Chapter 26
“What about you, Cap?”
I lift my gaze from the napkin I was slowly shredding. “What?”
Macie’s smile tightens before she shakes her head. “Nothing. Never mind.”
I glance down at my water glass, wishing I’d ordered something stronger.
Brett Nichols passes our table, aiming his typical smarmy smirk my way en route to the bar. He was already here when we arrived and made a few of his typical comments then, but has kept his distance since. He’s getting a refill now, I’m guessing—since I doubt he’s leaving this early.
One can hope.
Across the table, Wade scoffs. “Typical Nichols, going after the hottest girl.”
Macie, nearest, overhears. She balls up a napkin and tosses it at him. “Thanks a lot, jerk.”
“That’s not—” Wade looks to me for help, and I shrug a shoulder. He’s going to have to dig out of this hole solo. “You’re hot too,” Wade says. “Wren’s just …”
My head whips left, and I scan the area by the bar. Wren was back by the pool table, talking to Aaron and some of the other guys, last I checked. Now, she’s standing by the bar, watching Brett fucking Nichols do his damnedest to impress her.
Water sloshes over the rim of my glass, running over my knuckles. I relax my grip on the plastic, but the clear material remains crinkled and cracked. Irrevocably damaged, like me.
Gus leans over to toss a stack of napkins on the spilled liquid. “She can handle herself, man,” he says, low enough for only me to hear, although I barely do over the blood rushing in my ears.
Every muscle in my body is tense, stiff with the effort of staying in place.
I glance over again.
Wren is leaning against one end of the bar, presumably waiting for a drink. Owen is at the other end, serving someone else. And Brett is all over her.
Wren says something, and his smile falters. But Brett recovers quickly, pulling out his wallet. Offering to buy her drink, I’d bet.
She shakes her head. He steps closer, crowding her space.
The roaring grows louder. I’m not even pretending to pay attention to what’s happening at my table anymore.
Wren will hate if I intervene. Nichols will love it, especially if he realizes what Wren means to me. If he does, he’ll be even less likely to leave her alone.
She’s fine, I tell myself. She’s fine, and she doesn’t want or need your help.
Then her head turns.
Wren doesn’t look for the bartender. She doesn’t look at Aaron. Her gaze doesn’t wander. It lands straight on me, and it stays there. I wasn’t sure she’d even noticed I was here tonight.
I’m already off my stool, pushing through the crowd. Ignoring the protests as I literally shove my way through or the shouts of, “Cap!” behind me.
I don’t stop walking until I’m close enough to step between them, forcing Nichols to move back.
He grins at me, expression lazy and superior. “I saw her first, Bennett.”
“Walk away,” I say, startled by the steel in my own tone. I sound … dangerous.
Brett blinks rapidly a few times, taken aback by it too. He’s not accustomed to me engaging in our conflicts, let alone escalating them. But he regains his arrogance quickly. “It’s a free country. I’ll hook up with whoever I want.”
“I said, walk away, Nichols.”
He laughs before shaking his head and shifting closer to Wren. She hasn’t said anything, but I can feel her hovering beside me. “I don’t take orders from you, Bennett. We both know you won’t—”
I make sure Wren’s out of the way, then swing. And it’s supremely satisfying, seeing my fist connect with his shocked face. I also enjoy watching Brett stumble back, trying to regain his balance, taking the stool he grabbed down with him.
And then the high fades, and reality rushes in. The stares, the pointing, the wide eyes.
“Out, Bennett!” Owen yells, which is no surprise.
No fighting is pretty much the only rule Lucky’s enforces.
Brett is getting to his feet. There’s a crimson mark on his left cheek. His right is red too, probably from embarrassment. I knocked him down with one hit.
“You’re going to fucking pay for that,” he snarls.
“Work on your listening skills,” I retort, knowing I’m likely making things worse.
It’s freeing though. I’ve spent so long stifling strong emotions and hiding any characteristics that are similar to my father. I lost parts of myself in the process, and rediscovering them is bittersweet.
“Out, Bennett!” Owen repeats.
I shove past Brett, pausing next to Gus. He, like everyone else, rushed over to the action.
“Make sure he stays away from her,” I mutter, then continue outside.
I head for my truck, raking my hands through my hair as the full force of possible repercussions hits me.
Fuck. Nichols will try to make me pay, and he has a case.
I let him get to me. Gave him exactly what he’d wanted, what he’d tried to goad me into for years, because I couldn’t think straight around Wren. I should regret it, but I really don’t.
I grip the tailgate, hanging my head and breathing heavily. My body is still swimming with adrenaline, and my right knuckles sting. They’re bruised, maybe split. I kick a back tire once, attempting to expel some frustration.
“Here.”
I spin around, staring at Wren. She’s standing a few feet away, holding a plastic bag full of ice toward me.
“Thanks,” I say, taking the bag and pressing the cold cubes against the back of my hand.
She crosses her arms once I do, studying me. I scan her expression, looking for anger—or worse, fear. She appears totally impassive.
“I’m sorry.” I sigh. “I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t have gotten involved. I wasn’t—Nichols and I have history. We always get into it.”
I brace for her ire. For her to tell me to fuck off.
Wren reaches out, lifting the ice bag and glancing at my pink knuckles. “So, it had nothing to do with me?”
She doesn’t know that I’ve never hit Brett before. I could blame all of this on the past, let her think I was settling some old score. But I’m sick of lying about how I really feel. I think I’m doing a shitty job of it anyway.
I clear my throat, but the words still come out husky. “It had a lot to do with you.”
“Can you give me a ride home?”
“I, uh, yeah. Sure.” I stumble through the simple answer, taken aback by the request.
She’s already walking to the passenger side. Climbing inside my truck.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
Gus: She left.
Gus: Nichols is still here, whining about his face.
Gus: Nice right hook.
I smile, shoving my phone back in my jeans and heading for the driver’s side.
Wren has gotten comfortable, slipping off her shoes and reclining against the seat, cross-legged. I wonder if she really does like my truck or if she was just bullshitting me last summer.
I start the engine without asking. Brett will leave at some point, and it’s better for all of us if I’m gone by then. I’m not sure if he’ll actually go to the cops, but he might.
Wren flips on the radio as I drive, but doesn’t say anything, aside from sharing directions. The house her family is renting isn’t far from the Ellsworth compound, on the ocean, in an exclusive neighborhood.
“Want me to pull in?” I ask, braking when we reach the hedge that borders the end of the driveway.
She nods. “My parents are gone for the weekend. They went to some charity gala in the city.”
I flip on my blinker, even though the street is empty, then roll up the clamshell drive.
The house—mansion—appears around the bend, pretty much exactly what I expected.
Wren’s convertible is parked in the circular drive that ends in front of a four-car garage.
I park by the water fountain set in front of the gray-shingled house.
Six white columns support the front porch that stretches the entire length of the house, gable peaks above it.
I knew her family was rich, but … damn. Seeing this is something else.
“Want to come in?”
My gaze snaps to Wren, who’s watching me expectantly, hand poised on the door handle.
“Now?” I ask, like an idiot.
“Yeah.”
I turn the key and pocket it, climbing out of the cab. Follow Wren along the pavers that lead to the porch and up to the front door. She unlocks it, then immediately types a code into an electronic panel to the left.
I close the door slowly, looking around.
There’s a pool I can see through the French doors straight ahead.
And a sweeping staircase to the right of the entryway, which Wren heads for after slipping her shoes off.
I step out of my sneakers, glancing left into a living room with one, two, three, four couches before starting upstairs.
“My room’s this way,” Wren says, turning left at the top.
I continue down the hallway after her, past artwork that looks awfully expensive, and into a room decorated in shades of blue.
I recognize too much. The bag she packed for her prom. The sunglasses she was wearing when she got to work yesterday. The pink tennis racquet leaning against her desk.
She has her own private bathroom and balcony. The suite is roughly the same size as my entire house. I don’t resent Wren for it, but it does make me question what the hell I’m doing here.
Then Wren pulls her shirt over her head, flinging it toward the hamper (and missing) and I forget what a question is.
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she says without glancing over to check my state of undress.
I shrug my T-shirt off, snagging the condom out of my pocket before dropping my jeans. Wren is on the bed, in nothing except a matching set of lacy underwear. Her eyes are on my dick as I approach, and it hardens even more under her gaze. It’s been … fuck, it’s been so long.
Parts of this should feel rote. We’ve had sex three times before. But despite the flood of lust that’s fueling impatience, there’s a fluttering of nerves and uncertainty as I reach the edge of the mattress.
Wren rises up onto her knees, trailing her fingers down the center of my chest. They linger in the strip of hair below my navel, and it feels like all the blood in my body is rushing to that spot.
“Are you going to last more than five minutes this time?”