Chapter Twenty Eight
I blindly drive northeast, my sole focus on putting miles between us and the manor.
What happened this evening was a clusterfuck of uncoordinated ideas.
Rhys decided that being underprepared was his tactic for dealing with his father, leaving us all at the mercy of a power-hungry man who could barely bring himself to look at me, being the lowlife scum he thinks I am.
The tension in that dining room squeezed around my throat like a vice, threatening to cut off my air supply when Addy hammered the final nail into all our coffins.
I don’t blame her for having the courage to say what we were all thinking.
In fact, without her drunken outburst, we might have kept chasing the same ghosts on an endless loop.
Addy’s real mistake was challenging me to a game of drinking craps in the cellar.
I grew up watching hustlers on the sidewalk trick people out of the little money they had with the simple roll of a dice.
A game Jeremy taught me to pass the time, and ensure I wasn’t lured in by the prospect of a quick win.
He was always trying to protect me, but it never worked out for either of us.
My hands grip the steering wheel, my foot pushed against the accelerator until the lines on the freeway start to blur.
Blinking harshly, I squint to focus, refusing to slow.
It’s not like I’d be able to get us back to Waversea in one single drive, but I can at least make a dent in the journey.
Eventually, Rhys’ hand presses against my arm, his expression stern.
“Take the next exit, there should be somewhere nearby to crash for the night. The girls need a proper bed.” Glancing in my rearview mirror, I discover the pair of them have passed out, collapsed against one another in the back.
Agreeing silently, I flick the indicator and exit, slowing my speed through the sleeping town.
Most of the residents have retired due to the late hour.
Just as I’m starting to lose hope, the last house on the corner of the street presents itself like a beacon of light, a sign swaying gently on the lawn.
The Barn Inn, Bed and Breakfast.
Pulling to a stop, I raise a brow at Rhys. He shrugs and nods, stepping out of the truck. I join his side, leaving the girls to sleep while we check it out. I note the backpack Rhys shoulders, keeping my voice low as we approach the entrance.
“How are we going to pay for this? No doubt your father has already cut off your credit card and put out a collection notice for the truck.”
Pausing on the wooden porch, Rhys stares at the door handle, his mind working overtime. Whatever he was considering is gone by the time he swings his gaze to me. Piercing blue, clear and far too confident for a man with nothing left.
“I’ve been preparing for this day for a long time.
My father threatened to cut me off enough times that I knew I needed a fallback.
I have stocks in cloud computing and cybersecurity companies, not to mention untouched accounts he isn’t aware of.
And as for the truck,” Rhys glances back at the Raptor, “it’s yours. My father can’t touch it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I whisper harshly, grabbing his shoulder before he turns away. “Rhys, what do you mean, it’s my truck?” Shrugging my hand free, Rhys dusts off his hoodie and pushes his hands into his pockets.
“I didn’t hire it. I bought it in your name.” I can’t fathom his nonchalant tone, my eyes turning crazed as I stare at him underneath the porch’s weak light. I have so many questions, the how, why and when not adding up.
“Didn’t you need me to sign for something like that?” I frown. A hint of a smirk lifts Rhys’ mouth.
“You did sign for it,” he chuckles lightly.
“You should really work on your signature, it’s far too easy to copy.
” My mouth drops open, but before I can berate him any further, Rhys has pushed open the door, announcing our arrival with the ding of a small bell.
A small entrance hall greets us, a desk set up at one side against the stairs.
To the left, a living room is lit by a crackling fire.
The smell of wood polish, old books, and baked sugar clings to the aged furniture, a sense of warmth filtering through the house from more than just the fireplace.
A woman appears from a doorway behind the desk, wiping her hands on the front of her cardigan as she goes.
Late fifties, maybe early sixties, silver threaded through her dark hair where it’s pulled back into a loose knot.
She’s got the look of someone who is kind by habit, not by effort.
Her eyes crinkle at the edges as she takes us in.
“Room for two?” she asks without reservation. Rhys and I share a look, a red twinge colouring our cheeks.
“Oh, no, we’re not—” Rhys starts.
“Well, it’s kinda like we are but—” I clear my throat. His elbow knocks against my ribs.
“Two rooms of twin beds, if you have availability. We have two ladies in the truck who are desperate for somewhere to rest. It’s been…a heavy evening.” Rhys’ smile is practised and to the untrained eye, the strain underneath is almost undetectable. The kind woman nods, scribbling into her ledger.
“I’ve got the Hayloft Suite and the Bluebird Room free.
Both have private baths. Breakfast is included, but you’re welcome to sleep through it.
” She spares a long glance at the truck through the window as if she’s seen it all.
Her smile is soft and seems to beam through her gentle eyes. “Coffee will wait for you regardless.”
“You’re an angel,” Rhys glances at the name tag on her breast, “Sienna. Thank you.” Reaching into his backpack, Rhys places a wad of cash onto the counter.
Without hesitation, he leaves. There’s a moment of Sienna and me staring at the countertop, the pile of notes toppling over due to its abundant size.
As deserving as Sienna’s kindness is, I really need to explain the art of budgeting to Rhys before he blows through whatever reserves he has.
By the time he returns, Sienna has fetched our room keys.
Rhys all but shoves Addy from his side into my arms, Harper trailing behind with sleep blurring her vision.
She hardly looks around the house, a yawn pulling at her mouth.
From the high ponytail clasping her hair back, I note she isn’t wearing her receivers, and the mic clips are in the bag.
Rhys draws Harper under his arm, her backpack in his other hand.
At Sienna’s instruction, we follow the honey-toned hardwood floors and thick braided rugs that soften our footsteps.
Addy is slumped against me, pinching her eyes in an effort to banish the headache creeping in.
Even so, she groans and huffs as we take the wide staircase that curves up the far wall, its banister worn smooth in the middle from decades of hands sliding along it.
Framed photographs line the walls, black and white shots of the house back when it was a working barn, then later as a family home.
Surprisingly, the second story of the home holds more rooms than I’d expected.
Six doors line each side of the hallway with a thirteen down at the far end.
Using the key in my hand and the arm that’s free, I unlock the Bluebird Room and see Addy safely inside.
Cocooned by soft lamplight and the faint scent of lavender, the half-drunk and half-hungover sprite flops onto a single bed, her pink hair fanning over the stack of pillows.
Her bravado has finally burned out, leaving her glassy-eyed and quiet, her fingers rubbing at her temples.
I kneel to tug off her sneakers, lining them neatly by the door before slipping into the hallway.
“Don’t disappear,” Addy murmurs from within the room, but by the time I look back, she’s apparently already passed out.
I shut the door quietly behind me and turn back just in time to see Rhys usher Harper towards the door at the far end, preparing to close the pair of them off for the night.
Rushing forward on silent feet, my hand catches the door before the lock can click into place.
“Wait,” I protest quietly, and judging by Rhys’ eye roll, I know he thinks I’m about to argue about the room arrangements.
He’s wrong, as there’s no way I’d trust him not to suffocate Addy in her sleep.
At Rhys’ raised brow, I beckon him to join me in the hallway whilst Harper looks between the two of us, shrugs and heads into the bathroom.
“What is it?” Rhys grunts impatiently. I narrow my eyes at him and fold my arms, returning to our earlier conversation.
“Why the hell would you buy me a truck?” At this, the tension eases from Rhys’ shoulders. He jerks a piece of hair from his eyes, searching for an answer.
“I couldn’t have my girl being driven around in an orange shitheap that might break down at any moment. I told the cops to send it to the scrapyard when they were done with it.”
Rhys watches me for a beat, as if gauging whether I’m going to argue with him, thank him or punch him in the face for scraping my beloved truck without telling me.
I have the inclination to do all three in order, but all I manage is a small nod.
I’ve never been given something so grand before.
I don’t know how to truly accept it. Everything I’ve had in life, no matter how menial, has been earned with painstaking determination.
Yet here’s Rhys, forging signatures and gifting trucks like it’s a perfectly normal thing to do.
Our standoff comes to an abrupt end at the muffled sound of Harper turning on the shower.
Her voice drifts faintly as she sings a tune from within the spray.
Rhys’ eyes flare before he exhales through his nose and disappears into the bathroom.
I’m left holding the door to the suite, the invitation clear.