Chapter 34
Chapter thirty-four
Beau
The fire crackles low in the stone hearth, throwing warm orange light across the otherwise dark living room.
I’m stretched out on the rug with my back against the couch, glass of whiskey in hand, boots kicked off, socked feet tucked close to the heat after tidying the main living area.
Can’t stand the clutter, even when no one’s watching.
Everyone else is in their own rooms now.
Law, with his book and his glasses, likely with a bag of chocolate he thinks no one knows about.
Lincoln’s probably staring at the ceiling, mind running a mile a minute about every problem under the sun.
Jasper… hell. He’s either pacing as all of his emotions crash into him at once or pretending not to feel anything at all.
And Abigail….
I roll my shoulders back and rake a hand through my hair, the fire popping like it knows I’m avoiding something. Humor’s my thing. Always has been. Crack a joke. Flash the dimples. Keep it light.
Easy.
Safe.
Keeps people from looking too close.
But nights like this? When the house settles and only the walls remember?
They make it harder to pretend.
I stare into the fire and let myself drift off, just a little, back to a seventeen-year-old kid who smelled like sweat and old laundry because I didn’t know how to ask for help.
I remember Lawson noticing first.
He always did.
I’d show up to school with bruises blooming purple and yellow under my sleeves, collar tugged high even when it was hot. I was hungry all the damn time. Angry. Dirty. I tried to laugh it off—made jokes at the teacher’s expense, interrupt class with a smart remark—and for a while, everyone let me.
Except for them.
Junior year, they followed me home one day.
God, I can still see Lawson’s face when he realized my mom wasn’t “sick” anymore like I’d said. She was gone. Overdosed. Dead. And Ray was all that she left behind.
I don’t like remembering the sound he made when Lawson hit him.
Or the way everything went silent after.
But I remember Chris showing up. No questions asked. No judgment. Just… people who wanted to take care of me.
That was the night Willow Creek Ranch became my home.
I swallow and shift closer to the fire, the heat grounding me.
I’ve lived here ever since. Eaten their food. Slept in their beds. Worn their brand across my chest like it was always meant to be mine. And still… sometimes… I feel like nothing more than a guest who’s overstayed his welcome.
They tell me I contribute. That I matter. That the ranch wouldn’t be the same without me. Hell, they even signed part of it over to me like it was nothing.
But old ghosts don’t listen to logic.
I glance toward the window facing the driveway, where I see a soft glow spilling from Abigail’s bedroom window.
She sees things.
Not in a way that feels invasive, but more like she just notices. Everything. She’s like Lawson that way. Always able to see the real stuff. The cracks I’ve so desperately tried to fill. The silence between the smiles.
She laughs at my jokes, but she doesn’t need them.
And that… scares me a little.
Because I think, if I let her, she’d see the parts of me I keep hidden under charm and witty counters. I think, without even knowing it, she sees the kid who still worries he’s a burden. The man who stays up late so no one catches him being anything but fine.
The fire pops louder, snapping me back.
Today went sideways fast. Violence always does. And it never asks permission before dragging the past up with it. Seeing those Coates assholes bleeding in the alley felt like justice. But it also reminded me of how easily things break. How fast lines get crossed.
Violence has a way of sticking with you. Even when it saves you.
Because that’s the thing, isn’t it?
I was pulled out of hell with fists and blood and men who loved me enough to break another man to pieces. And somehow, even still, that makes it feel like I forfeited the right to want anything soft afterward.
Draining the last of my whiskey, I push to my feet, straightening the couch cushions out of habit. Proof, I guess, that some part of me still believes if I keep this neat enough, quiet enough, I won’t be a problem.
I grab my guitar from where it leans against the wall.
But I don’t play it. I just rest my hand against the worn wood, grounding myself in something familiar and quiet.
Music has always been one of those parts of me that stayed gentle in its purest form.
No forced smiles. No witty remarks to fill the silence.
Just the melody of life’s most beautiful songs flowing through my fingertips and out of my lips.
One day, maybe, I’ll play something just for her.
Something that isn’t loud.
Something that doesn’t boast.
Something that makes her look at me the way she did on that stage last night—like I’m more than the punchline, more than the guy who survived because someone else swung first.
But not tonight.
Tonight, it’s enough to know we’re all still here. Still breathing. Still choosing each other—even when it’s messy, and complicated, and terrifying as hell.
And maybe… maybe that counts as softness too.