Chapter 7 #3
"They both died. The motorcycle rider was killed instantly, but the—the fucking—the driver of the sedan…
" I close my eyes, but I keep seeing it again and again.
"She was just a kid, Lace. Just a fucking kid with her whole life ahead of her.
Killed because some fucking tool with a Ninja wanted to get his rocks off riding like a fucking maniac in broad daylight.
She was pinned, and we couldn't get her out in time.”
"Cole," Lacey whispers again.
"I held her hand and told her it was gonna be okay.
" It’s all just pouring out—I never talk about work with anyone, but now that I've started, I can't seem to stop.
"She was so scared. She knew she was dying and she was so—so fucking scared and I couldn't help her.
The car was so mangled around her that by the time the firefighters were able to cut her out, she had lost too much blood.
And I…I watched the light in her eyes…" My voice shakes. "And then I had to tell her parents."
"Jesus," she whispers. "I'm so sorry." A short pause. "Where do you live, Cole?"
"Where I've always lived," I say. "Home."
"The farm? You're still there?" She sighs. "I'll be right there."
"Lacey, you don't—" I start, but she's already hung up.
I'm too tired to move. I should get up and put on clothes. Make hot chocolate. Let her in. Something, anything, but I can't. I'm too tired, too wrecked. Sometimes, the emotional toll of this job is just too fucking much.
I hear tires on snow. I hear the kitchen door creak open—she hasn't forgotten where the spare keys are located, clearly. Feet on stairs. A door opens, closes—she thought I'd moved into the primary suite.
My door creaks open. “You're in the same room you grew up in? Why, Cole?"
"Dunno. Never got around to clearing out the big room." That’s not exactly the truth, but close enough
She stands in the middle of my room—as she pointed out, it's the same room I had as a boy.
I've since removed some of the posters I put up in my teenage years—the usual models in bikinis and rock bands.
But the bookshelves, the desk, it's all the same.
Just with more shit packed into every crevice and cranny
"I know, I know. It's pathetic."
I hear rustling and watch her peel out of her jacket and toe off her boots. She's in those tight black leggings again, and the same loose, baggy, off-the-shoulder crewneck sweatshirt—her version of loungewear, I suppose. Her long blonde hair is twisted up on top of her head in a messy knot.
She approaches my bed and perches on the edge. "Scootch."
I shimmy toward the wall, and she stretches out on the bed; she smells like vanilla and roses and lavender.
Lacey cradles my head in her hands and gently but firmly shifts my head to her lap.
I resist at first, but only for a second.
Her thighs are soft under my cheek, and when her fingers slip into my hair and idly scratch my scalp, I unintentionally let out a low groan of pleasure.
"Take a breath, Cole." Her voice is a soft whisper. "One deep breath in." I take a breath and hold it. "Talk to me."
"Can't," I bite out.
My throat is too tight. My chest is too tight. My eyes burn. It's all I can do to keep from shattering, and that's just not possible.
"Who takes care of you, Cole?" It feels like a rhetorical question. "You take care of everyone else, but who takes care of you?"
She trails her fingers through my hair, traces the shell of my ear, the line of my jaw. Her touch is too tender, too gentle, and it fucking hurts.
I grab her hand to stop it. "Lacey. Fuck—stop."
She twists her hand in my grip and somehow brings my hand to her lips.
Kisses the back of my knuckles. "Nope. You need this, Cole. I may not be what you want, but I’m what you’ve got.
” She places my hand on her thigh and resumes caressing my scalp, ear, and jawline.
"Just breathe. Relax. I've got you. You don't have to talk.
You don't have to do anything. But you're not alone. Okay?"
My eyes burn. "Fuck."
"It's alright. I won't tell anyone."
I can't help but snort a little laughter at that. "It's fine. No one would believe you anyway." I feel the tension ebbing away by increments with each soft, gentle touch of her fingers. "Why are you here, Lace? I mean right here, right now, with me, doing this?"
"Because I never stopped caring, Cole. Everything I did was because I never stopped luh—caring about you."
Well…shit.
I have roughly a billion questions and thoughts rambling in my skull and banging around in my heart, but my tongue is too thick and my heart too heavy.
"You did everything you could, Cole. I know you well enough to know that much is true."
"It wasn't enough."
"I know."
"Her name was Twyla Brunswick. She was seventeen. She liked chai lattes and dancing with her friends to K-Pop."
"You did everything you could, and sometimes it's just not enough, and that's not your fault."
"My job is to save people."
"Not everyone can be saved, Cole. You're not God."
"God doesn't save everyone, either."
"Trust me, I'm aware. God and I have had our share of disagreements on that score." Her fingers touch my lips. "Rest. Close your eyes. I've got you."
I let my eyes close. Let her subtle scent and soft thighs and her warmth and her gentle touch lull the ache in my heart for poor innocent Twyla Brunswick.
When I sleep, it is mercifully dreamless.