21. Hugo
Chapter 21
Hugo
Three a.m. My own personal witching hour.
The time of nightmares, of dreams I cannot decipher and manufactured memories. Did my dad really promise to play catch with me that day before he left the house, or do I desperately want for it to have happened? Did he wear my favorite time-softened shirt, or have I dressed him in it because I can't recall the clothes he wore the day he died?
Punching at the pillow in an attempt to reinvigorate it, I flop back on my bed and place my forearm over my eyes. Just a couple more hours and I'll get up, start my day. Sometimes I fall asleep after the nightmares, but sometimes I don't. Those are extra coffee days.
Eyes closed, I think of Mallory. Glossy dark hair, straight nose, thoughtful and sharp mind. The way I feel when I'm around her is… confusing .
Never in my life have I been attracted to a pregnant woman. The swell of a pregnant belly is a telltale sign to a man that she is off-limits. But with Mallory, that's not the case.
I swear that sometimes, she's attracted to me, too. I've been around enough women to know what it looks like when they show outward signs of attraction, but Mallory displays none of those. She doesn't place her hand on my bicep, or tilt her head and look up at me with wide eyes like I've seen other women do. With Mallory, it's something in the air around her I can feel. Sense. Smell.
How can that be? Like I said, she has me flummoxed.
On a low groan, I roll over and reach for my phone. There's no going back to sleep now. I'm too amped up from thinking about Mallory.
I'm in my internet browser typing Case Files in the search query when my phone lights up with a call.
Mallory.
Adrenaline shoots through me. I slam my finger down on the screen to answer.
"Mallory," I demand, knowing she'd have no good reason to call me in the middle of the night.
"Hugo," she sobs, and something rips through my chest. Primal and raw, an instinct to defend and protect.
I haul aside the sheets, rise swiftly from my bed. "What happened?"
"I-I couldn't sleep, I—" she sobs again, and it hits me. She isn't sad. She's terrified.
"What? You what?" I ask through a jaw so clenched it aches. With my phone trapped between my shoulder and my ear, I shove my legs through my jeans.
"I need to leave this place," she whispers .
"Olive Township?" Those two words, strangled, reveal how I've come to care for her in such little time. How much I could care for her if she stayed.
"The Olive Inn," she says.
"Mallory," I say, forcing calm into my voice. I'm on quick feet down the hall, grabbing my wallet and keys off the kitchen counter. A light jacket from the hall closet. "What. The. Hell. Happened?" If somebody hurt her, I'll do things I never thought myself capable of.
It hasn't been more than a minute since her call, but I'm already in my car, driving toward town, my path lit by a full moon night. I pass the big house, and the light in my mom's bedroom turns on. No doubt she'll be calling me soon, wanting to know where the hell I'm going, and why I'm driving with such urgency.
"I couldn't sleep. Yesterday was Maggie's birthday, so I grabbed my phone to look at old photos of her." Mallory's voice is steadier now, and she takes a deep breath. "When I opened my photo app, I found photos of me sleeping."
What the fuck?
"The photos were timestamped and I'm in the same pajamas now."
Rage sweeps through me in a way I've never felt. I've spent years fencing, facing opponents in a bout, wielding objects that could fillet a man if not blunted, but with such civility. There is nothing civil about the way I feel now.
"What's the timestamp?" I ask, passing under the Summerhill sign and taking the turn for town .
"12:43," she says, voice breaking.
"Pack your things," I instruct. "I'm coming to get you. Stay on the phone." The gas pedal hits the floor.
It's a twenty-minute drive from Summerhill to town. Straight desert roads and unobstructed views allow me to arrive in far less time.
I swing my car up to the curb in front of Olive Inn, hopping out and jogging to the front door. My primary focus is getting to Mallory, but I'm halfway across the lobby when a man walks out from a set of doors behind the front desk.
"Do you need something?" he asks, glaring at me.
I change course, steering his way. "Who has access to the guest rooms? You?"
He pales. The guy is the least physically threatening person I've ever encountered, but desperate people do weird shit, so I know better than to be too aggressive.
"Only the g-guests," he stutters.
Bracing my palms on the front desk, I lean over it. "And who else?"
"The manager has a master key," he answers, fear in his eyes.
"Are you the manager?"
Reluctantly, he says, "I'm the night manager."
I'm aware that in this moment, I have no way to prove he's the person who let himself into Mallory's room and took pictures of her sleeping. Mallory's the priority now, so I push off the desk. "If I find out you're the one who did it, I'll make you wish you hadn't."
Then I'm racing on through the lobby, and behind me he yells, "Did what?"
I'm done spending time on that fuck. I need to put my eyes on Mallory, make sure she's ok. Her and Peanut. Can the baby feel her fear? The spike of her adrenaline?
I reach her room and knock on the door. "It's me," I call out.
"Hugo." Mallory's relief seeps through the cheap wood.
On the other side of the door are sounds of Mallory pulling aside the table I told her to push against the door while I was racing here.
The snick of a lock.
The dip of a door handle.
The door swings open and there she is, eyes red and puffy, but teeming with outrage. Her pajamas are a matching set, yellow like a dandelion and covered in a floral print. Her breasts spill from the low-cut top. Somebody entered her private space, leered at her wearing a piece of clothing she felt comfortable sleeping in. My hands ball into fists. Was it that son of a bitch night manager? Who else could it have been?
Mallory takes one look at me and her face crumples, as if she was using her fury to get her through until it was safe for her to feel her other feelings.
I'm there, stepping into the room, folding her into my chest. Her head cradles into my neck, her breath hot against the fabric of my shirt.
"Someone was in my room," she whispers. "While I was in it. Sleeping." One sob. "With my baby. "
I look down past the curtain of dark hair, watch the possessive pass of her hand over her stomach.
"What if they had hurt us?"
Closing my eyes against the thought, I run my hand down her back, all the way to the pronounced lower dip, returning. "You are both safe, and that's what matters."
Her answering nod is tiny, causing her lips to skim my chest. My heart constricts. My throat, too.
"Is your stuff packed?" I ask her.
"Yes," she answers, taking a step away.
But I don't want her to. I want to keep her in the circle of my arms, where I can make sure she and Peanut are safe.
She motions toward the bed, where there are two bags. I recognize one from that first day I accompanied her to the inn, mad as hell about her subterfuge but determined to treat her well.
I stride forward, lifting the bags from the bed. After a quick double-check of the bedroom and the bathroom, I swipe a paper grocery bag from the table. One look inside tells me it holds her collection of snacks. There's enough in there to fill a pantry, and my heart swells at that. She doesn't want a repeat of what happened at the festival.
My gaze turns to Mallory, and I watch a chill sweep over her skin. Dropping everything I'm holding to the ground, I pull off my jacket. Wordlessly she turns, sliding her arms into the jacket, allowing me to zip it. I reach behind her neck, fist her silky hair, pulling it out from where it's trapped. My jacket swallows her, and if I'm lucky, it'll absorb some of her scent .
"Thank you," she whispers.
I pick up the bags, saying, "No problem." I hear how gruff I sound.
Normally I'd guide her through the door and let her go first, but considering tonight's events, I'm walking out first. If anybody is going to encounter someone with bad intentions, it's going to be me.
No such thing occurs. We have to walk back through the lobby to leave, or use the emergency door at the end of the hall, which will set off an alarm.
Lobby it is. I take Mallory's hand, pull her in tight to my side.
The guy behind the desk stands up when we enter. Mallory's hand grips mine, her other hand coming up to grasp my arm. Her entire body grows rigid. She suspects it was him .
We sail through the small space, eyes forward, until he says, "If you're leaving, you need to complete the checkout process."
"Fuck off," I say clearly, never breaking my stride or looking his way.
Mallory's head turns in to me, face partially pressed to my arm. "Thank you again," she whispers.
Anytime .
Forever.
Always.
What is wrong with me?
"No problem," is what I manage to choke out.
Once she's situated in my passenger seat, she exhales, long and loud .
"Do you think it was him?" I ask. She nibbles the side of her thumb, looking at the inn through her window.
"He's given me the creeps since I met him." She shrugs. "But I suppose there isn't a way to know for sure. I'm not sure if they have cameras, and if they do that would require reviewing footage. To do that we would need?—"
"The police," I finish. "Do you want to involve them?"
She's quiet for a moment, thinking. "No. I don't want to draw attention to myself. I want to lie low."
I disagree, but I know better than to push. I've learned Mallory has a reason for doing things.
She sighs. "I guess I'll need to see if the spa hotel has a vacancy."
I turn right off the street where the inn sits, winding my way through town. I don't know if I've ever seen it like this, so sleepy and dark. Even my latest nights leaving King's Ransom were never this late. And my earliest mornings making my way to Canyon Lake to go fishing with Penn are never this early.
"What if you don't check in at the Sagewood hotel?"
Mallory chuckles, but it sounds more confused than actual laughter. "Ok, sure. I'll just break into a store and find a camping cot to sleep on."
An idea plays at my mind. Driven purely by a burning need to protect Mallory, I'd acted.
There was no consideration as to what would happen after I arrived.
I pass Sagewood. Mallory says nothing .
I pass the edge of Olive Township, where the commercial district ends. Mallory says nothing.
Now I'm on the road that skirts the town, delivering me to the road leading out to Summerhill.
"Hugo."
What is it I hear in her voice? Awareness. Exhaustion. Relief. Gratitude. "Where are you taking me?"
"Somewhere I can keep you and your baby safe."
"Home with you?"
A hot and heady mix of protectiveness and possessiveness grips me. After what happened, I can't imagine her being anywhere else. "You're coming home with me."
Mallory melts into the seat. Her face loses the look of worry. "You know what this means?"
The exhaustion in her voice mixes with a sliver of mischief. "What's that?"
"Your car is definitely not the Ciao Chariot anymore. It's the..." Her eyes squint. "Home Hooptie."
What am I doing laughing right now? The clock is well on its way to nearing five a.m. and someone I care about had their privacy violated and safety threatened. Mallory could be in tears right now. I could be raging. But I'm... smiling ?
I scoff. "You called my precious lady a hooptie ?"
Mallory's head lolls my direction as I follow the road leading up and around the big house. A tired grin pulls up one side of her mouth. "Good thing I didn't call her a jalopy . I couldn't come up with a corresponding j word fast enough. "
"Good to know your talent with alliteration has its limits."
Mallory yawns. "Try me again when I've had sleep."
We arrive at my house and I usher her inside. "There's a guest room down the hall from my bedroom. It has its own bathroom." I lead the way, setting her things down on the ivory crushed velvet bedspread. "I'm sure you're tired. Please make yourself at home. Mi casa es su casa."
"Gracias, me siento como en cása." She waits, face expectant.
I blink. "Oh, uh, that's almost all I can say. Well, that and the curse words. My sister and I did not live up to what the De la Vega name implies."
Mallory nods, lips pursed. A secret flits across her face.
My gaze narrows. Playful. "You're fluent, aren't you?"
She grins impishly. "Sí."
All I can do is laugh. Of course she is.
Mallory pulls off my jacket, craning her neck to look into the attached bathroom.
"Anything you need, toiletries, food, whatever, we'll go get it later today, ok? I have a full day, but I'll make room. Besides, we need to get your car from the hotel. I—" My palm runs over the back of my neck. How do I explain the fear, the panic, the horror I felt at the idea of something happening to her? "I needed you out of there as fast as possible."
Mallory steps into me, her arms encircling my waist, wrapping around my back. "Thank you," she says, her face against my shirt. The press of her breasts sends my heartbeats into a thunder, but the round stomach I feel against my own reminds me Mallory is someone to be careful with.
My arms wrap around her, palms flat on her back, holding her in the friendliest way possible. I'll be honest, it fucking pains me.
We stay this way a bit longer, until she yawns again.
"You'd better get some rest," I say gently, and she breaks the embrace.
"Let's talk more tomorrow. Or, later today, I guess." She looks longingly at the bed.
"You're welcome to anything you find in the kitchen. I'll probably be gone by the time you wake up."
She nods. The adrenaline has worn off.
I retreat, pulling the door closed behind me.
Checking my phone, I see my mom's text from right around the time I was leaving Summerhill. She's probably asleep by now, but I know she keeps it on silent, so I shoot her a quick message telling her I'll explain it all later when I see her.
My bed is rumpled, sheets askew. Evidence of the way I shot from bed, panicked. I lie down, close my eyes.
She's safe now .
I say it over and over, but it makes no difference. I am too keyed up to sleep.
I take a shower, pull on the canvas pants I favor for work. Padding down the hall, I notice the light under Mallory's door is out. Good. She needs to rest.
Making a pot of coffee, I step out front with my first cup to witness the sunrise. My father used to say he liked to watch the orchard wake up. The older I get, the more I understand what he meant. Buttery, fresh sun pours over the trees. The limbs yawn and stretch, absorb the sunlight, take the energy and store it to produce the fruit we'll harvest in late fall.
Before my eyes, Summerhill blossoms, the same as it does everyday.
But not totally.
Today, a woman lies in my guest room.
Summerhill might look the same, and so do I in my typical work uniform, but inside my chest something shifts.
Most notable, perhaps, is how much I don't fear the movement.