26. Chapter 25
Chapter 25
Keaton
I’m going to kill him.
Fire burned in my veins as I stormed down the stairs and shoved through the crowd in the living room toward the open sliding door.
“Did Layne find you?”
Ignoring Wentworth, I pushed out into the open. Ian Larson was still where I’d knocked him out cold, although now responsive and sitting upright.
The desire to punch his mug a second time for touching my wife drove me toward him. I hauled him up from the grass by the neck—which wasn’t easy, given his bulk and height—slammed his back against a palm tree, and got in his face. “You touched the wrong man’s wife.”
“Easy, Keaton,” Dalton said from beside us. People were no doubt watching the scene unfold, probably even filming. I didn’t care if the media was going to have a field day with that footage. Nobody got away with assaulting my wife. Especially not a guy as unhinged as Ian Larson.
“Stay out of it,” I snarled at Dalton without taking my eyes off Ian.
My old college roommate’s face split into a diabolical grin. “Long time no see, Grady.”
I squeezed his neck a little harder, eliciting a gurgling. “What are you doing here, Ian?”
We hadn’t seen each other in a decade, then he showed up just like that? This wasn’t a coincidence.
“Congratulate you on your marriage,” he croaked. His nose had a kink in it, blood still streaming from it. “Your wife isn’t what I thought you would—”
I rammed his back into the palm tree a second time, then grabbed him by the collar of his polo shirt and jerked him toward me, our faces inches apart. “Don’t you dare talk about my wife. And I swear, if you ever lay a hand on her again . . .” I conveyed the rest of my threat with my eyes until Ian squirmed. Then I shoved him back and forced my breathing to slow. Almost rounded on him to finish what I’d started, but managed to dial it in.
“Is Diamond still your customer?” Ian asked as he gasped for air. The guy hadn’t changed one bit since our Harvard days. Still the same steroid-eating blond mop.
Still holding grudges.
“Why, are you sending more thugs to beat me into a pulp if I say yes?”
“You’re making assumptions.” Ian backed away as if scared I would punch him again for his ridiculous statement. We both knew he’d sent the thugs, and yes, maybe I’d deserved it after seducing the woman who should’ve signed with his amateur bourbon company. Instead, she’d chosen LGD after a night with me, and Ian had gone bankrupt.
“Get off my property,” I growled before I would do anything stupid. “And stay away from my wife.”
Ian took a few careful steps around me. “I feel sorry for her.”
“I’d keep my mouth shut if I were you.” Dalton grabbed him by the arm like he was a kid, then looked at me. “Mind if I kick him out?”
“Be my guest.” I watched my buddy practically drag Ian out of the crowd and around the house.
Scraping a hand over my mouth, I let out a curse. Him showing up changed everything. I hadn’t even considered that the threats could come from him, but now . . . He definitely had a motive.
I needed to look into him. See if I could find out what he’d been up to over the past few years.
My gaze snapped to Layne’s window. She hadn’t looked good earlier. Had to check on her.
I sprinted back up to her room, and although I closed the door behind me, the raging party penetrated. She still lay on the bed the way she’d collapsed onto it, her back to me. The light coming from the pool and torches in the backyard reflected on the cheek facing up. Wet cheek. Tears.
“What’s going on?” I walked over to the bed and settled at the foot. Hated that she was crying. “What did he do?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“Pain.”
“What pain?”
She took her time with answering. “My muscles and bones hurt. I have a headache. Everything’s too bright and too loud. My brain feels like it’s going to explode.”
I frowned. “Do you have the flu or something?”
“No, just the usual symptoms.”
“The usual—” I stared at her. Nothing about this was usual. “What triggers them?”
“Overdoing it physically or mentally. When I eat something wrong. Sensory overload . . . Sometimes they flare for no reason.” Her voice sounded weaker with every word, her tongue dragging.
Sensory overload. Light and sound. She was feeling like crap because of me. Because I—
Cursing, I punched to my feet. Stormed out of the room and down the stairs.
“The party is over!” I barked over the racket of music, laughter, and chatter. “Get out of my house! NOW!”
Ignoring the questioning and dirty looks, I fought my way to the pool. Caught the DJs eye and made a throat-cutting gesture.
He killed the music and picked up the mic. “The host is ending the party, friends. Time to go home.”
The crowd didn’t receive the message well, but they filed out anyway. Within fifteen minutes, I’d kicked them all out and sprinted the stairs back up to Layne’s room, not even thinking twice about having to go to the upper floor. Again, she was in the same position like I’d left her.
“I’m sorry, Layne.” Despite the still damp shorts and dress shirt, I climbed into her bed. I laid down behind her and wrapped an arm around her. Relished the way her back molded against my chest. “I’m sorry, okay?”
“Don’t.” The one word was so quiet I could barely hear her.
“Don’t what?”
“Touch.”
I blinked. What . . .
Letting her go, I rolled on my back and stared at the ceiling. My own wife didn’t want me to touch her.
“Please go,” she whispered.
Man, all right.
I slipped from the bed and out of the room. Threw one last glance inside, then shut the door. Downstairs, I navigated my way through empty glasses, clothes, and beach balls to the bar by the pool. The scene presenting itself out here perfectly mirrored my soul—used and littered with junk.
I leaned over the counter to grab a half-full bottle of Family Reserve. After pouring myself a glass, I settled on the lounge. I’d been so sure my heart was too rotten to feel anything except emptiness and the transient kick I got out of being with a woman or throwing a party.
But I felt something now.
Rejection. I felt rejected.
It was an old feeling I was way too intimate with—I just hadn’t felt it in a very long time. Not since my teens.
I took a sip of Linc, then closed my eyes and leaned my head back. It cut deep. So freaking deep.
Meaning one thing—I cared so much more about Layne than I knew I could be capable of.