Chapter 8 - Bolton
BOLTON
My eyelids feel so heavy.
Where am I?
The ceiling is high above me, and the walls are rotted wood. Maybe a barn? Or a warehouse?
I tried to wake up a few times, but drifted back into sleep.
I think they drugged me because I don’t feel normal.
Everything seems slower. Heavier. Wrong.
This time, I push myself to keep my eyes open.
My hands and arms are bloody and bruised.
I lift my shirt slightly, finding bruises and scrapes on my stomach.
When I wince at the sight of them, my entire face radiates with a sharp pain, like when I broke my nose in high school.
I don’t need a mirror to know my face probably looks worse than the rest of me. My entire body aches, like I got beat with a fucking brick.
Sleep tries to take me again, and the only reason I fight to stay awake now is because I heard his name.
“Do you think Melton will make his death quick?” A deep male voice with a Bronx accent asks.
“No. This little fucker cost him over a million in damages.” A raspy, older voice says.
“I heard the building has so much smoke damage, it has to be gutted and redone,” the first voice comments.
“And all the girls are gone. Somehow two guys freed twelve girls, and all they did was punch a bouncer.”
“Fucking epic,” the Bronx guy laughs.
“Not for the boss. They embarrassed him. He’ll make this guy’s death slow and painful. Watch and pick up some pointers, youngin’.”
Tears stream down my face, and the cuts on my cheeks sting. They’re going to fucking kill me. I wish I had listened to Cal—he’d have made a plan to avoid consequences like this.
I wish I had never left him in our apartment.
He’s probably worried sick at home, wondering where I am. Or worse, he’s packing up my stuff, so it’s ready to be shipped to the cabin. Maybe he’ll finally realize how I’m not good enough for him.
“Looks like the little thief is awake,” a third, distinct voice sounds. It has a softer, Southern accent. The kind you’d always hear on television growing up.
Turning my head, I shift in my chair so I can see who is talking. Without an introduction, I know this is Melton. The way his beady eyes center on me—the anger roaring in them—is the expression of a man who wants to kill someone.
“Hello, Bolton! Thank you for joining us!” he cackles, the shrillness of his laughter cutting through my nerves like a knife. “So I hear you and your husband caused us over a million dollars in profit loss. Possibly more.”
I don’t answer him. Because honestly, it doesn’t matter what I say. I won’t convince this loser to let me live. I won’t get the chance to tell Cal I love him. I’ll never be able to apologize.
“Come on, tell me all about it. Was it a little date night for you two? Or were you getting revenge for Eloise?”
“Don’t say her fucking name.” My voice croaks from thirst.
“Did you know, Cal’s father knew…he knew the kind of man Eloise was marrying. The things he did. He knew the way her husband treated her.”
“Shut the fuck up,” I wheeze. There’s no threat to the words. It’s hard to be menacing when your entire body hurts.
“I can see why Cal married you. You’re a little spitfire. And a firebug, apparently. I bet you really set his world ablaze.”
His henchmen laugh at his corny as fuck joke. For fuck’s sake, if this asshole is going to make dad jokes, this really will be a painful death.
“He really does,” a fourth voice rings out, loud and clear above the others. It can’t be him…please don’t let it be Cal.
“Callum Monroe. Glad you could join us.”
No! He should be at home asleep. Alive. If he’s here, he’s going to die too. I turn around again, my entire body protesting even the slightest movement. Cal wears all black, wearing the first mask we ever used together. Like a dark angel who came to save me.
“Me too, Maurice. Sorry, my team slaughtered all your guards.”
“No worries. People are replaceable. You’d do well to learn that lesson.” I’m not sure if Melton is referring to Eloise or to me. Regardless, the comment is enough to make Cal’s posture shift.
“My men surround this entire barn. They’re all armed. If you let Bolton go, I’ll make your death quick and painless. If you drag this out, I’ll make sure every one of you knows what it’s like to suffer. Eloise’s suffering will pale in comparison.”
“Were you eavesdropping on us, Callum? Did you hear how your father knew everything?”
Cal doesn’t respond. He’s too busy drawing his gun with lightning speed. The shot happened so fast, I missed it. Melton falls to the floor; more shots ring out. Other male voices fill the room, and a man in tactical gear picks me up from the floor.
“Mr. Monroe, I’m Guy Gamble. You have a lot of damage, and I’m concerned you have some internal bleeding because of your injuries. I’m going to give you a sedative until we can get you proper medical care.” His face is distorted, which confirms my earlier thought about being drugged.
“They drugged me.”
“You’re going to be okay, lightning bolt,” Cal promises me.
It’s not like him to make promises he can’t keep.
I’m not sure how long it’s been since the night Cal rescued me. The days blur together when you’re concussed in the hospital. I spend most of my time sleeping or eating when I can stomach it.
Turns out the drugs Melton gave me dulled most of my pain. They also altered my memory. I can’t remember being beaten up, and Cal and his team rescuing me is a piecemeal of events.
I also don’t remember Cal coming to visit me much. He’s been here once. He didn’t say a word to me—he just sat in the chair and stared at me. I guess I can’t blame him. He probably realized I’m more trouble than I’m worth.
Eventually, I’ll have to leave the hospital. The penthouse is Cal’s, but I own the cabin. Recovering up there wouldn’t be a hardship—all the fresh air and quiet would do me good. Being there alone without Cal would be painful. More painful than any of my injuries.
As if my thoughts summoned him, Cal walks in the room. He sits in the chair, as far away from me as he can get. His face is blank, expressionless. I can’t read him, and it scares me. He must hate me.
“You’re being discharged today.”
“Oh.” I guess I should be happy about it. The food here fucking sucks, and no one enjoys being in the hospital. But going home means facing my clusterfuck of a marriage.
“As soon as you’re discharged, we’ll leave.”
“It should only take you a couple of hours to drop me off at the cabin from here.” Hopefully, I have some clothes to wear there because I don’t think I can handle going back to the penthouse to pack my things right now.
“I should have been clearer—we’re going home. To the penthouse. Together.”
“Why? You made it very clear you’d not want me anymore,” I snap, unsure of where my anger came from. I sit up more in my hospital bed, so I look less pathetic.
“Excuse me?” he asks.
“You barely came to visit me in the hospital; I haven’t heard a word from you. You’re sitting in a stupid chair all the way over there instead of coming to my bed. Yeah, you made yourself clear, Callum.”
He gets up, dragging the chair to my bedside. He takes a deep breath, holds it before he exhales, just like we learned in therapy.
“I said fucked-up things to you. You gave me your ring back and told me to leave you alone. That I’d never see you again if I so much as texted you.
Then you were taken, beaten, and drugged because of a vendetta I involved you with.
I assumed you didn’t want me around.” He wrings his hands together, frowning.
“It took all the self-control I have to only visit you while you slept.”
“If we were fictional characters in one of my books, my readers would hate us—we’re a miscommunication trope wrapped up in red flags.”
“I don’t know what that means…” he says, a tremor of uncertainty in his voice.
“It means we need to communicate more directly. What you said hurt. But I overreacted by leaving. As soon as I took a minute to think, I regretted it.”
“You didn’t overreact. I was being an asshole. I should never have said those things to you, and I’m sorry. Is that direct enough for your readers?”
I lean forward slowly so I don’t aggravate my back and take his hand. “Yes.”
His other hand covers mine. “Are you coming home?”
“Yes. No matter what happens between us, I’ll always come back to you, daddy.”
Cal leans over and kisses me lightly on the lips. I grip his forearm, wanting more. One little peck is not enough.
“You’re not getting anything more from me until you’re cleared for intimacy. But I can give you this.”
He pulls a small black box out of his pocket. His fingers brush my wrist when he passes it to me, and I shiver from the contact.
I open it. My regular gold ring is there, but there’s a second ring, too. It’s a matching eternity diamond band. I take it out and hold it up to the light, marveling at all the sparkly diamonds.
“Cal is beautiful, thank you.” I cry, because he’s always so fucking thoughtful.
“Oh, I got you this, too.” He passes me a longer, thinner box. This one contains a matching diamond and emerald tennis bracelet. “I know you don’t like extravagant gifts, but I had to buy it. Finding your birthstone at a clarity like that is rare, and I wasn’t passing that up.”
I didn’t even know emeralds were the May birth stone. I think the sales woman at the jewelry store got him, but I don’t say that.
“I love it.” I put on my rings and hand the bracelet back to Cal. “For safe keeping. As soon as we’re out of here, I’ll wear it.”
I didn’t realize how wrong it felt not to wear my wedding ring until I put it back on. I’m never taking it off again.
“The third surprise is the best, though.”
“Oh my God, Cal. You really are trying to be Santa. Do you want me to sit on your lap for this one?”
“I thought the Santa comparisons stopped after Christmas.” He rolls his eyes, and I laugh. He’s nuts if he thinks I’ll ever pass up the opportunity to make fun of him.
“It’s good to hear you laughing, Bolton,” Doctor Khan says. She wears her normal white lab coat and scrubs. “And thank you for the coffee and bagels, Mr. Monroe. The staff is enjoying themselves.”
Cal waves it off, because for him it’s not a heavy lift to provide the entire floor with breakfast. “Thank you all for taking such great care of him.”
The doctor goes over my discharge instructions. I hope Cal is paying attention because I’m too excited. I’m alive, and I get to go home with my husband.
After I get dressed, Cal helps me into the wheelchair. Apparently, this is a requirement if you’re leaving the hospital with a concussion and internal injuries.
As he wheels me to the elevators, he leans down, his mouth close enough to my ear that he gives it a little nip.
“As soon as you’re walking steady, I can give you the third gift.”
“What is it?” I hope it’s a dog. I’d love to have a little sassy corgi or one of those weird scrunchy pugs.
“You’ll see. It’s a surprise.”