Chapter 13
Thirteen
“Plan on getting blitzed again tonight?”
Reese’s arm slings casual over my shoulder as we steer down a dimly lit walkway.
“Maybe,” I say, smiling for the sake of it.
Truth is, I’ve had a change of heart and decided to take it chill tonight. No wild spiral, only a low-key buzz to make everything smear just right. No idea what’s propelled the switch, but I’m rolling with it.
“What about you? Gonna out-drink me like yesterday?”
He chuckles. “Wish I could say that was the plan, but I’m only here as your chauffeur. Got training tomorrow, and a hangover would get me reamed. Plus, it’s bad form.”
I glance up at him. “You didn’t have to come, y’know. I would’ve been fine.”
But I’m glad he did. Reese has this way of filling the silence without pressing on wounds; he never asks what he doesn’t need to know.
The roll of his shoulder nudges me. “Didn’t have anything better to do.” Then, lower, almost like it slips past him, “Needed out of there anyway.”
His corded arm goes rigid the second it’s out. I do what I’d want him to do. I read the room and pivot.
“Where you train, the place is local, right?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, tension easing off. “Only fifteen minutes from here. The coach we have there is gruelling as shit.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Let me put it into perspective for you. Carson, who’s basically a sadist when it comes to training, sometimes struggles to keep up with him.”
“Oh.” That lands. “I’m guessing Carson also has years of swimming experience?”
I know him and Dylan started young.
“Oh, yeah,” he nods. “He grew up ‘round these parts so chances are he started out before he could even speak.”
I soak that little tidbit up. “Carson’s from Grove?” I recall asking if he was when we… met.
“Eh, kinda. He was born here, then moved when he was around eight.”
I hum in contemplation. How is it that I know so little about him, this guy who’s seen me in a dozen different states.
High. Drunk. Hurting.
His walls make mine look flimsy, like his have been cemented for years, not just weeks. I’ve seen glimpses through the cracks now and then, fleeting tells that something more is buried behind all that stone, but I doubt I’ll ever get past the perimeter.
And that’s fine. I’m not trying to pry. Still… it wouldn’t hurt to know a little more. Maybe it’d make things feel less uneven between us.
“Who’s this guy that invited you?” Reese pulls me from my thoughts. “Will I need to break his arms?”
The laugh that escapes me is unfiltered. “You barely know me and you’re already offering to commit assault in my name. I must be something special.”
“‘Course you are. I was down for you from the start, ready to wife you off.”
“Only because of the breakfast you inhaled.”
“Well it wasn’t the swamp water martinis now, was it?” I have to stifle another laugh. “I’ve been meaning to ask how you made that blueberry sauce. We all devoured the leftovers so fast.”
“Nothing too fancy.” I rattle off ingredients and the simple how-to. “I can make some more if you’d like?”
“You don’t have to,” a sly grin tugs, “but I’m fully in support of blueberry-based generosity.”
Conversation continues its natural flow as we head to the address, the night air nothing like the stifling humidity of the day. It’s not only a relief—it’s a reminder that my head’s still off-balance from earlier. Another reason to keep the drinking to a minimum.
Still, what’s appreciated doesn’t always stay appreciated.
It happens as we’re rounding the corner. House music pulses through the air, and it’s loud enough to mark our arrival. But the beat masks the sound of their approach, and the darkness gives them cover. It’s only when three shadows break across our path that we tune in.
Well, Reese does.
He shoves me to the side and pivots to face them.
Three guys, if heights and statures are anything to go by. It’s a wall of black. Black clothes, blacks shoes, black bandanas veiling their faces. They don’t speak. They just move in on Reese, swinging.
I can’t do anything except stumble back, horror knotting inside. I’ve never been in a fight. Never even seen one. Not in real-time, and never mind one like this.
A three versus one.
A complete set-up.
It doesn’t look like one at the start. Reese holds his ground, as best as he can outnumbered and unprepared. The first hit that lands is his, then he ducks, and drives his fist into the second guy’s jaw, sending him reeling.
The other two regroup. One sneaks in a clean shot, but Reese barely flinches, probably riding the adrenaline. He spins with the hit and fires off a left hook, following it up with a vicious kick that drops the guy flat.
That’s when things start to change.
I feel the urgency spreading through the group, like blood in water.
One of them rushes him head-on, but he’s not fast enough—except the other guy times it perfectly, catching Reese with a brutal right hook.
The force of both hits, plus the rush of motion, sends him crashing down.
Sweat beads on my forehead, and I barely hear the grunts and groans over the thrashing of my heart, screaming at me to do something, anything.
I scour the gravel like the bag I always carry pepper spray in will materialise when I remember I don’t carry it anymore.
I’ve gotten so lax, so reckless in recent times that it’s coming back to bite me, bite Reese, in the worst of ways.
When I look back, he’s somehow managed to pull himself out of a stronghold and is on his feet. He’s staggering, but still swinging. It doesn’t last. The others surge together, tackling him right back down.
My own cheek smarts when a blow is dealt across his.
My phone. My phone. Where is it? It must’ve fallen in the chaos.
I should run for help. There are people nearby.
But I can’t. I’m locked in place by this sick fear that if I move I’ll return to something worse.
He’s struggling on his feet again. One of the attackers breaks formation, circling behind, and occupied with the other two in front, Reese is oblivious to it.
Thump. Thump. Thump. I don’t know what’s louder. The music, my pulse, or the connecting hits.
The arm cocks back in slow motion, lining up a knockout blow to the base of Reese’s skull.
I don’t think, I just act. Pure instinct.
In a single skipped heartbeat, I cover the distance, catch his arm mid-swing, and hold it back—barely. Not for long, I realise.
The man turns, eyes blazing with wild fury. All breath flees from my lungs, the space filling with three words: I’m done for.
The knowledge doesn’t stop his elbow from jerking forward, then whipping back into my face. Stars burst beneath the contact point and I let out a gasp, black spots crawling across my vision.
I’m still seeing them when a muffled curse lands.
“Fuck. He only has one sleeve of tats.”
“Shit. Wasn’t it supposed to be two?”
More muttering, more discourse, and if I were asked to differentiate between left and right I wouldn’t be able to, but I can tell you the precise moment they’re on the retreat.
One shoves into me on the way out, hard enough that I almost nosedive. I catch myself at the last second, but my knees knock together under the force of my panic.
“Oh, God. Reese.” I bolt to his side, but before I can crouch, he jerks upright, swaying like a tree about to snap. My hands fly out, instinct running the show.
“I’m good,” he rasps. “I’m good.”
It doesn’t just sound like a lie, it looks like one.
His face is a wreck, blood slick across skin, and there’s a sheen to it that makes him look ghostly under the wash of moonlight.
“What—” my tongue feels thick. “What just happened?”
“Fuck if I know.” He lurches again and I’m right there with him, following until his back meets a wall. The rise and fall of his chest is rapid, and seeing him this close to slipping, has my eyes stinging so bad it hurts to blink.
I feel it again, that hollow, helpless ache. The same one from the night she died. When I couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t be with her. Couldn’t bring her back. Couldn’t take her place or even ease the weight crushing my parents.
The crack in me shows when I whisper, “What do I do? Do I call someone?”
“Carson,” he forces out. “Phone’s in my pocket.”
Carson.
Yeah. He’ll help. He’ll know exactly what to do.
Carson. Safe and sometimes warm and—I shake my head, hard, trying to scatter the fog.
It feels like eternity waiting for the call to connect, but in reality it’s only two rings.
“Yeah?”
Relief slams into me so hard I sway. I clutch the phone like it’s a life raft. “Carson?”
I don’t know how he hears it, paper thin as it is, but somehow, he does.
There’s some rustling on his end, a shift in tone, then, “Brielle?” It has an edge to it. Concern. “Talk to me. What’s wrong?”
“Reese is hurt.”
“Just Reese?” He barrels on before I can answer. “Where are you?”
“Near a party.”
“Where exactly, Brielle?”
I claw through the haze for the address and stutter it out.
Silence. Then his voice comes different, urgency hollowed out and replaced with something slower. “Say that again.”
I do, perplexed.
His intake of breath crackles harsh through the receiver. “Stay where you are. I’ll be there in five.”
My grip on the phone tightens until my knuckles ache.
“Brielle,” he clips. “Tell me you got that.”
Every nerve in me begs to plead—stay on the line, keep talking, just hold me here until your voice builds me solid again—but I don’t. I just whisper a barely-coherent okay and, after another pause, the call disconnects.
Reese’s breathing has evened out a little, but he still looks worse for wear.
“Think anything’s broken?” I ask. God, I hope not.
“Nose, maybe?” That would explain all the blood. “Fuck. They got in some good hits.”
“Yeah.”
He cracks one eye open, trying for a smirk, but it hardly lifts before pain drags it right back down.
“Don’t stress, darling. The world ain’t gonna stop spinning over a couple surface level hits.”