Chapter 16
Chapter
Sixteen
MIA
Afallout’s coming, whether Maverick will name it.
I toss and turn beneath the soft quilts on the cabin bed, thoughts racing too fast to process. I scheduled my written statement to go out via social media six hours after Maverick read it.
The grandfather clock in the living room ticks ominously. The passage of each minute another step closer to freedom … or ruin.
A square-cut jaw and soft beard. Warm mouth that confirmed my need. I touch my fingers to my lips, still remembering the kiss with Maverick.
Not my first.
My only real one.
When I was sixteen, there was a backup dancer who I had a crush on. Jordan Miles. Eighteen years old and as adorable as they come. Behind the stage, we stole a moment together before security caught us and informed Edwin.
My manager raged, like I’d done something awful. Unforgivable.
Jordan thought he acted jealous. Like the old man wanted me for himself. But now I see it for what it was.
Isolation.
Edwin has always needed to keep me away from others. Away from connections.
Memories swirl in my head. Your parents abandoned you. They’re too selfish to care. They never ask about you.
Accusations delivered by Edwin with the same calculated, surgical precision he used to fire Jordan. Nip it in the bud before I could form an attachment to another human being. Before I could find myself and my strength through another person.
I shift beneath the covers, heart pounding. A sweet torture to know Maverick sleeps on the other side of the wall. If he sleeps at all.
I close my eyes, imagine going to him. Imagine what it’d feel like to be in his powerful arms, firm heat steadying me.
When Edwin finds out, he’ll stop this. Like he always does.
Unless I stop him first.
“And that’s the reason for the statement,” I whisper to myself.
At least, I followed my bodyguard’s advice, didn’t post the original video I intended to. The one I thought would tell my fans the truth, garner support. The one I’m pretty sure Edwin would have used to reframe everything around a lie.
That I’m unstable, mentally and emotionally. That I can’t be trusted and my perceptions are off.
Floorboards creak in the living room, and my pulse pounds. He’s awake, too. I rise quickly, wrapping myself in a purple silk robe and padding quietly into the living room.
Maverick stands in the kitchen, shirtless, the warm glow of the stovetop light washing over his chiseled flesh.
Silvery raised flesh catches the light, a massive scar transecting an abstract black circle tattoo.
My eyes trace the angry pucker of skin that breaks the shape, like the end of something.
He clears his throat, eyes steady, drawling, “Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” I admit, taking a stool.
“Tea?”
I smile. He already knows my answer.
He moves around the kitchen quietly, muscles dancing beneath his tanned skin. A wild man with wander in his blood. The kind of guy who doesn’t stay anywhere too long.
I grab my laptop, log into my social media account, and frown. It hasn’t been six hours yet. It should post within the next half hour.
“Having second thoughts?” he asks, resting his hands on the counter.
“Yep,” I squeak, trying to suppress the quiver in my voice.
He doesn’t judge me. Doesn’t say what to do. Just stands there like a strong boulder, like the only physical thing tethering me to what I want.
I drum my fingers on the countertop, meeting his steady gaze. “If I don’t post it, none of this is real. You can go back to your life, your job. You can pretend this never happened.”
He nods slowly, jaw clenched. “That what you want, Mia?”
I rub a hand over my face, sighing. “Maybe it’s what makes the most sense. Maybe I’ve taken things too far. Made too big a deal out of Edwin and everything. Am I being ungrateful? Not thankful enough for all he’s done for me?”
His brows furrow, and he exhales slowly. “The silence is worse than the noise would be.”
The words, the way he looks at me, tell me he understands.
“Tell me about the scar, your tattoo,” I prompt.
He stares down at his chest for a long moment as if he’s gathering his words around his gaze.
“Used to be on the rodeo circuit. A professional bull rider. Pbr champ. Leaderboards. Dust, mud, fame. All of it.”
“So, you were famous, too, then?”
He nods, staring at the countertop. “This,” he says, tracing the thick silver line along his chest, “finished things for me. Shut the door on all my best-laid plans.”
“And the limp?”
“Part of that, too. I’ll spare you the gory details. But suffice to say, it was career-ending, life-shattering. Meant a medical discharge from the Guard, too.” He stares away, sadness lingering in the black depths of his gaze.
I pull the laptop closer, staring at the screen determined. “Which is why I shouldn’t do this. Not now. Not with you involved.”
Surprise washes over his face for one flickering moment, like a candle catching flame.
I shake my head, seeing how selfish I’ve been all this time. “It’s not lost on me that there will be hell to pay when this comes out. There will be questions about your involvement with me—with this.”
“Mia, don’t make a decision about your life and your future because of me—”
“Grayson will want to know how much you knew about this,” I whisper, “and you won’t be able to lie because that’s not who you are.”
He reaches forward, presses the laptop shut, face solemn. “Decision’s already made, right?”
I nod.
“Now we live with it.” He pauses for one moment, studying the countertop. “Grayson will hear about this later.”
A high-pitched screech slices the air. The kettle. Angry, accusatory.
He extinguishes the burner, grabs mugs, fills mesh balls with loose-leaf tea. Blueberry and lavender fill the air as he fills the mugs.
The grandfather clock ticks and ticks and ticks.
He faces me, rounding the counter and sitting next to me. “You okay?” he asks, concern flooding his usually stoic face.
I twist my hands together, fingers voicing the anxiety I refuse to speak into existence. His big hand comes up, drops over mine, stilling them.
The clock still beats. The tea still steams. The lonely sound of a chuck-will’s-widow carries somewhere off in the distance.
Or maybe it’s something else.
His eyes fix on the window. His work never ends, but his gaze doesn’t scan restlessly. Instead, he seems stuck on something. Some small detail I don’t see.
“I’m afraid of how much this will cost you,” I say in low tones, biting my bottom lip.
He straightens, face softening. “Already given me much more than it cost me, Mia Lowell. Maybe I’m not cut out for this bodyguard thing, anyway.”
“Back to wandering, then?” I ask, voicing the ache behind my ribs. I know better than to indulge it, but it’s still there.
He shrugs, turning his hand palm up and capturing my fingers. “Don’t want to think about the future right now. Just want to feel.”
So, we sit in the silence until I’m certain it’s too late.
Warm tears streak my cheeks, and I sniffle. He pushes the Kleenex box closer.
“This will force his hand,” I say into the silence, like naming it might keep me steady.
Peach and gold light threads through the curtains, the world still too quiet. But the air holds a rising heat that tells me everything’s different now.
A faint buzz startles the big bodyguard, still holding my hand, and he eases to his feet. My palm is still warm where he comforted me as he eyes the screen of his phone, face going rock hard. “Excuse me while I take this outside.”
I nod, throat tightening. On the other side of the door, I hear the rumble of his voice. I can’t make out the words, but I can feel the force behind them. Not angry—unsettled.
I grab a tissue, dabbing at my eyes and cracking my laptop open again. The post is trending along with my name—both names. Comments crowd the screen. Most filled with alarm or concern. Some gaslighting. Others spewing lies and vitriol.
I am no longer invisible in this situation.
My phone is eerily silent. No texts. No calls. At least, not from Edwin or the other gray suits. It feels like the calm before a storm. Or maybe the eye of the hurricane.
Freedom. Sweet, easy. It won’t last.
The front door swings wide, and Maverick steps back through, silently grabbing his button-down shirt from the couch and shrugging into it.
I devour his rugged frame before it vanishes beneath fabric, missing the intimacy of last night. Like it’s already fractured. I wonder if I’ll ever feel it with this man again. Or if I was chasing a dust devil all along.
“Did he call?” I ask breathlessly.
“You mean, Crowe?” the stern-faced cowboy asks, jaw muscle twitching. “Things have escalated.”
“What do you mean?”
“Probably better to hear it straight from Grayson. Still above my pay grade.”
“Are you in trouble?”
He shrugs. “Don’t worry about me.”
“But, Maverick…”
The grandfather clock still ticks, and now I know, the clock on all of this has only just begun.
“Will you stay?” I ask, raising my chin.
“Yes, Mia,” he answers.
“For how long?”
“Long as you want me,” he answers, buttoning the top of his collar and then tucking in his shirt.
My cell phone lights up next to me: unknown caller. My hand hovers over it, tempted to answer, but I don’t.
Last night, I mistook the silence for dread.
Today, I understand it was the last moment before everything learned how to scream.