13. Ransom
13
RANSOM
M y heart pounds like a jackhammer, and I can't blame it on the near miss with that damn cow anymore. I had it all worked out. I was going to knock on the door of the apartment over the shop. I had a whole fucking speech prepared. I was going to be fully in control.
And now I can barely fucking speak. She's covered in mud, wielding a wrench like it's an extension of her arm, ready to beat me senseless. And all I want to do is fall at her feet and spend the rest of my life making it up to her.
Time is a funny thing. For some people, time is an enemy, one that brings pain and loss; one that makes your bones ache and your skin sag.
For other people, for the lucky ones, time is a gift.
Blair is one of those people. She was beautiful at seventeen. At forty-three, she's stunning, radiating a confidence and raw power that makes her magnetic.
And I realize, with a sinking feeling in my gut, that coming here is the second biggest mistake of my life.
"I'm sorry I hurt you. It was the only—” I cut myself off, knowing that no explanation can mend what I've broken. "I'm sorry," I repeat, the words feeling pathetically inadequate.
Blair's face is a blank canvas, a look I remember all too well. Years ago, I made the mistake of thinking it meant nothing was going on beneath the surface. But I learned, painfully and thoroughly, that Blair is a volcano of emotion, complex and unpredictable. The urge to reach out and touch her is overwhelming, but I know it would be suicide.
Still might be worth it.
I drink in every detail of her, committing her to memory. Her hair, even longer than I remember, is a wild halo around her head. Her braid never could contain it all, not even when she was young. Grease or mud smudges her cheek, and my hand twitches, desperate to wipe it away. Her hand grips the wrench tightly, and any hope I had that she'd moved on and forgiven me vanishes. I haven't forgotten her. I haven't forgotten anything I said. I replay it in my mind every day. Maybe she has too.
The silence between us stretches, thick with unspoken words and buried emotions. I search for something to say, anything to break this unbearable tension, but my mind is blank. All I can focus on is the way her chest rises and falls with each breath, the slight twitch of her jaw as she clenches it.
This trip was supposed to work her out of my system. I'd come here, see that she's not the girl I remember, and I'd be able to move on.
She's not the girl I remember. Not even close.
She was beautiful back then. Now? She's fucking everything. I can't look away from her. I don't want to. And I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing anymore.
"Blair, I—" I start, but she cuts me off with a look so sharp it could slice through steel.
"Don't," she says, her voice low and dangerous. "Just don't, Ransom."
The way she says my name sends a shiver down my spine. It's filled with such venom, such hurt, that I physically recoil. This is not the reunion I had imagined; not that I had any right to expect anything different.
But still, on the drive down here, I couldn't help dreaming about a different welcome. One with smiles and shining eyes. One where she would cup my cheek and bring her lips to mine.
I'm fucking delusional.
I take a step back, mud squelching under my expensive shoes. The contrast between us couldn't be more stark – me in my tailored suit, her in mud-splattered coveralls. Why the fuck didn't I change before I got in the car? I know this town. I know her. At least I did. And showing up looking like a fucking suit was stupid. It's just another barrier between us.
Why the hell does the mud make her even more attractive? She's nothing like the women I've spent time with over the last twenty years. Women with perfect makeup, tight clothes, and bird-like appetites. Forgettable women. And that's harsh, but the truth. They were kind women, good women. Some of them came off the covers of magazines. And still, looking at Blair in all her mud-splattered glory, I couldn't name a single one of them.
I'm so fucking stupid.
"I don't know what the fuck I was thinking," I say, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "Maybe I shouldn't have come. But I'm here now, and as you can see, I can't go anywhere."
My car's in the ditch, but that's not why I can't go. I can't move when she's standing there, a living, breathing reminder of everything I've lost, everything I've thrown away. The need to make things right claws at me, even though I know it's impossible.
Blair's eyes narrow, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something – pain, regret, longing – before it's swallowed by the hardness that settles over her features.
Blair moves back to her truck, her steps purposeful and quick. She's clearly itching to get me out of here, to erase any trace of my presence. The realization stings, but I can't blame her.
She grabs the tow line from the front of her truck and I know what's coming. She's going to pull me out so I can disappear from her life again. The thought makes my chest tighten.
As Blair heads toward the bumper, preparing to lay down in the mud, I react without thinking. My hand shoots out, grasping her arm gently but firmly. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I see her stiffen.
"Let me do it," I insist, my voice rougher than I intend. "You don't need to get any dirtier."
Blair's eyes meet mine, a mix of surprise and irritation swirling in their depths. "I'm already covered in mud, Ransom. Your fancy suit will be ruined."
I glance down at the suit that usually feels like armor but now seems ridiculous."It's just a suit." I have dozens like it, and none of them matter even a little bit.
A bitter laugh escapes her. "Must be nice not to worry about money."
Her words hit me like little daggers, launched with pain and fury, but they also present an opportunity I can't ignore. I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I'm about to say.
"You don't have to worry about money either, Blair," I say carefully, watching her face for any reaction. "You could have five million in your bank account tomorrow. All you need to do is sign the papers."
The change in her is immediate and intense. Her eyes flash with fury, and her whole body goes rigid. For a moment, I think she might actually hit me with that wrench.
"Get away from me," she hisses, her voice low and dangerous.
"Blair, please, just listen?—"
"No, you listen," she cuts me off, yanking her arm out of my hand and jabbing the fist holding the line into my chest. "I don't want your money. I don't want anything from you. What I want is for you to get in your overpriced car and drive out of my life. Again."
The venom in her words makes me flinch, but I stand my ground. "I'm trying to help you, to fulfill a promise I made to?—"
"To my father?" Blair laughs, but there's no humor in it. "I hate to break it to you, but he's dead. Whatever you promised him, he'll never know if you break it."
I want to explain, to make her understand, but I can see the walls she's built around herself. They're impenetrable, and I'm the reason they exist.
"Blair, it's?—"
"Just stop," she says, and for a moment, I hear a crack in her voice. It's gone in an instant, replaced by cold determination. "Let's get your car out so you can leave."
Without waiting for a response, Blair drops to her knees and hooks up the cable to the bumper, then stalks back to her truck.
She wants me gone so fucking bad.
I've been putting this off for a year, but now that I'm here, the harder she pushes to get me to leave, the more I want to plant my feet and out-stubborn her. I'm man enough to admit a bit of it is ego. But most of it is just her.
I fucking missed her. It feels like I've been living in a bunker for half my life, and someone just opened the door to the fresh air and sunshine. I crave it. I need it.
I step out of the way as Blair starts the winch. Her movements are precise, efficient, born from years of practice. She used to go with her dad on calls. So did I. Both of us learned how to do this stuff when we were teenagers.
The car groans as it's pulled from the ditch, mud splattering everywhere. Blair doesn't even flinch, her focus entirely on the task at hand. Once my vehicle is back on solid ground, she retracts the line, her muscles flexing beneath her work shirt.
She turns to face me, arms crossed, that damn wrench still clutched in her hand like a warning. "Start it up," she commands, her voice flat.
I move toward the driver's side, my steps slow and deliberate. Part of me hopes the engine won't turn over, but I know better. This car costs more than some people's houses; a little mud isn't going to stop it.
The engine purrs to life, smooth as silk. I glance at Blair, hoping for... I don't know what. A reaction. Anything.
Her eyes are closed, head tilted slightly. It's such a familiar pose that for a moment, I'm transported back in time. Robert used to do the exact same thing, listening intently to the engine's song. He could diagnose problems just by the subtle changes in pitch and rhythm. Looks like Blair inherited more than just his stubbornness.
When she opens her eyes, there's a flicker of something – approval, maybe? – before it's swallowed by her mask of indifference.
"You're fine to drive back to the city," she says, her tone clipped. "Take it into the shop..." She pauses, a bitter smile twisting her lips. "What am I saying? I'm sure you know what to do. You've got yourself a fucking empire, don't you?"
The jab stings, but I can't deny the truth in her words. An empire is exactly what I have. I may not have realized how big we would get or how powerful, but I planned for us to have something real. Something solid.
It's not something I will ever apologize for.
"I owe that to your dad," I say softly. "He's the one that taught me about cars."
Something flashes across Blair's face – curiosity, maybe? For a moment, I think she might ask for more, might give me an opening to explain how I got from this town to the life I have now. But just as quickly, the shutters come down. She turns away, heading back to her truck without another word.
Panic rises in my chest. I can't let her leave, not like this. Not again. "Blair!" I call out, my voice more desperate than I'd like. She pauses but doesn't turn around. "Are you happy?"
The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with all the things we've left unsaid. Blair's shoulders tense, and for a long moment, I think she might ignore me completely. I wouldn't blame her. Her life is none of my business. I know that. But I can't not ask.
Finally, she half-turns, her profile silhouetted against the setting sun. "What does it matter to you?" she asks, her voice low and dangerous. I did this. I created this hate and this rage. But I never expected her to still be so filled with rage. I thought time would have blunted it.
Apparently not.
I swallow hard, trying to find the right words. "It matters," I say simply. "It always mattered." You always mattered. You still do.
Blair laughs, but it's a hollow sound. "Could have fucking fooled me."
"I never stopped caring," I insist, taking a step towards her. "I know I fucked up, Blair. I know I hurt you. But everything I did... it was for the best."
She whirls to face me, her eyes blazing. "Best for who? You left me! You promised we'd always be together, and then you just… changed your mind. Like you wanted a different flavor of ice cream. Just boom, we're done."
The pain in her voice cuts through me like a knife. "I had to," I say, my own voice cracking. "Your dad, he?—"
I bite my tongue, the words dying in my throat. The truth hovers between us, a secret I've carried for years. But I can't bring myself to tell her. Robert's memory deserves better, and Blair... she's been through enough.
"I had to," I repeat lamely, the explanation feeling hollow even to my own ears. "It's complicated, Blair. More than you know."
Her eyes narrow, searching my face for something. I don't know what she sees, but whatever it is makes her shake her head in disgust.
"Well, that's mysterious as fuck. But I'm not biting. I've learned a lot of things in the last twenty-five years, but the biggest one? Don't waste your time on people who don't appreciate you. And you're right on the top of that fucking list, Ransom. So I don't care. About any of it. I don't care why you did it. I don't care why you won't stop fucking hounding me. All I want is peace. So leave. Get in your stupid, expensive car and go back to where you came from. Because I don't want you here. Nobody does."
The finality in her voice hits me like a physical blow. I watch as she climbs into her truck, the engine roaring to life. She doesn't look back as she pulls away, leaving me standing alone on the side of the muddy road.
I drag myself back to my car, sinking into the leather seat. The interior still smells new, a stark contrast to the earthy scent of mud and grass clinging to my shoes. I sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel, knuckles white with tension.
"Fuck," I mutter, slamming my palm against the dash. The pain barely registers through the storm of emotions raging inside me. How the fuck did I let that get so out of control? Everything I planned to say, all my carefully worded arguments just flew out of my fucking head when I saw Blair.
The power of her just took my fucking breath away.
My phone buzzes, pulling me from my spiral of self-loathing. It's the family group chat. Jonas and Declan are proposing a movie night. Any other time, I'd jump at the chance. But right now, the thought of pretending everything's fine makes my stomach churn.
I type out a quick response:
Sorry, guys. Got plans tonight. Next time.
My plans are fucked, though, aren't they? I toss the phone onto the passenger seat and lean back, staring at the rearview mirror. The road stretches out before me, leading back to Chicago, back to my life.
But my eyes keep drifting out the windshield to the road leading into Badger Falls. To Blair.
I've never seen her that cold. The night I broke things, she was hurt. There was rage. It made sense. Our feelings were so big that the love she had for me morphed into other powerful emotions.
The rage she came at me with tonight felt good. It felt familiar.
The ice queen didn't. And the certainty in her voice, the finality, shook me.
She's done with me.
But I am the world's biggest fuckup because I'm never going to be over her.
It hits me like a freight train. I can't go back. Not now, not after seeing her again. The wound I pretended had healed years ago has been ripped wide open, and I know with bone-deep certainty that I won't find peace until I make things right.
I need to fix things with Blair.
I can't live the rest of my life knowing she hates me. I'm not strong enough.
Facing her again, truly making things right, is the only way for me to move forward.
The thought should terrify me. It does terrify me. But it also feels right in a way nothing has in years. I've built an empire, surrounded myself with family and friends, but there's always been something missing. Someone missing.
I'm not stupid enough to think I could ever have her back. Maybe I harbored a secret hope that I could, but the look in her eyes made it clear tonight that any love she had for me is dead.
And it's all my fucking fault. I killed it.
I grip the wheel, but instead of turning around and heading back to Chicago like she wanted, I head straight. The "Welcome to Badger Falls" sign looms in my headlights, and a mix of dread and anticipation coils in my gut.
I have no idea how I'm going to do this. Blair made it crystal clear she wants nothing to do with me. But I can't walk away again. I won't.
As I drive through the familiar streets, memories wash over me like a tidal wave, each one hitting harder than the last. The diner where Blair and I used to share milkshakes is still there, a few people in the booths. I wonder if it still smells the same? Is the lady that owned it still there? She was older back then, so it's not likely, but the idea of her being gone feels wrong.
I drive around the town square, past our favorite bench. The one we'd sit on and talk for hours. The one that I broke her heart on.
Then there it is. The garage, where Robert taught me everything I know about cars and life, looms ahead, its weathered facade bringing a lump to my throat. The tow truck is parked in front, and the lights inside are on. She's in there right now. So close, but so fucking far.
My hands tighten on the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, my chest so tight it hurts to breathe. Being back here feels like walking into a minefield of memories, each step threatening to detonate another explosion of regret and longing.
It's not just Blair.
It's Robert.
It's the kid I was when I got here and the man I left as. And everything in between. My whole life was in that building. In the garage downstairs, but also in the apartment above it. It's so like the Knight Street garage; only this apartment wasn't an afterthought. Here, there were three full bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a big living room and kitchen. Pretty sure the studio at Knight Street was put in after. I'm also not sure it was legal, but everyone knows you don't verify shit like that unless you want the inspectors climbing down your throat.
That's the last thing I would have done. Because that crappy afterthought of an apartment was my first real home after leaving here. It was the home I brought my brothers to. It's the home I built my family in. It was fucking precious.
It still is.
Yanking my eyes away from McKenna's, I focus back on the road and navigate a few blocks to the only motel in town. But it's boarded up. Half this town is boarded up. What the fuck happened here? This place wasn't ever crowded, but it was alive. Now? It's on death's fucking door.
Driving around a little more, I finally spot a bed-and-breakfast sign.
I'm not going in there. No fucking way.
I'd rather sleep in the car. Because I know this place. I remember the owner. Mrs. Winston. She was one of the biggest busybodies when I was a kid. If I stay here, the whole town is going to know I'm here, and any kind of tactical advantage I might have had is gone.
What the hell am I thinking? I have no tactical advantage. Blair already knows I'm here. As much as I liked and respected most of the people in this town, I'm not here for them.
So what does it matter if Mrs. Winston knows I'm here? As comfortable as this car is, I don’t want to sleep in it. Not if there’s a chance for a bed and a shower.
Grabbing my go-bag from the trunk, I take the steps two at a time, then press the buzzer. There are still lights on inside, and I'm relieved to see a wavy figure heading for the door.
The door swings open, and there she stands – Mrs. Winston, wrapped in a floral housecoat that's seen better days. Her eyes widen as she takes me in, muddy shoes and all.
"Oh my, what have we here?" she exclaims, her voice a mix of concern and curiosity.
I flash her my most charming smile. "Good evening, ma'am. I was hoping you might have a room available for the night?"
Mrs. Winston's face lights up. "Of course, dear! Come in, come in. Though…" She eyes my mud-caked shoes. "Perhaps you could leave those on the porch?"
Smiling, I pour on the charm. "Of course. I wouldn't dream of tracking mud through your lovely home."
She blushes at the compliment, ushering me inside. The foyer is exactly the way I imagined it – floral wallpaper, doilies on every surface, and the faint scent of lavender hanging in the air.
"Now then," Mrs. Winston says, bustling behind a little check-in counter. "Let's get you settled. How long will you be staying with us?"
I hesitate. "I'm... not entirely sure. Let's start with a night and go from there?"
She nods, pulling out a thick ledger. "That's fine, dear. Now, I'll just need to see some identification."
Ah, shit. "Is that really necessary? I'm happy to pay cash up front."
Mrs. Winston's eyes narrow slightly. "I'm afraid I must insist. It's policy, you understand."
For a moment, I consider making my excuses and leaving. But the thought of spending the night in my car – or worse, driving back to Chicago – is enough to make me pull out my wallet and hand over my driver's license. Mrs. Winston takes it, adjusting her glasses as she peers at the name.
The change is immediate. Her eyes widen, darting between my face and the ID. "Ransom Kyle?" she gasps. "Little Ranny? Or I guess not so little."
I wince at the childhood nickname. "No, not so little, Mrs. Winston."
She claps her hands together, a strange delight all over her face. Or maybe it's not so strange. I was trouble when I moved here. And I left in a fucking storm of glass. I'm sure people talked about me a lot when I left. And I'm sure they didn't have very nice things to say.
"Oh my, look at you! All grown up and so handsome. Why, I remember when you were young, always trailing after Robert McKenna like a lost puppy."
The mention of Robert's name sends a pang through my chest, but I force a smile. "That was a long time ago."
Mrs. Winston nods enthusiastically. "It certainly was. Those were the good old days." The way she says it, that small sigh makes it clear those good days are no more, but it's hard to tell if it's because the town is dying, or the people are. Maybe it's both.
She seems to shake off her sadness, straightening her thin shoulders and patting at her silver curls. "But the way you left, so suddenly and..." she lets the words die, kind enough not to mention the shitstorm I left in. Clearing her throat, her eyes light up. "Oh, wait until I tell everyone you're back in town! Does Blair know you're here, dear? I'm sure she'd be excited to see you. And of course, you know Robert's gone?" Her expression falls. "Poor dear, she's all alone. Well, not really alone. But Maggie..." she presses her palm to her chest, her eyes growing watery, "well, you know."
No, I don't know. What the fuck's up with Maggie? But I don't plan on asking Mrs. Winston anything about anybody right now. I'm too raw.
And clearly, she doesn't know as much about everything as she thinks she does. If she did, she'd know that Blair is decidedly NOT excited to see me.
"Actually, Mrs. Winston," I say, trying to keep my voice casual, "I'd appreciate it if you could keep my visit quiet for now. I'm here on... personal business."
The woman's face literally falls. "Oh. Well, of course. I value my guests' privacy. I wouldn't think of sharing." I almost laugh at that. Almost.
She hands me a key, an actual physical stick-it-in-the-lock key, all business now. "Room 3, up the stairs and to the left. Breakfast is served from seven to nine. And don't you worry about a thing – your secret is safe with me!"
Fuck. She's going to tell everyone I'm back. Asking her to keep quiet was a mistake. Now she thinks I've got shit to hide, which I guess I do. So I just smile at her, getting a conspiratorial smile back as she shoos me to the stairs. As I climb the creaky steps, I can hear her humming happily to herself.
If I want any chance of reconnecting with people on my own terms, I'm going to have to get ahead of Mrs. Winston's mouth. I'm here for Blair. But there were a lot of other good people in this town. I'm sorry about the way I left and the people I hurt, but Blair's my priority. And it looks like I'm going to have to hit the ground running tomorrow morning.
Time to put plan Make things right with Blair into effect.
Step one…think of a fucking plan.