russell must have done so, though he’d have to have a key to lock the deadbolt .
And there it is, my keyring hanging on a little hook beside the door. The spare to my apartment is missing, which means Russell must have taken it in case I fell back asleep before I could lock the door myself. I make a mental note to ask for my key back in the morning, along with brainstorming ideas of what else I can do for him to pay him back for his thoughtfulness.
* * *
Russell
I narrow my eyes at Layla when she comes to bus my table at the diner after I finish my lunch, daring her not to say anything when I lean on a hip to pull my billfold out of my back pocket. She tightens her lips when I pluck out the two one hundred dollar bills, tipping double now that she’s living on her own.
“Russell, please—” She groans when I place the purple business card on top of the cash. “No.”
I ask defensively, “Why not?”
“You know why.”
“No, I don’t.”
She ignores the cash, business card, and me as she stacks my silverware on top of my plate with my empty mug, turning on her heel. Her refusal is the same response she’s given me every time I’ve tried to hire her to clean my house since I discovered her new business venture. More than anything, I want to know for certain why she refuses to take me on as a client. Is it because she doesn’t want to take any more of my money, or because she doesn’t want to spend more time alone with me? The thought of the latter makes my chest cave in.
Frustrated, I shove the card back in my billfold, leave the cash on the table, and head out of the diner, needing to get back to work, of which I’ve missed too much recently. She knows I’m going to ask her again when she comes to clean the warehouse to “earn” her tip after she finishes her shift.
* * *
By now, Yamuna is in on the plan, intentionally leaving the receptionist counter messy without us once having a conversation about it. I take a stack of folders out of my filing cabinet, scribble a few notes on random sheets of torn-up paper, and spread it all out on my desk to give Layla something to do.
And then I wait, checking my wristwatch repeatedly as the minutes tick by agonizingly slow. My heart rate jumps when Yamuna clocks out, leaving me alone in the office. I watch the parking lot through the tinted lobby windows, my mood soaring when I spot Layla’s beater—which she’s unfortunately fixed, no longer needing me to drive her around—pull into the visitor lot.
She crosses the lot carrying a variety-pack of mine and Yamuna’s favorite probiotic soda that she likes to leave as a gift in the mini-fridge. It’s funny in an unfunny way that she has no problem giving gifts to show people she’s thinking of them when she hates receiving them herself.
Pretending to do some work on my laptop in my office, I only look up when Layla knocks twice on my door. I wave her in, and she sets her tote bag down in the corner, then smooths out her uniform. As sick as it is, I’m always thankful that she rarely changes before coming here, loving how often her buttons pop open.
Observing my desk, she says, “Seriously, Russell. It’s crazy how quickly your office gets all messy when I organized it, like, three days ago.”
I manage to keep my face straight instead of coming right out with the truth when I hate lying to her. “If you think this is messy, you should see my house.”
She shakes her head and walks around the desk, setting down one of the cold sodas left in the fridge from last week. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I said so.”
“That’s supposed to be my line.”
Layla cracks a lopsided smile at that, and my dick twitches. She lightly finger-combs my longer, unfortunately too-gray hair back behind my ear, sending a delicious shiver up my spine. “Are you growing it out, or do you want me to schedule an appointment with your barber?”
I can barely force my throat to work when I answer, “An appointment would be great. Thanks.”
“Sure thing.” When she starts shuffling the papers into a neat stack with a shy smile, I vacate my office chair for her, though I’d much rather have her sit on my lap while she cleans. After I squeeze by her with my chest puffed out to brush her back, Layla eases herself onto my chair, stretching out her legs where I’ve set a little stool under the desk so she can put her feet up after being on them all day long.
A knock sounds at the side door leading to the warehouse. “Come in,” I grumble, crossing my arms, irritated by the interruption .
“Hey, boss.” Davis shoots me a grin, tipping his ball cap at Layla. “Funny seeing you here.” He’s being sarcastic. As my new Warehouse Manager after Jared left to work with Violet, he’s caught Layla in here plenty of times, and the sly bastard knows exactly why, too.
Layla waves a few papers in the air by way of greeting.
Since today is Davis’s day off, I ask, “What are you doing here?”
He holds up a plastic grocery bag, then sets it on the desk in front of Layla. “You left your book at our house last time you babysat. We figured you’d want it back.”
Layla looks in the bag, then shoves it under the desk quickly. “Thanks. You could have, um, texted me to come pick it up?” She says it like a question, glancing at me, then widening her eyes at Davis.
That gets my attention.
He shrugs his shoulders, his grin wider now when he says, “Goldie read it. Twice. Says it’s her new favorite. Mine, too.” He winks, then tips his hat again and is gone seconds later.
I turn on Layla. “What book?”
She waves me off without looking up. “Get out of here, and let me do my job.”
I stand there for a minute longer, waiting. Layla taps on a country playlist on her phone, raising the volume to the highest level. I sigh and drop my arms, giving up for now, then head out into the warehouse. For an hour, I wait and watch the office window for signs of Layla standing from the desk, ready to leave once she’s finished organizing.
I jump out of my skin when Elliott appears beside me. My older brother’s bigger than even Wyatt, yet he moves like a silent predator. I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side, that’s for damn sure.
Elliott grunts, “We got a problem.”
I follow him past the loading docks to the employee parking area, angry voices growing louder as we get closer to the edge of the lot. Several of my employees are slamming car doors, pissed off.
One of Steven’s old friends, Trace, is fisting his hands in his shaggy, golden blond hair, staring at his once-lifted metallic-teal wrapped truck—the kind that people fancy up with expensive rims, custom grills, and an obnoxious number of LED lights to post on social media. Thirst traps , or so I’m told.
“They were brand fucking new!” Trace yells, stricken. His tires were a thing of beauty, though they probably saw more pavement than dirt, and my guess is they set him back a grand or two.
“Five vehicles hit so far.” Elliott sets his hands on his hips. “Including mine and yours.” He nods to his 1980s third-generation brown Ford Bronco parked next to my dually, every single tire slashed.
“Dagnabbit.” I pat my empty pockets, cursing again that I left my phone in the office.
“Already called Gibson,” Elliott says, leaning against his tailgate. He built his Bronco from the ground up after buying it from a junkyard a few years ago—the kind our dad once drove—and he looks ready to put someone six feet under as more employees come over to check their vehicles.
While we’re waiting for the cops to show up, I jog back to the office to get my phone, needing to call my insurance company since this happened on company property. Layla screams and springs upright when I open and close the side door too hard .
“Shi-oot, darlin’. I’m sorry I scared you.”
She places a hand over her heart, breathing hard after she turns off the music. “It’s ok. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
I was hoping she would, which is why I bought a nice wicker basket and propped it in the corner behind the desk, stuffed with a throw pillow and two fuzzy fleece blankets. It pleases me to see she has one draped across her lap when I walk around the desk to grab my phone from the top right drawer.
My office door flies open with a bang while I’m on hold with my insurance company, and Trace stomps inside, his eyes red as if he’s holding back tears. I’d probably be the same if I put half my paycheck into my truck.
He stops short when he sees Layla, throws his hands up, and slaps them against his thighs. “Fucking spectacular! Now it makes total sense!”
Layla leans back in her chair, putting more distance between them.
“Hey! You watch your mouth and lower your voice around her,” I demand.
Trace sneers but lowers his voice a fraction. “You gotta be shitting me.”
“I’m tellin’ you right now, shut your mouth.” I take a step to the side, ready to shut his mouth for him if he doesn’t stop.
“What happened?” Layla’s voice has me stalling.
Trace’s bottom lip wobbles. “Your fucking ex, Steven.”
Voice rising an octave, she asks, “What did he do?”
“Last warning,” I say at the same time.
Layla hooks her finger in my back belt loop, tugging on it when I try to step around the desk. “It’s ok,” she murmurs softly.
I turn and drop my hand on her shoulder, skimming my thumb along her slender neck. “No, it’s not.” When she tips her head back, arching into my touch, my dick starts to harden at the absolute worst time. “No one gets to talk to you like that, darlin’.”
“This is what I’m talking about!” Trace yells, throwing his arm out toward us. “I bet Steven’s the one who slashed all our tires, and it’s because of you two.”
Layla trips over her words. “Why would he—he wouldn’t. He can’t. He’s still in jail…right?” She’s looking to me for answers, which I love, but her bottom lip is as wobbly as Trace’s, which I hate.
Since I’m counting down the days ‘til he’s released, I’m quickly able to reassure her. “Yes, he is.”
So does Sheriff Gibson when he raps the back of his knuckles on the door and steps in, followed by Deputy Zoey Cooke, who recently transferred to our town. Being older than most of the Granny’s Girls, but younger than me, it’s not often we cross paths, so I merely nod in acknowledgment of her presence while Sheriff takes the lead.
“You boys,” Sheriff says, clicking his tongue as if he isn’t the same age as Elliott and me. “Your women are always getting y’all into trouble.” He’s, of course, referring to Wyatt nearly killing a man for Dolly and Davis straight up murdering a man for Goldie and Lily. It’s why he’s eyeing me now, knowing I’m just as likely to try killing Steven, who, it wouldn’t surprise me, is somehow behind this.
I hang up on my insurance company, since I’m still on hold, and drop my phone on my desk. Trace shoots Layla one last withering glare before he drags one of my metal chairs to the far corner of my office to sit with his arms crossed, bouncing the toe of his boot on the floor anxiously .
“She’s not my woman,” I grumble, watching Deputy Cooke give Gibson a frown, her white-blonde brows wrinkling at his choice of words. I guess she isn’t used to how things work around here yet.
“Yeah,” Layla adds softly.
It’s a punch to the gut because it’s the truth, and I remove my hand, which had drifted to gripping the back of her neck.
Trace snorts. “Then why’s she always here, sucking your dick?”
Layla gasps. “I am not.”
“Give me a fucking break. No one believes you’re actually cleaning anything except the boss’ knob,” he says crudely. “Steven knew you were sucking Russell off for ‘tips’.”
Layla drops her finger from my belt loop, and Gibson simply steps back with a tired sigh, motioning for Cooke to do the same, which I take as permission to knock Trace out.
Trace squeaks out a stuttered apology and shoots out of his chair when I take just one step toward him.
Gibson claps his hand on my shoulder when I try to follow Trace out of the office. “Later,” he says. “I counted two surveillance cameras facing the lot, so how about you pull up the footage? See what we’re working with.”
“Let’s take this to the breakroom,” I say, tucking my laptop under my arm when several employees line up behind him.
“I’ll get out of your hair,” Layla says quietly, standing and folding the blanket to put it away, then grabbing the bag she’d stuffed under the desk, not so subtly hiding it behind her back.
“No,” I tell her. “I don’t want you going anywhere ‘til we know who did this.” I also want to investigate that book . “Need to check your car in case your tires were slashed, too.”
“I’ve got it,” Cooke says, motioning for Layla to follow her toward the lobby.
“But what about her apartment?” I cup Layla’s elbow to stop her. “If this has something to do with Steven, then I need to check—”
“I’ve got that covered, too.” She raises a brow at Gibson, asking for confirmation, and he gives her a nod.
Gotdangit.
“Fine,” I say through tight lips. “Call me when you get home,” I tell Layla, finally sliding my hand down her arm, squeezing her hand once, then dropping it.
“No, you have enough to deal with.” She loops her tote bag over her shoulder after digging out her car keys and stuffing the mystery book inside.
I take a deep breath to hold my tongue.
Layla sees me struggling to do so, and she finally gives in. “Ok, I’ll call you.”
I let out the breath with relief. “Thank you.”
Cooke is wearing another frown when the ladies leave.
The breakroom is full by the time Gibson and I make it in there, everyone watching over my shoulder while I take a seat at one of the long white folding tables big enough to seat ten and pull up the surveillance footage. It doesn’t matter how good the video quality is—whoever damaged our vehicles mostly avoided the cameras. The few glimpses we do get show a tall figure dressed in a plaid button-down, dark blue jeans, brown cowboy boots, and a baseball cap with a big silver star in the middle pulled down low, so we can’t see their face.
At first glance, you’d think it was Davis—and maybe that’s the point. But the vandal was stupid enough to roll their long sleeves up their forearms, showing nothing but untouched skin instead of the tattoos Davis has slowly been adding .
“Bright enough not to show their face, but dumb enough not to roll down their sleeves to frame Davis. Exactly what I would expect from one of Steven’s friends,” Gibson says, which earns him a few chuckles from the staff in the room who don’t have a damaged vehicle. Those who do don’t find it funny.
After sending Gibson a copy of the surveillance footage, dealing with filing the police reports, finally getting ahold of my insurance company, and having all the vehicles towed on several flatbeds to have new tires put on, it’s the wee hours of the morning. And even though I talked briefly with Layla when she called hours ago to let me know she was home and everything was ok, I still pay my employee, Timothy, to drive me into town and park outside Layla’s apartment complex so I can see for myself.
After ten minutes, Timothy shifts in his seat. “You good now?”
“Ten more minutes.”
When I ask for another fifteen minutes after that, Timothy grows visibly uncomfortable. “I get that you’re paying me to sit here, but this is starting to feel like some stalker type shit, and I don’t want nothing to do with that.”
“Alright.” Pushing the heels of my hands into my tired eyes, I direct him to the tire shop where our vandalized vehicles were towed. I sit on the stoop with my back to the glass front door, wanting to be the first inside when the shop opens, willing to pay extra to have my truck moved to the front of the line. Because, yes, I am a stalker, and I can’t do it nearly as well without my truck and everything I have stored inside it.