Chapter Seventeen
SEVENTEEN
Phoebe
I don’t need coffee. Both Rocky and I are wired on paranoia and rage. Three a.m.—two hours before my dad’s proposed meeting time—Rocky shows me the secret hideaway in the smoking room behind a bookcase.
“It looks like no one’s been in here for years,” I say, slipping inside the dark parlor.
Painter’s cloth drapes over a long couch and what I assume are chairs.
Moody damask wallpaper peels off the plaster.
Weathered cardboard boxes are stacked in every corner.
More canvas cloth covers up who knows what.
Rocky flips on the lights, and the cobwebbed chandelier rattles a little. “We check everything.”
“Yep.”
Rocky and I go to work searching for cameras and recording devices in angered silence. At one point, I even climb on Rocky’s shoulders to check the air vents. He holds my thighs as I reach up to peek through metal slats.
“All clear,” I tell him.
He grabs my hips and brings me down on my feet.
It feels like old times. Only our tension isn’t from refusing to be together, from a yearning so suffocating we both could barely breathe.
Our tension is from impending doom, which really just makes me crave slipping into his embrace. For Rocky to hug me so tightly that if all goes to hell, then at least we’re going to hell together.
Can’t waste time hugging. Out of all things you really crave to do, Phoebe. Hugging?
I check behind hung mirrors, trying to focus and not think about Hailey and Trent. Trent and Hailey. Varrick hard-launched a scheme without us. I can’t even wrap my head around what it means other than Fuck him.
Some of my fury sputters out when Rocky whips off a cloth, uncovering framed portraits sitting against the wall.
“Is that…?” I glance from Rocky to the oil canvas. It’s a family portrait. A family of five. In formal wear, they’re seated on a couch—the same baroque patterned wallpaper of this musty parlor is behind them.
A honey-brown-haired woman with kind, gentle eyes holds a tiny rosy-cheeked baby on her lap. He wears a little tux, but it’s his laugh, shared with the two young boys squished beside the woman, that pangs my heart.
On the other end of the couch is a man who I’m now certain is Rocky’s father.
I look between my boyfriend beside me and the man in the frame.
They’re the spitting image of each other: the razor-edged jawline, the tunneling gray eyes, the slender nose, even the commanding way he sits, the protectiveness as his arm reaches behind his sons.
I can’t even say this is an older version of Rocky. Christian Wolfe looks around his late twenties. About the same age.
I wait for Rocky to speak.
He just crumples the cloth into a ball and tosses it aside. I’m about to prod, but the walls creak. A mirror suddenly slides off its nail.
Rocky catches it before it can shatter on the floor. His superstitious self must be breathing an internal sigh of relief. Externally, he looks ready to punch a fist in the wall. “This place is definitely haunted with the ancestors of my past.”
I’m…unsettled. “That’s really creepy.”
“This is seriously too creepy for you?” He raises his brows at me. “The girl who likes possessed dolls?”
“Possessed dolls are cute with their single tufts of hair and droopy eyes.” I go to a stack of cardboard boxes.
“Cute,” he deadpans, then sees me ripping off tape. “We don’t need to go through those.”
“Scared to find a black cat?” I tease.
He gives me a middle finger. “Seriously, don’t waste your time, Phebs.”
“What if there’s a photo album in here? You wouldn’t want to find baby pictures?” I motion to the portrait to indicate that baby in the painting is him.
He stares harder at me. “It’s not the family I’m trying to protect.” He points at the oil canvas. “They’re gone. But my sister, my brother, your brothers—they’re still here.” He points at me. “You’re still here.”
It swells my lungs. “And Jake,” I add.
He rolls his eyes. “Oh my God, and Jake, whatever the fuck.”
That is as good of an inclusion as any from Rocky. I let out an abrupt sneeze. “God, this dust.” We keep stirring it up.
Rocky skims the length of me. “You okay to breathe this shit in?”
Do not tense. “Why wouldn’t I be?” I pat the tape back on the box.
He rakes a hand through his dyed black hair. “Come here for a sec.” He goes to the couch. Cloth already off them, the green floral cushions are exposed. Rocky sits and extends his arm over the back…like his dad in the portrait.
I blink away the image, then find myself instinctively beside him. Turning toward him, I lift my stiff shoulders. “We shouldn’t be hanging out. We only have an hour left—”
“Phoebe.” He collects my hand in his.
My stomach is in knots. We’ve been on the precipice of this conversation. The one where he nudges deeper for answers about why I’m acting so aloof. Weird. Standoffish.
I don’t know what to say anymore. Because I can’t tell him Hailey’s pregnant. I can’t even allude in that general direction without feeling like the worst friend on planet Earth. Which is why my default has been to deflect suspicions from her.
It was an instinct. A knee-jerk reaction.
Now, deflecting is beginning to feel like deceiving.
I regret throwing suspicion toward me to begin with. I shouldn’t have acted like I could’ve been ill in the bathroom with her. I shouldn’t be avoiding alcohol with her. But I feel like I’m in so deep, and I don’t know how to get out without sharing news that’s not mine to share.
I suck. I really suck. Maybe I’m not meant to be anyone’s real girlfriend.
“Look at me,” Rocky breathes, his voice quiet and more caring.
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
I squeeze his hand, staring at his knuckles. “Please.” It comes out agonized.
“Whatever’s going on with you, you can tell me.”
I can’t. I open my mouth, then close it. I swallow a boulder in my throat.
The dead quiet hurts my ears. So I finally look up at Rocky.
He works his jaw, his eyes full of apprehension and rage. “Is it Trent?”
“What?” My stomach curdles, realizing where his brain might be. I…I didn’t think he’d jump to that conclusion.
“Did Trent corner you? Like at the Alps.”
“You don’t think he would’ve gloated to his best friend, i.e., you, if he did?” My frown deepens.
“He also knows you’re my ex-wife.”
“Greater reason to shove it in your face—”
“Did he?”
“No,” I answer quickly, then try not to cry, realizing how patient Rocky has been with me. He didn’t want to force me to open up if I wasn’t ready. Because he thought maybe I was assaulted. “No, it’s nothing with Trent.”
“But it’s something.” He knows.
I cup his hand in both of mine. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” I hold on to his reddening gaze. “You believe me?” It’s the truth.
He nods. “I don’t believe you’re lying to me, but I know you’re not telling me something that’s been bothering you. And honestly, it’s starting to worry the shit out of me.”
“Don’t be worried. Just…trust me.” My raspy voice almost cracks. “Please.”
He rubs his mouth back and forth, searching my features. “You’ve been avoiding alcohol for weeks. If you’re pregnant—”
“Rocky.” I want him to drop this right now.
“I need you to know, the things that scare you, I want to face with you. You don’t need to do this alone.”
I love him. My love for him slams abruptly, powerfully, against me. He thinks I’m terrified to have a baby, and so naturally, I’m pushing him away. It’s a decent guess.
Affection bleeds through my gaze, and I know he can see it. He laces our hands, and I whisper, “Typically, when I’m scared, all I want is you.”
I feel terror. The next thing I think is his name. My Rocky. He’s my security, my safety, my shelter.
He nods, letting this sink in. “You want me to drop it?”
I’m tormented with this whole ordeal. I can’t hide my twisting, contorting face. I can’t muster any sort of reply.
He sees. “Anything that hurts you like this is a plague to my fucking system. I can’t look away.”
“I’m not your problem.” I cast him an apology in my eyes.
“You are my problem. And not because you’re my sister’s bratty best friend.”
I release a tight breath, and I wonder if he knows. If he’s assumed now that I’m protecting her and shooting my own foot in the process, but I’m too afraid to ask.
“It’s because I love you, Phoebe. I’m in love with you. Do you understand that?”
I nod strongly, quickly. “I love you, too. I hope you know how much.”
He bows forward and cups my face. “It’s not too late to tell me.” His lips inch higher. “Better yet, scream it.”
I grind away a stupidly dopey smile. “So all the ancestors of your past can hear?” I skim his lips. “Phoebe loves Rocky.” I try to taunt, but it comes out all too truthful.
“That’s all you’ve got?” He skims my lips.
“Phoebe loves Rocky.” I say it deeper.
His eyes devour all of me. “Rocky loves Phoebe.” We’re a hot second from colliding into a devoted, desperate kiss when the bookcase swings open.
Nova has arrived. My oldest brother immediately diverts his gaze from me and Rocky. “Is this really the time for that?”
“We’re just talking,” I defend.
Nova is disbelieving.
I send a bug-eyed look at Rocky. “You’re not going to clear our names here?”
“Am I guilty of something?” He checks the cell signal on his phone. “I don’t care if Nova thinks we were about to fuck.”
“That’s my sister,” Nova warns.
“Nooo,” Rocky says dryly, widening his eyes. “I had no clue. Thank you for the family tree.”
Nova sends me a look. “Your boyfriend.”
Yeah. I smooth my lips together, trying not to smile. I chose Rocky, and I do love his serrated edges, even if they unfortunately really aggravate Nova.
“You’re early,” Rocky says to him. “I told you to come at four thirty.”
“It is four thirty.” He stays wedged in the doorway. He kicks up a foot against the spun bookcase wall, keeping a lookout. “Phoebe.” He calls me over, and when I’m at his side, he digs out a sheathed knife. It’s already strapped to a leather band.
“Is this for Trent or our dad?” I whisper.
“Whoever.”