Chapter 11
Reese
My heart's pounding so hard I swear it's about to crack my fucking ribs. Taking my position center stage, my body vibrating with energy. I can do this, I was born to do this.
I scan the audience one more time as I do one last stretch. The Blackwoods occupy nearly an entire row—Reagan and Penn with the boys, the rest of my mosaic family, and Ramsey…Ramsey's eyes haven't left me since I walked out for warm-ups.
Even in the darkness, I can feel his eyes locked on me.
He's wearing that black button-down I love, the one that makes his shoulders look like they could crush a car.
He didn't have to come, but he never misses my performances.
Not a single one since I met him at the end of junior year in high school.
Justin's supposed to be here too, somewhere. After weeks of texts and apologies and that pathetic scene outside my sports medicine class where he literally got on his knees, I finally gave in. He’s like a puppy dog, and I still feel like I owe him for taking me under his wing senior year after switching schools.
"Five minutes, Reese," my dance instructor whispers, squeezing my shoulder.
I nod, pulling my leg higher against my body, feeling the satisfying burn of muscles preparing for performance.
When I step onto the stage minutes later, I don't think about Justin.
I think about Ramsey's eyes on me, watching every move.
I dance like I'm possessed, letting the music take over, channeling all my anger and frustration into each extension, each leap.
The audience disappears. There's just my body, the music, and the feeling of knowing a phantom is watching.
When I finish, there's that beautiful half-second of silence before the applause crashes over me. I'm breathing hard, sweat trickling between my shoulder blades as I take my bow.
After the showcase, the Blackwoods surround me with flowers and praise.
Reagan hugs me tight, whispering how proud she is.
My nephews bounce around excitedly. Penn jokes about me joining one of those dark circuses and shit.
Lincoln, Jere, Iris, and Oakley all give me a hug. My family is the freaking best.
And then there's Ramsey, hanging back, waiting until the others drift toward the reception.
"Hey, you were absolutely fucking incredible up there," Ramsey says, his voice dropping to a low rumble that makes my stomach flip. He hands me a small bouquet of wildflowers, not the fancy roses everyone else brought. He remembers I love the messy, imperfect ones.
"Thanks, Rams." I take them, breathing in their earthy scent.
"Holy shit, that was so hot!"
Justin's voice cuts through our bubble as he pushes through the crowd. His arm snakes around my waist, pulling me against him as he plants a wet kiss on my cheek. "The way you moved your body up there—fuck, babe."
I feel Ramsey stiffen beside me. The temperature between us drops about twenty degrees.
"Thanks, babe," I say with what I hope looks like a genuine smile. Over Justin's shoulder, I catch Ramsey's eyes, trying to telegraph an apology. I don't even know why I feel the need to apologize. For Justin being Justin?
Justin's hand slides lower on my hip, fingers digging in possessively. "Come on, I got us reservations at that new place downtown. We should celebrate."
As Justin drags me through the crowd, I glance back at Ramsey. His face is unreadable, jaw tight, eyes darkened to midnight. The bouquet of wildflowers dangles from my hand, already getting crushed in Justin's rush to get me out of there.
The night air hits my sweaty skin and I feel a little gross. I'm still in my dance clothes—leggings and an oversized hoodie thrown over my performance outfit. Justin's car is parked illegally at the curb, and he practically shoves me toward the passenger side.
"Jesus, what's your rush?" I snap, clutching my flowers closer to my chest.
"Just get in," he says, already sliding into the driver's seat.
I buckle up as he peels away from the curb, tires screeching. Something's off. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, jaw working like he's grinding his teeth to dust.
"So, where are we—"
"You looked real cozy with Ramsey back there," he cuts me off.
Here we fucking go. "He's my friend, Justin. He's always at my performances. I thought you were going to stop this shit."
"Yeah, I bet he is." Justin's hand leaves the wheel, landing on my thigh. "He likes watching you move, doesn't he?"
I shift away, but his fingers dig in harder. "Can you focus on driving?"
His hand slides higher, fingers creeping toward the junction of my thighs. "Come on, baby."
He slams on the brakes, pulling over onto a dark side street.
"I know you've been holding out because it's what I wanted, but I’m done with wanting that. I see how you dance. How you move. No girl moves like that without knowing exactly what she's doing to guys watching."
"That's my art, you piece of shit." I'm shaking now, with anger more than fear. "It has nothing to do with sex."
"Bullshit!" His fist hits the dashboard. "You're such a fucking tease. Prancing around in those tight little outfits, letting everyone look but not touch."
When he lunges across the console, grabbing my face and trying to kiss me, I shove him back so hard his head hits the window.
"DON'T TOUCH ME!" I scream.
"You frigid bitch!" His spit lands on my cheek as he screams. "I watched you grinding all over that stage tonight, practically fucking the air, and you expect me to believe you're not desperate for it?"
His hand grabs my thigh again, squeezing hard enough to bruise. I slap it away, my palm stinging from the contact.
"Get off me!" I push against his chest with both hands, sending him back against his seat.
"You know what? I've seen how you look at him. How long have you been spreading your legs for that psycho? Huh?" He grabs my wrist, twisting until I cry out. "Does he fuck you right after your little dance shows? Is that why you're always too tired to hang out after?"
"You're insane! Let go of me!" I wrench my arm away, tears springing to my eyes from the pain.
"I bet you love it when he bends you over. Bet you beg for his cock like the desperate slut you are." His words are venom, each one designed to hurt, to humiliate. "Is that what gets you wet? His money? His family name?"
"Fuck you!" I spit back, grabbing for the door handle.
He lunges across the console again, grabbing a fistful of my hair and yanking my head back. "You think you're too good for me now? After I picked your pathetic ass up when you had no friends?"
I scratch at his arm, my nails drawing blood. He yelps and releases me, then slaps me hard across the face. The shock of it freezes me for a second, my cheek burning.
"Get the fuck out of my car," he snarls, his face twisted with hate. "Go run to your precious Blackwoods. You're nothing but their whore anyway, just like your sister. The whole fucking campus knows the St. Pierre sisters are just Blackwood cum dumpsters."
Something snaps inside me. I grab my crushed wildflowers and my bag, fumbling with the door handle. "You're fucking dead to me."
"GET OUT!" he roars, shoving me so hard I nearly fall face-first onto the asphalt as the door swings open.
I tumble onto the pavement, scraping my palms as I catch myself. The car door slams behind me, and Justin's tires screech as he peels away, leaving me alone on some dark side street I don't even recognize.
"Fuck you!" I scream after his taillights, but he's already gone. My voice cracks, tears streaming down my face as I sit there on the cold ground, the crushed petals scattered around me.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely pull my phone from my pocket. I don't think, don't hesitate. My thumb finds Ramsey's contact and I press call, sobbing as I wait for him to pick up.
He answers before the first ring even finishes. "What’s up, baby girl?"
"R-Ramsey," I choke out, barely able to form his name through my hiccups and tears.
"I'm already on the way, star baby," his voice is deadly calm. "Just stay on the line."
I'm still sobbing into the phone when I hear the roar of his motorcycle. I know he immediately pulled up my tracker as soon as I called. What should've taken fifteen minutes feels like it's been one minute, tops.
The headlight cuts through the darkness, and Ramsey screeches to a halt right in front of me. He's off the bike in seconds, helmet tossed aside as he drops to his knees and pulls me against his chest.
"Fuck, Reese, what happened?" His hands move over me, checking for injuries, tilting my face up to the streetlight. His thumb brushes over my cheek where Justin hit me, and his eyes go flat and dead. "Who. Fucking. Touched. You."
It's not even a question. It's a death sentence.
"Justin," I hiccup against his chest, clinging to his shirt. "He—he tried to force himself on me, then called me all these horrible things, and—"
Ramsey's body goes rigid against mine. I can feel his heart hammering through his shirt, the muscles in his arms flexing as he holds me tighter.
"I've got you now," he says, his voice eerily calm. "You're safe."
He stands in one fluid motion, lifting me like I weigh nothing. I wrap my legs around his waist, burying my face in his neck as he carries me to his bike.
I feel his hands shift, and I know I need to slide down and get on the back of the bike. Ramsey just swings his leg over the bike, keeping me in front of him and I don’t let go. My butt sitting on the tank.
"Just keep holding on," his voice rumbles against my ear, low and steady. "We're going home."
He grabs my helmet from where it hangs on the bike and slides it over my head, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary as he secures the strap. I notice he doesn't bother with his own, but before I can protest, the engine roars to life beneath us.
The vibration of the motorcycle between my legs and Ramsey's solid warmth behind me grounds me as we speed through the empty streets.
My sobs gradually slow, then stop altogether.
All I can focus on is the steady beat of Ramsey's heart against my own, the wind whipping through my clothes, and the overwhelming sense of safety that washes over me.
Finally safe.
Time doesn’t matter to me, but eventually the bike slows and the engine cuts off and I know we’re home.
Ramsey doesn't let me go. He keeps me clamped to his front like I might vanish if he loosens his grip, swinging his leg over the bike while I cling to him like a fucking koala. I should feel embarrassed—I'm a grown-ass woman being carried like a child—but all I feel is safe. Protected.
"I got you," he murmurs against my hair as he carries me up the walkway to our house, somehow managing to fish his keys from his pocket without dropping me.
The door swings open, and Ramsey kicks it shut behind us.
He doesn't hesitate, just carries me straight through the living room and up the stairs to my bathroom, his boots heavy on each step.
My face stays buried against his neck, inhaling that scent that's just him—sandalwood and something metallic, like the aftermath of a thunderstorm.
He sets me on the counter, finally breaking contact, but stays close, his hands braced on either side of my hips. His eyes scan my face, lingering on my red cheek.
"I'm going to fucking kill him," he says, so quietly I almost don't hear it.