Chapter 17
WHIZ
Just… not this.
Zoey’s words ring in my ears long after she said them. I should’ve run in the other direction, gotten as far away from her as possible, but I didn’t. I couldn’t. Because the cold hard truth is I didn’t want to be alone. Which is how I ended up here, in the cabin.
I’ve been here dozens of times, but somehow, the cabin feels smaller with her in it.
Nothing about the space has changed. It’s the same worn couch, same narrow kitchen, same one bedroom, one bath structure. But tonight, there’s a charge in the air that changes it all.
Zoey moves around like she’s been here for years. I watch as she opens cabinets, checks what she brought in earlier, pulls something from the fridge. She’s comfortable, I realize.
Too comfortable.
“Do you eat like a normal person?” she asks without looking at me, setting something on the counter. “Or is it all whiskey and bad decisions?”
I lean back against the arm of the couch, studying her instead of answering right away. “Depends on who’s asking.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“Didn’t ask for one,” I mutter.
She huffs under her breath, but all I gather from it is acknowledgment. She keeps moving, putting together something simple to eat. There’s nothing fancy in her actions, nothing that matches the effort she put into Undertaker’s prep, but there’s still intention.
Everything she does has intention, and it’s getting harder and harder to stop watching her.
“Food’ll be ready in a few,” she says, glancing toward me. “Try not to die before then.”
“I’ll do my best,” I reply dryly.
She rolls her eyes, grabbing a towel as she heads toward the hallway. “I’m gonna shower real quick.”
“Take your time,” I say.
She hesitates for a split-second, then shakes her head slightly and disappears down the short hall without saying anything else.
I listen for the snick of the bathroom door closing, for the groan of the pipes when she turns the water on. My eyes drift toward the hallway, my body reacting to the thought of her naked.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face.
Get your shit together, man.
A few minutes pass, and I’m continually having to shift to find a more comfortable position. One that isn’t hampered by my raging boner.
A, B, C, D, E, F, G…
Her phone lights up and vibrates on the counter where she left it, and my mental recitation of the alphabet ceases.
I rise to my feet and cross the room to glance at the screen.
The name ‘Lori’ flashes, as it continues to ring, and then it stops.
The screen goes dark at the same time the water cuts off.
Dammit, I needed more time.
For what, I don’t know, but I’m not ready to face her again.
The bathroom door opens, and I fail miserably at not looking in her directions as she steps into the hall. Zoey’s hair is damn, and her skin is flushed from the heat of the shower. She’s wearing shorts and a tank top, neither of which should make her look as sexy as she does.
My cock jerks to attention… again. It’s impossible to pretend I don’t notice the way the fabric clings to her, the way her hair cascades over her shoulders, or the way she appears at ease in a way I haven’t felt in way too long.
She steps into the bedroom, and I adjust myself before she can see the effect she has on me.
“Sorry,” she says when she reappears. “I needed to wash the day off.”
She strides toward the kitchen counter, coming to a stop across from me.
“You missed a call,” I say as she reaches for the device.
Her hand freezes in mid-air, and her expression morphs from relaxed to wary. “Who?” she asks, and her tone betrays the fact that she already knows the answer.
“Lori.”
Zoey lowers her hand to pick up her phone, and her knuckles turn white from the force of her grip. She glances at the screen for a second, then presses the button on the side to lock it before setting the cell back on the counter.
The Zoey standing in front of me right now is not the Zoey I’m used to seeing. She’s erected walls that even the most skilled climber couldn’t scale. She’s closed off, guarded.
I don’t fucking like it.
“What?” she snaps after a few minutes.
I move around the counter to stand closer. “Who’s Lori?”
“None of your business.”
“Yeah,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not gonna work.”
Her eyes flash. “Excuse me?”
“You ask me questions all day long,” I continue, taking a step closer. “About the job. About the club. About things you know I can’t tell you. And now you’re telling me I don’t get to ask one?”
“That’s not the same.”
“Explain,” I fire back.
She shakes her head frantically. “No.”
“Then I’m gonna keep asking.”
Frustration flickers in her eyes. “Why do you even care?”
That stops me cold because I don’t have a ready answer. Not one I’m willing to say out loud anyway.
Instead, I deflect. “You want answers?” I ask, and she nods apprehensively. “We can trade.”
She narrows her eyes. “Trade what?”
“One question for one question. One answer for one answer,” I reply. “I’ll even give you something real about me. You get that, and I’ll get an explanation as to why you actually moved across the country for a job listing that barely explained anything.”
She opens her mouth, closes it. Opens it and closes it again which tells me I’m on to something.
“Fine,” she says after a second. “But you go first.”
I almost back out of the trade. I don’t want to give her something real, don’t want to expose myself to her. The problem with backing out is that I wouldn’t get the answers I want either.
“Undertaker wasn’t just my brother from the club,” I say quietly, hating the way my voice shakes.
“He trained me. Taught me everything I know about the road, the job… how to lead when it mattered and how to follow when it was necessary.” I take a few deep breaths.
“He did so much for me over the years, and in return, I got him killed,” I add.
The words sit between us, thick like a dense fog that rolls over the ocean in the early hours of the morning. I wait for Zoey to argue with me, to tell me that I’m crazy. I wait for her to make ridiculous suggestions on how the situation can be fixed.
Instead, she nods as if she understands, giving me an acceptance I didn’t even realize I craved.
“Your turn,” I say when the silence becomes too much.
She inhales deeply before exhaling. “Lori is my mom,” she says.
“She… expects things. Always has. Everything’s about what she needs, what she wants, what I should be doing for her.
” She pauses, glancing away briefly before forcing herself to continue.
“I couldn’t breathe anymore,” she admits. “So, when this job came up… I took it.”
I study her, really study her, taking in the tension she’s desperately trying to keep under control, the frustration buried underneath the false composure.
“You didn’t run,” I say without thinking. “You left.”
Her gaze snaps back to mine. “There’s a difference?”
“Yeah, there is.”
When silence returns, it isn’t filled with the same defensiveness, the same annoyance or anger.
“I should hate you,” I admit after beat.
Her brows knit with confusion. “Why?”
“Because it’d be easier,” I say. “Easier than…” I shake my head as if that’ll make the words tumble out faster. “Easier than feeling anything that doesn’t line up with the fact that I don’t deserve to be…”
I press my lips together in a flat line, unable to continue.
“To be okay?” she supplies.
I don’t respond, which is all the answer she needs.
“You don’t get to decide that,” she says.
I scoff. “Pretty sure I do.”
“No,” she counters. “You don’t get to punish yourself forever because something happened that you couldn’t control. That’s not how it works.”
“It was my call.”
“It wasn’t your intent.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“Intent matters,” she says firmly, locking her eyes on mine. “It matters because it’s the foundation for everything that comes after.”
I hold her gaze, unable to do anything but. “You really believe that,” I say.
“Yes,” she replies without hesitation.
I wait for the denial to rush in, for an argument to form, but neither happens. Instead, I let her words sink in, and for the first time since losing Undertaker, I feel something other than guilt and rage.
Maybe there’s hope for me yet.