Chapter 11 Koda
ELEVEN
KODA
I slam my truck door hard enough to rattle the windows.
The parking lot at Worthington Sports is half-empty this early, but my boots still find every patch of leftover ice, crunching through the morning silence.
It’s been less than two hours since I dropped Charlotte off, since I watched her walk away with her shoulders squared like she was marching to her own execution. I’m already fighting the urge to drive back to her apartment and beg her to forget everything we agreed on.
I slam my access card against the reader, yanking the door open before the light even turns green.
Inside, the gym smells like bleach and sweat and ambition.
Morning crowd is the usual mix—professionals getting in their cardio before work, trainers setting up for the day, a few fighters already working the bags in the back corner.
I keep my head down, beelining for the staff locker room, but it’s like someone flipped a switch. Suddenly, everyone’s noticing me, comments flying from all directions.
“Damn, Wilde, the mountain man finally discovered scissors!”
“Somebody call GQ, we’ve got a transformation story!”
I run a hand through my hair self-consciously.
Charlotte’s handiwork is still there, the careful layers falling just right. I can almost feel her fingers against my scalp, the way she’d bitten her lip in concentration while she cut, how proud she’d looked when she finished.
The memory makes my stomach clench.
Mike, one of the newer trainers, whistles as I pass.
“Hot date this weekend? You look like you actually slept in a bed instead of under a bridge.”
“Fuck off,” I growl, but there’s no real heat behind it.
I make it to the staff hallway before Dana appears, coffee mug in hand, phone tucked between her shoulder and ear. Her eyes widen when she sees me and her mouth drops open mid-sentence.
“I’ll call you back,” she tells whoever’s on the line.
She ends the call without waiting for a response. Then she circles me slowly, like I’m a sculpture she’s appraising.
“Holy shit, big brother. Look at you.”
I cross my arms, suddenly self-conscious under her scrutiny.
“What?”
“You look...” She gestures vaguely at all of me. “Human. Almost attractive, even. What the hell happened to you?”
Before I can answer, she grabs my arm, her manicured nails digging into my bicep as she drags me toward her office. I let her, too tired to resist. The moment the door closes behind us, she rounds on me.
“Where have you been? I texted you like fifteen times yesterday.”
I shrug, dropping into the chair across from her desk.
“My phone died.”
“Liar.” She narrows her eyes, studying me with the same laser focus she uses on balance sheets. “You slept with Charlotte, didn’t you?”
My head snaps up.
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t even try it.” She sits on the edge of her desk, arms crossed. “I know what you look like after a hookup, and this isn’t it. This is something else entirely.” She leans closer, eyes widening. “Wait, is that a hickey?”
I slap a hand to my neck, cursing under my breath.
Charlotte had left her mark on me sometime during our marathon night, a small bruise just below my collar. I’d forgotten all about it.
“Jesus, Dana. Can you keep your fucking voice down?” I glance at the door, half-expecting the entire staff to be lined up outside with their ears pressed to the wood.
“I knew it.” She sits back, voice gentler now. “That’s why you’ve been ignoring me. You finally made a move.” Then she grins. “I have to say I’m surprised. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“I didn’t make a move.” The words come out harsher than I intend. “The storm hit. Her car died. I gave her a place to stay. That’s it.”
Dana raises an eyebrow.
“And the hickey just appeared out of nowhere? What, did you accidentally fall on her mouth?”
I scrub a hand over my face, exhaustion settling deep in my bones.
“It was a mistake, okay? We both know it can’t happen again.”
“Why not?”
Dana’s question is simple, but the answer is anything but.
“Are you serious?” I stare at her. “She’s half my age. She’s Jason’s kid. You know, Jason? My best friend since we were in high school? The guy who would literally rip my head off if he knew I touched his little girl?”
Dana shrugs.
“So don’t tell him.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It could be.” She tilts her head as she studies me. “I’ve never seen you like this before.”
The comparison to my ex makes me flinch.
“This is different.”
“Exactly my point.” Dana leans forward, all business now. “Look, I’m not saying you should propose to the girl. But if she makes you happy—which, judging by the fact that you actually combed your hair for the first time in five years, she does—then maybe you shouldn’t be so quick to throw it away.”
“You didn’t see Jason’s face when he talked about her on the phone. The trust in his voice when he said she was in good hands with me.” The memory turns my stomach. “I betrayed him, Dana.”
“You slept with a consenting adult who happens to be his daughter.” Dana’s voice is gentle but firm. “That’s not betrayal. It’s complicated, yes. But it’s not a crime.”
“It feels like one.”
“Only because you’re determined to punish yourself for being happy.”
She stands and crosses to the small fridge in the corner of her office. She pulls out two water bottles and tosses one to me.
“When was the last time you actually let yourself have something good, Koda? Something that wasn’t boxing or this gym or that cabin you hide in?”
I crack open the water, suddenly parched.
“This isn’t about me.”
“It’s entirely about you.” Dana’s eyes are sharp. “You’ve spent the last five years convincing yourself you don’t deserve happiness. That it’s safer to be alone. And now someone comes along who makes you feel something, and you’re running scared.”
Her words hit too close to home.
I stand, needing space, needing air.
“I’m not having this conversation.”
“Fine.” Dana holds up her hands in surrender. “But answer me this. If she wasn’t Jason’s daughter, would you still be walking away?”
The question stops me cold.
I know the answer immediately, but saying it out loud feels like admitting defeat.
“No,” I finally mutter. “I wouldn’t.”
Dana’s expression softens.
“Then maybe it’s time to start thinking about what you want, instead of what everyone else wants from you.”
I leave her office without another word, her question echoing in my head like a challenge.
What do I want?
I want Charlotte. I want her smile and her laugh and the way she fits against me like she was made for my arms. I want mornings in my kitchen and nights in my bed and every moment in between.
But wanting isn’t having. And some wants come with prices too high to pay.
The next five days are absolute torture.
Five days of checking my phone every two minutes, of driving past the beauty school “on my way” to places I don’t need to be, of lying awake staring at the ceiling where I swear I can still see the outline of her body from when I threw her down on the bed and made her mine.
Now it’s Friday night, and my cabin feels emptier than it ever has.
Like she took something vital when she left, something I never knew I needed until it was gone.
I toss another log in the woodstove, watching the flames lick up the sides.
The whiskey in my glass is warming my hand but doing nothing for the cold that’s settled deep in my chest. Outside, the wind howls through the pines, a lonely sound that matches the hollow feeling in my gut.
I made it until Wednesday afternoon before breaking down and texting her.
I stared at my phone for twenty minutes, typing and deleting like a teenager with his first crush, before finally sending the most pathetic message possible: “Hey, just checking on you. How’s your car running?”
Her response came two hours later, polite and distant: “Hey, it’s going great, thanks!”
That’s it.
No questions about me, no hint that she was thinking about me, nothing to suggest that what happened between us meant anything more to her than a storm-induced mistake.
I read those five words about fifty times, looking for some hidden meaning, some secret code that might tell me she was feeling even a fraction of what I was.
There was nothing.
I toss back the whiskey, welcoming the burn.
The truth is, I’ve spent the entire week acting like a fucking stalker.
Monday, I circled her apartment complex on my way to work, just to make sure she got out okay.
Tuesday, I drove past the beauty school three times, telling myself I was checking that her car was running.
Wednesday was when I finally texted her, and Thursday I actually parked across the street from The Summit during her shift, watching the door like some psycho ex-boyfriend.
Today, I followed her from school to the grocery store, staying two cars back like I was conducting surveillance in a war zone instead of trailing a hair stylist in training.
I watched her load bags into her trunk, saw how tired she looked, how her shoulders slumped when she thought no one was looking. I almost approached her then, almost gave myself away, but a guy from the produce department came out to help her and I slunk away like the predator I am.
My phone sits on the coffee table, its screen dark.
I wonder what she’s doing right now.
If she’s at home with her roommate, laughing about her week, maybe getting ready to go out. Maybe she’s already found someone new, someone her own age, someone who doesn’t carry years of baggage and a best friend who would kill him if he knew the truth.
Maybe she’s already forgotten what it felt like when I touched her, when I tasted her, when I made her come apart in my hands.
The thought makes me want to put my fist through the wall.
I grab my phone, navigating to her number before I can talk myself out of it. My thumb hovers over the call button.
This is a bad idea.
The worst idea.
But I’m tired of pretending I can stay away from her, tired of acting like I don’t think about her every minute of every day.