42. Reed
reed
. . .
Icouldn’t sleep at all last night.
It’s about eleven in the morning, and sports news is blaring on the screen about a young NHL rookie, Beckett Walker, joining the Opal Springs home team, The Renegades.
The bar is closed today. I told everyone to take the day off; I couldn’t stand working with the way I feel.
I’m half-dozing when I hear three soft knocks on the front door.
My brow furrows.
Probably Maverick with his foolishness.
I groan, pushing off the couch. “If that’s you, Maverick, I swear to God—”
Gripping the handle, I force the door open, ready to be manhandled by my oaf of a brother, but when I open the door, the words die on my tongue.
Layla’s standing there.
She looks like hell.
Her eyes are red, her mascara streaked as she’s clutching her suitcase handle. Her blonde hair’s tangled, her lip split, and under the porch light, I notice faint bruising along her neck, jaw, and under her eye, but I can barely see it without my glasses.
“Layla?” My voice breaks on her name.
She tries to smile, but it comes out as a tremor. “Reed.”
My body moves before my mind catches up.
Two steps are all it takes before I scoop her up into my arms, and it takes everything in me not to break down right here.
Shit, she’s shaking.
It’s not from the crisp autumn bite, but from fear, and my heart shatters each time her body trembles against mine.
I wrap her tighter as my hand cradles the back of her head, brushing the strands of her golden hair, trying to comfort her.
“It’s okay,” I whisper into her hair, pushing the front door open with my foot. “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you.”
She let out this tiny, broken sound, and I feel it straight in my ribcage.
“Let’s take you inside, baby,” I murmur, carrying her across the threshold. “You’re safe now. I promise. You’re with me.”
And God help me, I meant every word.
I close the door, and the silence between us feels deafening.
Setting her down gently, I grab my glasses from the end table by the front door and slide them on. I flip the light switch, and my stomach drops when I can see her clearly.
Bruises on her face, neck, and wrist.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper, my voice barely steady.
I move closer, my hand hovering near her cheek without touching until she nods. When I do, she flinches, so softly I almost miss it, and my chest cracks open.
“Layla, baby…” I swallow hard, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. “Who did this to you?”
She’s trembling. Her voice is quiet and fractured. “ I-I’m sorry, Reed. I’ve been driving for days. I—”
“Don’t apologize,” I say quickly. “You never have to apologize to me. Just tell me who did this.”
Her lips part, trembling. “B-Brian.”
I close my eyes, my jaw tightening.
A thousand violent thoughts race through my mind, but none of them matter right now. She’s standing here, trembling, and she needs me to stay calm.
“Okay,” I murmur. “You’re safe now, sunshine. You hear me? You’re safe.”
She nods, tears silently streaming down her face.
I reach for her hand. It’s cold, small in mine. “Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Her body moves on instinct, trusting me as she always has. I guide her down the short hall to the bedroom and my en-suite bathroom, the old floorboards creaking beneath our feet.
I flip the light switch on, its bulbs humming softly. Steam fogs the mirror as I turn on the shower, testing it until it’s just warm enough.
She’s still shaking, sitting on the edge of the counter, with dazed, distant eyes.
“Layla,” I whisper, kneeling before her. “Look at me.”
Her eyes find mine, and my chest aches all over again.
“I’m gonna help you, alright? You’re not alone anymore.”
She nods, and when I offer my hand, she takes it. I help her stand, guiding her gently toward the shower.
“Can I stay?” I ask.
She nods again, barely audible. “Please.”
I slowly undress her, helping her out of her clothes. The fabric falls to the floor, leaving her bare.
My eyes sweep over the semi-healed bruises and the new ones forming. I press my hand to my mouth, fighting back tears.
Keeping my clothes on, I gently guide her into the shower.
The water begins to fall on us as I grab a washcloth, wetting it, and gently scrubbing her arms. “You just breathe. Let me do the rest.”
I gently run the cloth over her face, wiping away streaks of makeup, grime, and faint traces of blood.
She winces once but doesn’t pull away.
My fingers tremble as I brush a strand of hair from her forehead, and I can’t help it; the tears blur my vision until I can barely see what I’m doing.
Her voice cuts through the sound of running water. “He said no one would believe me.”
“I do,” I whisper. “I always will, baby.”
She finally breaks down. A sob racks through her body as she collapses into me, her hands clutching my wet shirt.
I hold her closer, pressing my lips to the top of her head. “It’s over, sunshine. He’s never gonna touch you again. Not as long as I’m breathing.”
Her tears keep falling, and I don’t mind. I let her cry until her breaths slow and become shallow again, until the shaking calms down.
I turn off the water, hearing the pipes’ faint squeak.
Grabbing a towel, I wrap it around her shoulders, tucking it close.
“You’re gonna be okay,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her cheek. “You did the hardest part already. You left.”
She nods weakly, her eyes glimmering with tears.
“I don’t deserve you,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I say softly, “you do, baby. You always did.”
I help her with one of my old flannels. Grabbing a brush, I brush her hair, detangling a few knots. Once done, she stands there waiting while I quickly throw on some dry clothes.
Throwing on some sweats, I walk over to her and scoop her up without asking, carrying her down the hall.
She doesn’t protest as she buries her face in my chest, sobbing.
I gently lay her on the couch, pulling a blanket over her; her eyes are already half-lidded, exhaustion finally winning.
Sitting beside her, I gently brush my thumb along the edge of her jaw. “You sleep, baby. I’ll be right here.”
Her voice is barely a breath. “Don’t leave me.”
“Never,” I promise.
She drifts off, her hand still tangled in my shirt, and I remain there long after her breathing evens out, watching her chest rise and fall as the fear finally leaves her face.
The highlight reels of their new player are flashing on the screen, but I can’t hear the commentators.
All I see is her.
And all I can think is that I’d burn the whole damn world to keep anyone from hurting her again.
She finally fell asleep; her face soft, her lashes casting tiny shadows, one fist curled against the blanket. Every rise and fall of her chest is a small, perfect thing I want to protect with my whole body.
My house is absurdly quiet as I watch her sleep.
Heat simmers in my chest, rising mercilessly. It begins behind my ribs and blooms until my hands form fists without my willing them to.
My jaw tightens as I chew the inside of my cheek, and the taste of copper blooms on my tongue.
For a ridiculous, glorious second, that’s all I want, him on my floor, the two of us with no witnesses, and the rest settled with my fist in his face. I can already hear the hollow punch of it in my head.
I imagine how it would feel to let that anger land on someone else, to trade the ache in my chest for the sound of him caving under it.
It’s terrifyingly tempting.
I can feel my blood pulsing at my temples as my hands twitch at my sides.
Taking a deep breath, I look at Layla, at the tear tracks on her cheeks, at the small tremor in her sleeping fingers, and the fantasy grows uglier.
Violence only breeds more violence. It wouldn’t fix her; it would diminish her again, shrinking her room to the size of his fists. I refuse to let her become collateral damage in my rage.
So the fantasy ends there, as sharply as it began. I let out a long, deliberate exhale and unclench my fists.
My knuckles still ache from punching the mirror; they remind me that hurting myself or someone else doesn’t fix anything.
I stay there until my legs ache, my back pressed against the edge of the couch.
The sun’s higher now, spilling soft light across the floorboards, catching the strands of her hair that glint like gold against the pillow.
She shifts in her sleep just enough to make a quiet sound, and her hand slides out from under the blanket. I catch it instinctively, threading my fingers through hers.
I ease down beside her, careful not to jostle the couch. My feet thud softly to the floor, and my body feels heavy like I haven’t felt in years.
The exhaustion that’s been riding me for months finally catches up; all the sleepless nights, the fear, the rage that wouldn’t quiet down.
She mumbles something I can’t make out, her brow furrowing. I reach up and smooth it away with my thumb, whispering, “It’s okay, sunshine. I’m right here.”
Her breathing evens out again.
I continue staring at her, each bruise, each faint mark, a reminder of what she survived.
Pressing a gentle kiss to her forehead, I whisper. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
My eyes burn, but I let them close.
The warmth of her body, the faint scent of her shampoo, and the way her fingers unconsciously curl around mine it’s enough to pull me under.
I let myself rest.
She’s at the table, one of my old flannels hanging off her frame. Her hair’s still damp from the shower, pulled into a low braid. She hasn’t said much since she woke up.
“Hey, sunshine,” I say gently, glancing over my shoulder. “You want some French toast?”
She hesitates, twisting the edge of the flannel’s sleeve between her fingers. “Um…yeah, sure.”
I nod once, flipping the spatula in my hand. “Comin’ right up.”
The smell of coffee fills the air, rich and bitter—just as she used to rave about when she first came here.
Pouring a cup, I catch myself smiling at the way she likes it, iced with hazelnut creamer.
I set the glass in front of her, and she gives a tiny nod, her fingers curling around the cup. Her hands are still shaky, but she doesn’t let go.
“Thanks,” she mumbles, her eyes fixed on the ice clinking against the cup.
“You’re welcome,” I say, pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
I slide the plate of French toast toward her, sitting across the table, my elbows resting on my knees. “You feelin’ okay? Need me to take you to the doctor?”
She shakes her head almost immediately, her voice barely audible. “No.”
“Alright,” I murmur, nodding.
I watch her quietly, noting how her shoulders slump and how she keeps her eyes on the plate rather than on me. “You sure, sunshine? Police, doctor, anybody. You say the word, and I’ll drive.”
She grips the fork tighter, her throat bobbing. “No cops,” she whispers, her eyes flicking up in a plea. “No doctors. I just…” She swallows, her words breaking apart. “I just want to be here.”
I exhale slowly, nodding again. “Okay,” I whisper, leaning in slightly. “Here’s where you’ll be, then.”
She tries to smile but can’t quite manage it. Her hand shakes as she lifts the fork, her eyes flick to me as if she’s afraid I’ll say something else.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” she says finally, her voice soft yet frayed at the edges.
“I wanted to,” I answer, reaching up to scratch the back of my neck. “I couldn’t just sit around while you slept. I needed to make sure you’d have somethin’ warm when you woke up.”
She looks down again, a quiet sniffle catching in her throat. “You’re always so patient with me.”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table. “You don’t owe me nothin’, Layla. Take all the time you need.”
Her hand slips across the table as her fingers brush mine. I inch my hand forward, letting her rest her hand there. Her thumb traces the rough skin of my knuckles, then stops at an old scar.
“You’re too good to me,” she whispers.
I shake my head, smiling faintly. “Baby, you just haven’t had anyone treat you right before.”
Her lip trembles, eyes glistening. “I don’t know what I’d do if I hadn’t come here.”
“Hey,” I murmur, squeezing her hand gently. “Don’t think like that. You’re here now. That’s what matters.”
The silence between us feels delicate.
Her eyes drop to our clasped hands, and I notice the slightest tremor in her breath. My own eyes begin to sting before I even realize.
I reach up, lifting my glasses as I wipe a stray tear with my thumb.
She notices, her voice breaking. “Reed… don’t cry.”
I chuckle, blinking quickly as I look down. “Sunshine. I—” I exhale, shaking my head. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”
Her fingers grip mine. “I feel safe,” she whispers. “With you.”
I look up at her, my vision blurred, my chest full. “That’s all I’ll ever want,” I say softly.
And right there, with the skillet still crackling behind us and her hand in mine, I know I’d spend the rest of my life making sure she never has to whisper that word like a prayer again.