Chapter 11 #2
I’m not exactly a handyman, but Liam had done construction projects a few times for extra cash when we were in college, and I’d gone to the sites to watch all the guys work with their biceps all exposed.
It was nice eye candy.
But not as nice as this.
None of them had been as good-looking as North. A strip of skin appears at his waist as he reaches high over his head for a water glass, and he fills it from a pitcher in his fridge. That thing is old too—secondhand for sure, and was probably made in the nineties.
It’s a sort of weird, eggshell cream color with divots on the handle where people have gripped it over the years. The inside seems very clean, but the door creaks loudly when he opens and shuts it.
“Here,” he says, handing me the glass.
I hook my cane on the edge of the counter, then take the glass, sipping on the cool liquid, which both soothes me and helps me crawl back into the present a bit more. “Thanks.”
He nods. “So. Did you just come here to yell at me about the cat food?”
“I—” I bow my head. “Yes. I did. Sorry.”
He seems surprised that I’m apologizing, and I suppose that’s fair. I haven’t exactly done a lot of that lately.
Leaning against the counter, he crosses his arms and grips his biceps, like he’s trying to hide his body, and I get it.
It’s something I’m a little too familiar with—that shame that people like us have no business feeling.
We didn’t ask for these scars. We just live with them, and somehow, the world has a way of making us feel ashamed of who we are, and I hate it.
Fighting the urge to reach out and pull his hands down, I roll the glass between my palms. “I really don’t want birds in my yard, but,” I add when he sucks in a breath, “I know you’re trying to help. So…thank you.”
His lips stretch into a grin, and fuck, he’s beautiful like that. “How hard was that to say?”
The moment shatters, and my brows dip into a scowl. “I’m not a complete asshole, you know. I apologize when it’s necessary.”
One of his eyebrows lifts, and he tilts his head to the side like a curious golden retriever. “Can you count how many times you’ve apologized on one hand?”
I know it’s a joke. I know I probably deserve it, but that hits all wrong. It’s probably because I had to talk about Liam today, but the words dig deep and unearth old, painful memories of our last big fight.
The one that hit right before he surprised me with the trip.
The one where I was gasping for air because I was crying so hard and asking him why I was the only one who ever said sorry, and he was accusing me of being unfeeling and uncaring.
We were just too fucking young back then to realize we could not communicate on the same level.
That we had never seen eye to eye on anything.
That what he needed was something I couldn’t give, and vice versa.
The trip was his apology for being unkind with his words, and I had seen it as a pale, pathetic gesture to get out of taking accountability for being cruel and controlling.
Because he was kind of cruel and controlling, even if he didn’t mean to be.
My eyes get hot, and I grab my cane, spinning on my heel, and I hurry out of the house as quickly as I can manage. I don’t want North to see me like this. I don’t want him to see that I still have tender spots from my past that I can’t get rid of.
I hate that I can be mostly fine—that I can be over so much of what happened—but one wrong word, and it’s all fresh pain all over again. My therapist once told me that triggers would always be part of my life.
I foolishly wanted to believe they wouldn’t always hurt this way. That they wouldn’t take me to my knees without warning.
“Wait! Leo!”
Of course he’s coming after me. I tuck my cane under my arm, and my hip immediately starts to protest as I break into a run. This is a mistake, that much is clear after the first five seconds, but I can’t give in now.
My pride won’t let me. The need to outrun him is almost as intense as the need to outrun my past.
I haven’t done this since my stress test at the doctor, but I wasn’t running from old memories, or the guy I want to fuck, or pain I don’t want to feel. This is pure adrenaline, and I’m going to regret it in a moment, but I turn the corner and see my house and think I can make it.
And then my leg goes weak, and the ground’s rushing toward my face.
I’m not gonna make it, I think, and then I hit the ground. I was too far into the street to break my fall on grass, so my face meets the unforgiving concrete lip of the sidewalk. My cheek and chin erupt in pain as I roll onto my side.
Off in the distance, beyond the ringing in my ears, I hear North screaming. And the next thing I know, he’s got me in his arms. Suddenly, the harsh concrete is replaced by the warmth of his body, and it takes me a second to realize he’s lifting me into his arms in a goddamn bridal carry.
The shame in me gets stronger. Hotter. So painful it makes me want to dig a hole deep underground and live there forever.
“Don’t!” I shout when I finally regain some sense. I try to fight him so he’ll drop me, but he holds me tighter and starts marching toward my house. “Put me down, you shithead!”
“You’re being a real fucking asshole right now,” he snarls. “What is wrong with you?”
That is the million-dollar question, isn’t it? And I don’t have an answer, so I don’t bother trying to find one. Instead, I attempt to wriggle out of his grasp, but he’s too goddamn strong for me.
“Stop moving, or I will make you stop,” he growls, and white-hot, completely uncalled-for lust races through me. My breath catches in my chest, and I freeze in his arms like suddenly I’ve lost my ability to move.
North pauses, staring at me, something in his gaze. Then he swallows thickly, gives a single nod, and marches across my lawn and up my porch steps. I have no idea if Mr. Baylin is out there watching, but if he is, he’s going to tell Easton, and I will never live this down.
Fortunately, I don’t have time to think about it. North hip-checks my front door open, then storms into the living room and sets me on the couch with a little more force than is probably necessary.
He stares down at me for an eternal second, then drops to his knees and wrenches mine apart before sitting himself between them.
What I want to happen isn’t happening. I know that much. But I also don’t know what the hell he’s doing. His rough fingers take me by the chin, and he tilts my head up.
“First aid kit.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“First aid kit. Do you have one,” he says patiently, though his tone is still a little sharp.
“I…” Do I? I probably do. There’s not a chance in hell Easton would let me live on my own without making sure I had an emergency kit for literally any and every disaster that might occur.
Hell, I’m pretty sure he put together a tornado kit, and I’m not sure Harmony Creek has ever been touched by one.
As I try to remember where my brother might have put it, my thoughts feel suddenly muddled, and that’s when I realize there’s something dripping down my temple. I swipe my fingers through it before North can stop me, but he does catch me by the wrist and makes an irritated sound.
Yep. That’s blood.
I’m bleeding.