Chapter 12 #2
For a moment, I consider lying, saying it’s just Frank, just the food pantry, just the usual struggle. But this is Mari. She sees through my bullshit like it’s made of glass.
“I got evicted today,” I blurt out, the words escaping before I can stop them.
Mari’s eyes widen and she squeezes my hands even tighter. “What?”
“My whole apartment building was sold,” I explain, my voice hollow. “Everyone has to be out by the end of the month.”
“Oh, my God,” she whispers, her hand flying to her mouth. “Three weeks? That’s not enough time!”
“That’s what I said.” I laugh, but it sounds broken even to my own ears. “And with rent the way it is now…” I trail off, the impossibility of my situation hanging between us.
“You’ll stay with me,” Mari says immediately, her tone leaving no room for argument. “My place is small, but—”
“No.” I shake my head firmly. “I can’t do that to you, Mari. You barely have enough space as it is.”
“But—”
“I’ll figure something out,” I insist, though I have no idea what that something might be. “I always do.”
Once I say goodbye to my friend and begin my walk to the bar, my chest feels like something is sitting on it.
Anxiety and fear and a crippling sense of sadness overwhelm me as I try to process the avalanche of bad news that just keeps falling today.
First the food pantry’s empty shelves and having to tell people I couldn’t help them.
Then giving away the only cash I had on hand before hearing about my eviction—not that twenty-three dollars would buy me an apartment. And then Frank’s death.
Fuck.
It feels like the universe is systematically dismantling every scrap of stability I’ve managed to build.
And then there’s Shepherd.
I told him that kiss didn’t mean anything when in reality, it meant everything. Yes, it started out as a morbid curiosity but the moment my lips touched his, I could feel it.
His warmth.
His comfort.
His calming nature.
He makes me feel safe and he doesn’t even know it because I can’t bring myself to tell him. I’m a hot mess of chaos living in a world of weakness and struggle and disappointment. He doesn’t need me bringing him down. And I don’t want him taking on my burdens out of pity.
He can’t fix me.
I’m far too broken.
And maybe that’s what makes me so sad.
Shepherd Haynes is, so far, one of the nicest guys I’ve ever met. He treats me well and he’s kind and compassionate and funny…
And he’s rich.
Compared to him, I’m a street-rat and everyone knows the street-rat only wins in fairytales.
I walk faster, hugging my jacket tighter as the drizzle turns to proper rain.
My boots splash through puddles, each step feeling heavier than the last. The thudding in my chest won’t stop, and I can feel the edges of a panic attack creeping in—the tightness, the shortness of breath, the feeling that everything is closing in.
Not now. I can’t break down now.
I have a shift to work. People counting on me. Bills to pay.
By the time I reach the Alley Tap, my hair is plastered to my face and my clothes are damp enough to be uncomfortable. Cal looks up as I push through the door, his usual greeting dying on his lips when he sees my face.
“Whoa,” he says, setting down the glass he’s polishing. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, heading straight for the back room.
“Sutton—”
“I’m fine, Cal. Just a rough day.”
Following me to the back and watching as I slip out of my jacket and tie my apron around my waist, he tells me, “You don’t have to stay if you don’t—”
I almost laugh. “Oooh trust me. I do,” I say, trying to pull myself together on the inside. I take one look at Cal, meeting his eye only briefly and then tell him, “I’m fine. I promise. I’m good.”
He doesn’t say another word, but I can see the worry all over his face. “Please tell me this isn’t about Shep—”
“No. It’s not about Shepherd,” I snap, biting the inside of my mouth so I don’t crack. “I said I’m fine. Just let me get to work. I need the distraction.”
When I step out to the bar, I plaster on a smile so tight my jaw aches.
My hands tremble as I pour drinks, the bottles clinking against glass rims. I force laughter that scrapes my throat raw while making hollow small talk with customers, but inside, I’m cracking like thin ice over a frozen lake, hairline fractures spreading with every breath. One more wrong move and I’ll shatter.
And well, because the universe is a sick sadistic bastard, it waits for the perfect moment to destroy me.
It’s mid-dinner rush and the bar is three-deep with thirsty customers. My beer-soaked fingers reach for a pint glass and it slips—the crash exploding through the bar like a gunshot. I flinch violently at my own mistake, dropping to my knees as shards scatter across the floor.
“Shit,” I mutter, trying to clean up the glass.
Cal says something but I don’t hear it. I whip my head around and slam my palm directly onto a jagged shard jutting from the floorboards.
It pierces deep, like a white-hot poker driving through flesh and muscle.
Pain slices through my palm, deep and immediate, and bright red blood erupts from the wound and spreads quickly across my skin.
“Motherfucker!”
“Jesus, Sutton!” Cal drops beside me, his face draining of color as he grabs for a towel before I can even register what’s going on. I stare at the blood like it’s happening to someone else because certainly this can’t be my hand.
Words float around me—move, towel, wash, bandage—but they’re just noise drowning in the roar of blood in my ears. My body won’t respond no matter how hard I try. I’m frozen, shattered, and bleeding out in more ways than one.
Too much.
No Apartment.
Too much.
No food.
Too much.
No Frank.
The bell over the door jingles but I barely notice it until I hear someone call his name.
“Shepherd,” a voice cuts through the chaos. I lift my head so fast my vision blurs. I claw my way up from the floor, legs trembling like I’m standing in an earthquake. And there he is.
Silhouetted in the doorway.
Six-foot-something of solid ground when everything else around me is fucking quicksand.
Our eyes lock across the room and something inside me fractures completely. My lungs seize but my throat closes. My mouth opens but nothing comes out while my mind howls like a wounded animal.
Help me, Shepherd!
Please!
Maybe this is the moment the universe finally takes pity on me because Shepherd takes one look at me and everything in his face changes.
There’s no panic. Not that I can see. And there’s no anger.
He stands flanked by men with the same jawline and the same broad shoulders—his brothers, clearly—but he doesn’t spare them a glance.
His gaze locks on mine like a lighthouse beam cutting through fog and my feet finally move before my brain catches up.
One step.
Two.
The bar blurs around me. Blood seeps through the white towel wrapped around my palm, a crimson pattern blooming along the material.
Three more steps.
My chest throbs and salt stings my eyes, hot tears spilling over.
Two more steps and I’m there, crashing against his chest, my face pressed into the soft cotton of his shirt that smells like cedar and something uniquely him. His arms close around me, soft and tender, but as solid as fortress walls.
“Fuck,” I hear him whisper just before he lifts me in his arms and turns his body left and then right as if deciding his next move.
“Shepherd…” I can’t control my tears as they flow down my face, whatever makeup I had left now streaking down my cheeks.
He lowers his lips to my forehead, kissing me tenderly and then murmuring in my ear, “Can I get you out of here?”
“Please,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
“You’re okay,” he assures me. “I’ve got you.”
I lean my head on his chest and vaguely listen as he tells his brothers thanks but no thanks. I hear one of them tell him he’ll catch a ride with Hop and then without another word he’s carrying me out the door and straight into his car.
Shepherd sets me gently inside his SUV and buckles me into the passenger seat, his movements gentle but urgent.
The world around me has gone hazy at the edges, like I’m viewing everything through frosted glass.
My hand throbs with each heartbeat, the bar towel now thoroughly soaked with my blood.
Shepherd takes my injured hand in his, and I wince when he unwraps the towel, exposing the deep gash across my palm. The sight of it makes my stomach lurch.
“That’s pretty deep.” He doesn’t flinch or make a face.
He simply inspects my hand, tilting it toward the light, his thumb somehow both firm and impossibly gentle as he wipes away the bead of blood that wells up.
My fingers tremble uncontrollably, and Shepherd sets down the towel and takes my wrist in his other hand, grounding me.
His hands completely envelop mine, dwarfing them, as if he could physically hold me together with his grip alone.
“Fuck, Sutton,” he murmurs, and the words are less a curse and more a prayer of concern. “You still with me? Hey, look at me.”
I lift my gaze and nod but no words come out. He grabs some clean gauze from a first-aid kit in his glove compartment and presses it firmly against my palm, his movements calm and composed. “This is going to need stitches. We should go to the hospital.”
I shake my head violently. “No hospital.” The words come out choked. “I can’t afford it.”
“You won’t have to,” he responds gently. “Your insurance—”
“I don’t have insurance, Shepherd,” I say, closing my eyes briefly and swallowing all of my pride. “The bar doesn’t offer any and I couldn’t afford it even if they did.” My voice trembles as I try to rein myself in but it’s getting harder by the minute.
“It’s okay,” he says, but I shake my head adamantly as an onslaught of tears spring from my eyes.
“It’s not okay,” I cry. “I work my ass off but it’s never enough and now I can’t even afford to take care of myself and I’m sorry you seem to have picked a real winner but I can’t afford insurance and I won’t even have a fucking home in three weeks so please, just…
I don’t know. A band-aid maybe? It’ll stop bleeding eventually and then I’ll be fine.
I’m sorry I got caught up in my emotions.
I don’t want to take up any more of your time.
You deserve to spend time with your broth—”
His mouth covers mine, silencing my words mid-sentence.
I freeze in shock as his hands gently cup my face, his thumbs brushing away my tears.
The kiss isn’t demanding or passionate, it’s tender, almost reverent, like he’s trying to absorb some of my pain.
When he pulls back, his eyes are intense, focused entirely on me.
“Stop,” he whispers. “Just stop for a second.”
My lungs stutter as I try to catch my breath, words dying in my throat.
“I don’t want to spend time with my brothers right now,” he continues, his thumbs gently wiping tears from my cheeks. “I want to be with you. That’s why I came to the bar tonight. For you, Sutton. Not for anyone else.”
I blink, more tears spilling over. “But—”
“No buts,” he interrupts, his gaze never wavering.
“I’ve been where you are.” He shakes his head.
“Okay maybe not me personally, but my parents. There’s no judgement here, okay?
Never. I’m going to take care of your hand, and we’re going to figure out everything else.
Together. But right now, I need you to breathe. Can you do that for me?”
I nod, my breath coming in shuddering gasps as I try to follow his instruction. His hands are warm against my face, anchoring me when everything else feels like it’s spinning out of control.
“In through your nose,” he coaches gently. “Out through your mouth.”
I try to match my breathing to his, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. The pain in my hand throbs with each heartbeat, but it feels distant now, secondary to the weight crushing my ribs.
“My apartment building got sold,” I whisper, the words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Everyone has to be out by the end of the month. And Frank died alone in his apartment, and nobody found him for two days, and the food pantry was empty, and I had to turn people away, and—”
“Shhh,” Shepherd soothes, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. “One thing at a time, okay? I promise you’re going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen to you but let’s focus on one thing at a time. First, we take care of your hand.”
“I can’t go to the hospital,” I whisper into his shirt. “Please, Shepherd.”
He’s quiet for a moment, his hand moving to the back of my neck, his thumb tracing gentle circles at the base of my skull. “I know where to go. Do you trust me to help you?”
“You don’t have to help me.”
“I want to, Sutton.” He lifts my head from his shoulder so he can look me in the eye, and when he does his expression is pained. “Please, let me.”
“I…”
You trust him.
You like him.
Just let him help.
Allow yourself this reprieve just this once.
“Yes, of course, I trust you, Shepherd.”
“Okay.” He nods. “Good. Keep pressure on this gauze, okay? We’ll be there in less than five minutes.”
Shepherd circles the front of his SUV, phone in hand, as he hops into the driver’s side and buckles his seatbelt. A phone rings through his car stereo and when it’s answered on the third ring, there’s a man on the other end of the line.
“What’s the word, Shep?”
“Hey Jamal. You still hanging around down there?”
“Yep. Loading supplies.”
“Great. I’ll be there in five. I need your help.”
He pushes a button and ends the call and then we’re on the road headed who knows where.
The car moves smoothly through the streets, each pothole sending a jolt of pain through my hand.
I’m trying to focus on breathing, on not completely falling apart in Shepherd’s pristine SUV, but everything feels like it’s spinning out of control.
“Where are we going?” I manage to ask, my voice small and raw.
“The training facility,” he answers, his eyes flicking between me and the road. “Our medical staff is still there. Jamal’s one of our trainers. He can stitch you up properly.”
“But I’m not—”
“Don’t worry about it. You’re with me,” he says simply, like that explains everything.
Like that’s enough.
And maybe just this once, it is.