Chapter 28 Ryker
RYKER
Voices and music drifted through Faith’s front window as I approached with takeout. Voices, as in plural.
Shit.
Ice-cold dread snaked through my chest. Had some reporter weaseled their way in? God. Dammit. Her entire case could go up in flames with one bad interview.
I dropped the takeout bags and bolted up the sidewalk, taking her front steps two at a time. Her door was unlocked. Unlocked! I burst through without hesitation.
“Jesus, fuck!” Faith screamed, her hand flying to her chest.
“Holy shit!” A strange woman grabbed a ceramic table lamp and swung it at me.
The base connected with my shoulder with a dull thunk.
“Ow! What the—”
“Get out!” the woman yelled, wielding the lamp like a medieval mace. She swung again. I turned, but she caught my ribs.
“Stop hitting me with furniture!”
“Harper, wait—” Faith tried to stand, took one wobbly step, and crashed into the coffee table. Wineglasses went flying. “Oh shit!”
The lamp-wielding woman—Harper, apparently—took advantage of my distraction to land another hit on my back.
“Take that, you home invader!” Harper declared triumphantly, channeling some kind of drunk superhero.
“What?” I spun around, completely bewildered. “I’m not—”
THUNK. Right in the stomach this time. I let out an oof sound and curled inward.
“Nobody hurts my new wine friend!”
“I’m trying to help—”
THUNK. “That’s what they all say! Right before they murder everyone! I watch Dateline!”
“Harper!” Faith was on her hands and knees, crawling toward us, laughing so hard that she could barely breathe. “Stop … stop attacking my lawyer!”
“Your lawyer?” Harper paused mid-swing, lamp raised above her head. “This is the lawyer? The one with the abs?”
Faith, still on all fours, looked up at me with wine-bright eyes. “Those are the abs in question, yes.”
“I thought you said he was emotionally unavailable!”
“He is!” Faith tried to stand again, grabbed my leg for support, and nearly pulled my jeans down in the process. “Very, very emotionally constipated.”
“I’m standing right here,” I said, hitching my pants back up while trying to keep an eye on the lamp.
“We know,” both women said in unison, then burst into fresh giggles.
Harper finally lowered the lamp, squinting at me suspiciously. “You made her think you didn’t want her.”
“That’s not—”
“And then you show up here, all”—she waved the lamp vaguely at my entire person—“tall and brooding and door-bursting.”
“Someone could have been hurting her,” I argued. Why was I arguing? And who the hell was this woman?
“The only one getting hurt here is you, buddy.” Harper hefted the lamp again. “Should I hit him one more time, Faith?”
“Maybe?” Faith was using the back of the couch to keep herself upright, swaying like a boat in rough seas. “Just a little one? For the emotional constipation?”
I glared at Faith. “Tell your lamp-wielding bodyguard to stand down.”
Faith doubled over laughing. Not a polite chuckle. Full-body, tears-streaming-down-her-face, gasping-for-air laughter that made her whole frame shake.
I pressed a hand to my shoulder, checking for blood. “This is funny to you?”
“She—” Faith could barely get the words out. “She hit you with a lamp!”
The lamp-wielding woman looked simultaneously horrified and proud, the ceramic base still clutched in her hands. But she seemed to process what had just happened, her face falling into regret. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were him. I thought you were—”
“An intruder?” I rubbed my shoulder, my ribs, my stomach, and what was definitely going to be a bruise on my back.
“Yes.”
Faith waved her hand dismissively, still giggling. “He’s fine. Ryker has a very hard body.”
I quickly surveyed the scene: two empty wine bottles on the coffee table, two glasses, soft rock playing from her speaker, and Faith in yoga pants and an oversize sweater that kept sliding off one shoulder. Her hair was messy, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with laughter.
“Tell me what’s going on.” I shut and locked the door behind me. I’d retrieve the spilled takeout food later. “Now.”
“Girls’ night!” Faith announced, stumbling toward me on unsteady legs. She pressed both palms against my chest, looking up at me with watery eyes. “You’re interrupting girls’ night, Ryker.”
I stared down at her upturned face, and something in my chest cracked open. Despite the frustration simmering beneath my skin at how reckless this was, I couldn’t bring myself to scold her. Not when she looked like this. Flushed. Laughing. Light in a way I’d never seen her.
God, she was beautiful when she wasn’t drowning.
This was Faith without the murder charge hanging over her head.
Without the constant fear shadowing her eyes.
Without the weight of a world determined to crush her.
This was the woman she might have been if life hadn’t carved her hollow with its cruelty.
And I ached for her. For this version of her that existed only in stolen moments and wine-soaked evenings.
I wanted to bottle this. Keep it. Give it back to her every single day for the rest of her life.
What would it be like to come home to this?
To her laughter ringing through my penthouse, a friend on the couch, an empty wine bottle, evidence of nothing more sinister than a good time?
The thought wrapped around my ribs and squeezed until I couldn’t breathe.
It was so gloriously, painfully ordinary.
The kind of life other people took for granted.
I wanted to give her that. Mundane Tuesday nights. Lazy Sunday mornings. A thousand unremarkable moments strung together like pearls, each one precious because she was finally, finally safe.
If I won this case … no, when I won this case, I would build that life around her. I would tear down every threat, silence every storm, and hand her a world where the only thing she had to worry about was whether we had enough wine for the next girls’ night.
And if she let me, I’d spend the rest of my days just existing in her orbit. Watching her joy. Guarding her peace.
Loving her in whatever way she’d allow.
Smirking, I asked, “Are you drunk?”
“You’re always so serious.” She booped me on the nose with her finger, then dissolved into giggles.
“Your almost-maybe boyfriend is so serious. Does he ever smile?” the lamp-wielding woman asked, examining me like a statue in a museum.
Almost-maybe boyfriend. The hell did that mean?
“Almost-maybe?” I raised an eyebrow at Faith.
She bit her lip, suddenly looking less confident. “I might have … mentioned you.”
“Mentioned me as your almost-maybe boyfriend?”
“Harper needed context,” Faith protested, swaying slightly.
“Jesus, Faith.” I covered her hands with mine, trying to focus, despite the warmth of her touch searing through my shirt. “I love seeing you happy, but now’s not the time to get plastered with some strange woman.”
“She’s not a strange woman. She’s Harper. She just moved in next door.” Faith gestured grandly. “Harper, meet Ryker. Ryker, Harper.”
Harper appraised me up and down, finally setting down the lamp. “She said you probably do push-ups while reviewing case files.”
“I was right about that, wasn’t I?” Faith turned to me, poking my chest. “You totally do push-ups while thinking about legal stuff.”
I absolutely did, but I wasn’t about to admit it.
Harper squinted at me. “You’re much taller than she made you sound. And angrier-looking. And more lamp-resistant.”
“I’m not angry. I’m concerned,” I said, though even I could hear how that sounded.
“That’s what angry people say,” Harper stage-whispered to Faith.
Faith snorted. “He does have an angry face.”
“I don’t have an angry face.”
“You’re making it right now,” Faith said, pressing her finger between my eyebrows, where I was apparently scowling. “Right there. Your grumpy wrinkle.”
“I don’t have a grumpy wrinkle.” I caught her hand, fighting the urge to smile. “You can’t just trust some random woman, Faith. She could be a reporter.”
“She has a black eye, Ryker,” Faith said, her voice dropping.
“Faith!” Harper protested, her face flushing.
I turned to examine the woman more carefully. Sure enough, beneath carefully applied makeup, dark purple bruising encircled her eye. My stomach dropped.
Some ex-husband or boyfriend. Had to be. The kind who didn’t let go easily. The kind who showed up at new addresses. The lamp attacks suddenly made more sense. She was ready to defend herself. Good for her.
This poor woman doesn’t need me thinking about everything through the lens of Faith’s safety. But if some violent ex tracks her down next door …
“Someone hit you,” I said, keeping my voice gentle.
Harper’s expression hardened. “How do you know I didn’t run into a doorknob?”
“In the history of black eyes, only one in a million actually come from a doorknob,” I said.
“You’re so sexy when you talk stats.” Faith hiccuped. “Harper, isn’t he sexy when he’s all statistical and factual?”
“Faith, you’re mad at him,” Harper reminded her.
“You are?” I asked.
Faith grabbed the hem of my shirt without warning. “But look at him.” She yanked it up, exposing my abs before I could react. “Couldn’t you just lick this?”
“Faith!” I shoved my shirt back down. “Focus. Who gave her that black eye?” I kept my tone neutral, nonthreatening, addressing her neighbor again. “Does this person know where you live?”
Her face went pale. “Why?”
“Just … trying to understand the situation.” Trying to figure out if Faith’s in danger.
I saw it then—the way Harper’s shoulders sagged slightly, the fear. She was running from something bad. Something that had followed her into her nightmares and made her jump at shadows.
“Look,” I said, gentler now. “If you need help—”
“I think I’ll be going.” Harper moved toward the door.
“Harper, wait—” Faith started.
“It’s okay. I should get home anyway.” She paused at the door, looking back at me. “Thanks for … not pressing charges for assault with a decorative weapon.”