Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
LOLA
I’ve been out of the bath for twenty minutes, and I’m wearing one of Hunter’s T-shirts. It hangs to my mid-thigh, smelling like cedar and something that’s just him. My hair is damp and twisted over one shoulder. My bandaged hand throbs in time with my pulse.
I’m pacing.
Back and forth across the bedroom. Past the four-poster bed. Past the window. Past the door. My bare feet are silent on the rug and then loud on the wood and then silent again, and I can’t stop. If I stop moving, my brain will catch up with my body, and I’m not ready for that.
The hot chocolate he brought up while I was in the bath is sitting on the nightstand, going cold. I took two sips, but I can’t stomach any more.
My hip aches. A deep, bone-level throb that flares every time I turn. My wrist is stiff and swollen beneath the bandage. And there’s a headache building behind my eyes that feels like it’s been waiting all night for permission to arrive.
I need painkillers. Badly. But more than that, I need Hunter to walk back through that door.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the bedroom window and stare out at the dark. The ranch is still. The porch light is on, but his truck is gone.
What if Reese fights back? What if he calls the cops? What if Hunter loses his temper and goes too far, and they throw him in a cell, and he doesn’t come home?
My stomach turns.
I can’t just stand here. I need something for the pain, or I’m going to crawl out of my skin.
I crack the bedroom door open and listen. The house is quiet, but not empty. I can hear low voices somewhere downstairs. Music is playing softly from another room. The click of a keyboard.
I pad down the stairs, one hand on the banister, the other held against my chest. Every step sends a jolt through my hip, and I clench my jaw against it.
The kitchen is dim. Just the light above the stove is on, casting a warm glow over the counters. I start opening cabinets, searching for anything—Advil, Tylenol, I’d take horse tranquilizers at this point.
“Third one on the left.”
I spin around so fast my hip screams, and a gasp escapes me.
One of Hunter’s brothers is leaning against the doorframe.
Arms crossed. Watching me. He’s tall, leaner than Hunter but built from the same mold—broad shoulders, strong jaw, that same dark coloring.
His hair is longer, though, pushed back behind his ears, and his eyes are different. Cooler. Harder to read.
“Sorry,” he says, though his expression doesn’t shift. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“You didn’t,” I lie. My heart is slamming. “I was just looking for painkillers.”
“Third cabinet on the left. Top shelf.”
I turn and open it. Sure enough, a bottle of ibuprofen sits between a box of adult Band-Aids, dinosaur kids' ones, and a tube of Neosporin. I shake two into my palm, then add a third because tonight has earned it.
“Glasses are above the sink,” he adds.
“Thanks.” I fill a glass, swallow the pills, and turn to face him. He hasn’t moved from the doorway. “I’m Lola.”
“I know who you are.” His tone isn’t unfriendly. But it isn’t warm either. It sits somewhere in between. “Hunter mentioned you’d be here. I’m Beau.”
“Right.” I wrap my good hand around the glass of water. “Sorry for the intrusion. I know this isn’t—”
“You don’t need to apologize.” He cuts me off, but gently. “This is Hunter’s house. If he says you’re welcome, you’re welcome.”
I nod. There’s something about the way he says it—if he says—that sits oddly in my chest. But I’m in no position to read into anyone’s tone tonight. My nerves are shot. Everything feels like a threat.
“Could I use your phone?” I ask. “I left mine at the apartment, and I need to speak to my friend.”
He studies me for a moment. Then reaches into his back pocket and hands it over without a word.
“Thank you.”
I step into the hallway for some privacy and dial Violet’s number. It rings three times before she picks up.
“Hello?” Her voice is croaky. She doesn’t recognize the number, and it’s nearly one a.m. now.
“V, it’s me.”
“Lola? Whose phone are you calling from? Are you okay?”
I close my eyes. Lean my back against the wall. My hip protests, but I need the support more than I need the comfort.
“Where are you right now?” I ask.
“At Luke’s. I texted you like two hours ago to tell you I was staying here. Did you not get it?”
Thank God.
“No. I don’t have my phone.” I swallow hard. “V, something happened with Reese tonight. I’m okay, I’m somewhere safe, but I need you to not go back to the apartment. Not until I’m with you tomorrow.”
Silence on the other end. Then a sharp intake of breath.
“What do you mean, something happened? Lola, what did he do?”
“I’ll tell you everything tomorrow. I promise. Just please—stay at Luke’s.”
I can hear her breathing. I can hear the war happening inside her head—the part that wants to drive to me right now versus the part that trusts me enough to listen.
“Are you hurt?” she asks quietly.
I bite the inside of my cheek. “A little. But I’m being looked after.”
Another silence. A long one. “You’re at the ranch, aren’t you?”
I almost smile. She knows me too well. “Yeah. I am.”
She lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been held for a very long time. “Okay. I’ll stay put. But I swear to God, Lola, if you don’t call me first thing in the morning—”
“I will. First thing. I love you, V.”
“I love you too. Be safe.”
I hang up and press the phone against my chest. The tears are right there, pressing behind my eyes, but I blink them back. I’ve cried enough tonight.
I walk back into the kitchen and hand Beau his phone. “Thank you.”
He takes it, pockets it, and gives me a nod that’s not quite a smile. “You should get some rest. He’ll be back soon.”
I’m about to head upstairs when I hear it. A small, shuffling sound from the hallway. Bare feet on hardwood. And then a little voice, thick with sleep and something heavier. “Uncle Beau?”
Wyatt appears at the bottom of the stairs in dinosaur pajamas, his hair flattened on one side from the pillow, his eyes puffy and red-rimmed. A dog is pressed against his ankles, tail wagging.
He’s been crying in his sleep.
My chest splits open.
Beau straightens up and takes a step toward him. “Hey, buddy. What are you doing up?”
But Wyatt isn’t looking at Beau. He’s looking at me. His brow creases, confused at first, like he’s not sure if he’s still dreaming. Then recognition washes over his face, and something happens that cracks me wide open.
He smiles, and it’s small and sleepy and fragile, but it’s real. “You’re the lady who was kissing my daddy,” he says.
My cheeks flush. I glance at Beau, who raises an eyebrow but says nothing.
“That’s me,” I say, crouching down and ignoring the bolt of pain through my hip. “I’m Lola.”
He takes a step closer and studies my face with the kind of intensity only children have.
“You made me smile when I was crying,” he says softly. Like it’s a secret between us. Like that moment at the party mattered to him as much as it mattered to me.
My throat closes and I swallow hard against it. “I remember,” I whisper.
He looks at Beau, then back at me. Something shifts in his expression.
“Can you read me a story?” he asks me. “Instead of Beau?”
I glance at Beau, whose face gives nothing away. But he steps back.
“I’d love to,” I tell Wyatt.
He reaches out and takes my bandaged hand. Then stops. Looks down at it. Back up at me. “Does that hurt?”
“A little bit.”
He very carefully takes my other hand instead.
And something inside me breaks in the best possible way.
He leads me toward the stairs, the dog trotting behind us.
This little boy, in his dinosaur pajamas, lost his mother and watched his father get taken away on his birthday.
He should be terrified of strangers right now, should be clinging to the people he knows. But instead, he’s holding my hand.
And I will hold his for as long as he lets me.