Chapter Eight #2
I tried to sit up, but my body disagreed. I ended up sort of propped on my elbows, sheet tangled around my hips. My heart was going about twice as fast as a normal human heart was supposed to go.
Knox’s shoulders relaxed, just a little. He turned back to me, the lines of his face in shadow, eyes narrowed.
“Stay here,” he said, which was the dumbest instruction ever, because there was absolutely no force on earth that could have moved me off this bed at that exact moment.
I watched him get dressed, quick and efficient, pulling on sweatpants and a faded tank top. He didn’t look back at me, but I could feel the heat of his attention, as if the back of my head was suddenly a solar panel.
I wondered, for a wild second, if I should have been more scared. If I should have panicked at the possibility of being found out, exposed, thrown back to the wolves.
Instead, I just felt a weird, electrical charge running under my skin. I wanted to see who was at the door. I wanted to know what would happen next.
But most of all, I wanted to stay exactly where I was, in the warm, crumpled sheets that still smelled like sweat and cedar and possibility.
I burrowed deeper, listening as the front door opened downstairs, followed by the low rumble of voices—one unmistakably Knox, the other familiar, but harder to place.
I waited, and waited, until the adrenaline drained out of me and all that was left was the memory of Knox’s mouth on my neck and the knowledge that, whatever happened next, I would remember this night for the rest of my life.
If this was going to be the aftermath, I’d take it. And if anyone came looking, well, I was ready to be found.
My theory about post-traumatic bliss was put to the test approximately five minutes later, when Ransom’s voice hit the door at roughly the same decibel as a tornado siren.
“Knox!” he yelled, pounding the wood with his meaty fist. “Sheriff’s here. And he’s got company.”
That was all it took for my pulse to jump from “gentle afterglow” straight to “hummingbird on meth.” My stomach did a perfect floor-dive; my hands went slick and useless. I froze on the bed, sheet hiked up to my hips, mind gone instantly, humiliatingly blank.
Company meant one thing—my father or maybe Luther. Either was bad news for my continued existence as a free-range gay.
I tried to move, but it was like my whole body was made of jello, the off-brand kind with extra gelatin and no flavor. My teeth started to chatter.
Knox was back at the side of the bed in one stride, his face a hundred percent military, no-nonsense, mission parameters engaged. He reached for me and I latched on, fingers digging into the muscles of his forearm like a very desperate, very panicked squirrel.
“He’s going to take me back,” I stammered. My voice sounded like it belonged to a much younger, much less dignified version of myself. “My dad—he’ll make me—I can’t—”
Knox crouched beside the bed and put both hands on my shoulders, squeezing until the shaking was mostly happening in my brain instead of my limbs.
“Breathe,” he said, his voice dialed so low it was more vibration than sound. “Look at me.”
I tried. I really tried. My vision was weirdly narrow, everything tunnel-focusing on his jaw, the way it flexed and set, the slight tick under his left eye that said someone was about to have a very, very bad day.
“Listen,” he said, waiting until I’d sort of met his gaze. “He’s not taking you anywhere. You’re with me, remember?”
It was so simple, so unyielding, that it made my panic pause for a split second, just long enough to let me breathe again.
I believed him. Not because I wanted to, but because Knox said it in the way you said the sky was blue or the sun would rise.
It was a fact, immutable, and even my anxiety knew better than to argue with that kind of gravity.
I swallowed. “He’ll try. He’ll—he’ll bring paperwork, or the law, or—”
“He can bring the entire fucking National Guard,” Knox said, voice still calm but now underlaid with steel. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not going back.”
I felt something bloom in my chest, warm and dangerous, almost as strong as the terror that had set up shop there a minute ago.
Nobody had ever said anything like that to me—not a friend, not a lover, not even a guidance counselor when I’d tried to explain, years ago, why I didn’t want to go home after graduation.
I wanted to say something, to thank him, to tell him I was okay now and that he could go back to being the world’s sexiest lumberjack.
But I couldn’t get the words out without also crying, which was unacceptable on several levels.
Instead, I just nodded, very fast and very hard, and gripped his wrist like it was the only thing keeping me from drifting off into space.
The voices downstairs grew louder. I recognized Ransom’s, then the sheriff’s—steady, bored, like he’d already solved whatever problem had shown up on the porch and was just waiting to get back to his pie.
There was another voice, too. My father’s. I knew it immediately. It had the same edge it always did when he was in public, the careful, fake concern, all syrup and no sweetness.
Knox looked toward the door, then back at me. “You want to get dressed, or you want to stay here?”
That was a trick question. If I went down there, I’d have to face my father and the sheriff and probably half the population of McKenzie River Valley. If I stayed, I’d seem cowardly. Also, I’d be alone.
The answer was obvious.
I started to get up, realized I was still very, very naked, and grabbed for the nearest pair of sweatpants, which were not mine and at least three sizes too large.
I pulled them on, cinching the waist so I didn’t trip and die on the stairs.
Then I yanked the bedsheet up to my chin for extra dignity.
Knox didn’t laugh, but I saw the flicker at the corner of his mouth. “You look like a cult escapee,” he said, voice almost gentle.
I shrugged. “I am. You’re my getaway driver.”
He reached out, hand steady, and brushed a finger along my jaw. It was a small gesture, but it was the only thing holding me together.
The knock came again, more urgent this time. “Newt!” Ransom called, voice softer. “You coming out or should I tell them you’re sick?”
I wanted to say “sick with fear,” but that felt too on-the-nose, so I just nodded and followed Knox to the door, sheet clutched like armor.
The hallway was empty. Harlow stood at the foot of the stairs, arms crossed, his whole body radiating “Do not fuck with the McKenzies today.” I appreciated that more than I could say.
At the landing, Knox looked back at me, made sure I was still vertical, then led the way down the rest of the stairs and into the living room.
My father was there, standing beside the sheriff, suit pressed and hair immaculate, like he’d just come from a magazine shoot for “Men Who Emotionally Maim Their Children.” He took one look at me, in the sheet and the sweats, and his mouth twisted in a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“There you are, Newton,” he said, voice syrupy. “I was beginning to worry. Are you well? You look… pale.”
I forced a smile. “Just tired,” I said, which was not a lie. “Long night.”
The sheriff, who had the poker face of a granite statue, looked at me, then at Knox, then at my father. “Mr. Bridger was concerned for your welfare,” he said. “Said you hadn’t been in touch.”
I nodded. “I’ve been busy.” I risked a glance at Knox, who stood behind me, one hand resting lightly on my shoulder. The weight was reassuring, grounding.
My father took a step forward, like he was expecting to collect a package. “It’s time to come home,” he said. “You’ve caused quite a bit of trouble and we need to resolve it before things get out of hand.”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to scream it. But my tongue was made of lead.
Knox squeezed my shoulder. “He’s not going with you,” he said, voice low and final.
My father stared at him, then at the sheriff, then back at me. “Newton, be reasonable. This isn’t a place for you. You have obligations. Family. You can’t just—run away.”
I looked at the sheriff, hoping he’d say something. He just shrugged, like his job description didn’t cover complicated family disputes.
For a long second, nobody moved. My father’s face went dark, then cold, then blank. He turned on his heel, said something under his breath to the sheriff, and stormed out the front door. The sheriff lingered a moment, then gave me a look that was almost sympathetic.
“Call if you need anything,” he said, and left.
The second the door closed, my knees buckled. Knox caught me before I hit the floor, holding me upright with both arms, as if I weighed nothing at all.
“You okay?” he asked, for the third time that morning.
I nodded, but then the embarrassment hit, hard and fast, like a migraine. “Oh god,” I said, pressing the sheet to my face. “Do you think the sheriff heard us?”
Ransom, leaning in the kitchen doorway, said, “Buddy, the whole county heard you.”
I groaned, wishing for the sweet release of unconsciousness. Knox laughed, the rare, thunderous one, and it was so full of pride and something almost like happiness that I forgot to be mortified for a second.
I looked at him, really looked, and realized that I was still scared, but less than before. I had backup. I had someone in my corner. Maybe that was enough. Maybe, for the first time in my life, I could let myself believe it.
I let go of the sheet, straightened up, and faced the door.
Whatever happened next, I was ready.
But next time, I was going to soundproof the damn bedroom.