Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Lennon
Three sharp bangs against my front door make me flinch so violently that I half fall off the couch. My entire body curls tighter beneath the blanket wrapped around me, the rough material scratching against my skin as I fight the urge to disappear into myself.
“Babe, open up!” The voice is one I recognize all too well.
With the last dregs of strength that are slowly seeping from my body, I force myself off the floor.
The blanket I had found in my panic, one of the few not stained with blood, remains tightly wrapped around me as I stumble toward the door.
My fingers fumble with the lock before finally managing to pull it open. And the second I do, I break.
Bronte stands on the other side, dressed in a pair of ridiculous fluffy pink slippers, leggings and an oversized hoodie that swallows her tiny frame.
Her dark curls are piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and judging by the lack of makeup and the concern written all over her face, she must have left the second I called.
Her blue eyes widen.
“Oh, Lenny, no. Come here, babe,” she says, her voice barely registering over the ringing in my ears as I practically fall into her arms. I’ve not seen her since my father’s funeral.
Haven’t really spoken to her either. She knows about the team.
I got that out of my system in a series of voice notes the morning after I finally wrapped my head around inheriting the Cardinals. But this? She knows nothing about it.
Her body falters beneath my weight before she steadies us both.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Lenny. Who do I need to stab? No. Don’t answer that.
I look terrible in orange,” she says, tightening her hold around me.
“Come on. You’re freezing. I’ll make coffee.
” Closing the door behind me, Bronte wanders deeper into my apartment, making herself at home and I can’t help but smile.
This is the woman who held my hair back when I was drunk when we were younger.
The woman who sat beside me in silence after Dad died because neither of us knew what to say.
“I didn’t know who else to call.” That’s all I manage to say as my emotions come to a standstill, meeting me all at once in this moment.
“You know you can call me anytime, anywhere, about anything. I’m either there for you in spirit, or in the flesh, babe,” she says, searching my cupboards for coffee mugs.
“You’re practically a therapist at this point,” I say with a sigh, half joking, yet unable to deny the truth behind the words. Bronte snorts, finally locating the mugs which were in the cupboard she opened the first time.
“Please. I charge too much. Besides, therapists don’t threaten to commit murder on your behalf. I’m much more versatile.”
Despite the tears threatening to fall and the horror of the last few hours still heavy in my chest, a laugh escapes me. Bronte pauses, smiling softly over her shoulder.
“There she is,” she murmurs. “I was wondering where you ran off to.”
I pull the blanket tighter around myself, watching as she moves around my kitchen like she owns the place, opening drawers without asking and muttering under her breath when she discovers I somehow have six wine glasses and only two coffee mugs.
“Sorry for being so high maintenance lately,” I murmur, reaching out to grab the coffee from her hands. Bronte stops mid-step, fixing me with a look over the rim of her own mug.
“Babe, I once stopped you from drunkenly adopting a pigeon because it looked lonely. That ship sailed years ago.”
I snort softly.
“His name was Brian.”
She shoots me a look that tells me she’s unimpressed, earning a watery chuckle from me. Her expression softens, and she reaches out, brushing my hair behind my ear.
“You don’t have to apologize for friendship, Lenny.
Especially not with me. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” she says, taking the coffee from my hands before I have the chance to spill it all over myself.
Grabbing my hand, she guides me back to the couch, waiting until I’m wrapped beneath my blanket again, before placing the mug into my hands and settling beside me.
“Tell me what the fuck is going on.” Her blue eyes search my face, all traces of teasing gone.
The worry in them only deepens as she takes in the blanket wrapped around me like armor, and the tremor I can’t seem to stop.
By the way her eyes keep darting toward my hallway, I know she can smell it.
The blood. “You’re fucking terrified,” she says, her voice much softer now, reaching out to hold my hand. “What happened?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, because where the fuck do I even start?
Instead, I do the only thing I can think to do.
Leaning over, I pick up my phone from the coffee table and hand it to her.
Bronte frowns before taking it from me. The confusion on her face quickly fades as she scrolls through the messages.
Her brow furrows. Then her eyes widen as the color drains from her face.
“Lenn…” she whispers, scrolling until the soft sounds of the video fill the room. I stare into my coffee, unable to watch her reaction.
“What the actual fuck is wrong with people?”
I glance up, taking in the furious expression on my best friend’s face. Her jaw is clenched so tightly, I swear I hear her teeth grind.
“You tell me right now you don’t know who these assholes are, Lennon.”
“I don’t know who they are.”
“Have you gone to the cops?”
“I went down to the station first thing this morning. Bunch of paperwork. The usual.”
Bronte lets out a frustrated sigh, tossing my phone onto the couch before springing to her feet.
“I could do it, you know. I could go to prison.”
“Bronte—”
“No, I’m serious. If I find this cunt before the cops do, I’m going to need a very good lawyer.” She points to me, and as much as she sounds like she’s joking, I know she’s not.
I refused to let Bronte leave, even after the scene had been stripped.
My nest left empty and bare for me to start all over again.
Not even a bleach bath could convince me to keep a single blanket or pillow I’d collected over the years.
The idea of them had my stomach reeling.
After one mad dash to the toilet at the thought of salvaging something, I knew I just had to start over.
Bronte made that idea feel less impossible. She called it a metamorphosis. Shedding the past and making way for the new. New journey. New job. New life. New nest.
I can’t even pretend I’m not devastated.
“Girl, you know I love a shopping trip,” she says, grabbing my hands in hers after she had washed them twice with dish soap and another round of hand sanitizer.
“This time, when you form your nest, you can be more intentional with the pieces you pick. Maybe you can go for a darker, moody vibe this time. Maybe some dark greens, purples, and reds.”
“What, like the color of blood?” I snark, giving her half a smile for the first time since she walked through the door.
Bronte rolls her eyes, slapping me on the shoulder. Too soon, I take it.
“No, you bitch. I mean something that will represent the real you. Like burgundy. I know how much you love that color. Besides, the burgundy heels you have are insanely hot. Not that you wear them much these days. You’re all sensible heels and boring suits.” It’s my turn to roll my eyes.
“You’re hardly one to talk about high heels. You might be immune to the damage they do to your feet, but I’m not. You put me to shame a good six inches.”
She chuckles.
Bronte is an exotic dancer, and she would not be found wearing heels less than six inches.
While she’d struggled against the prejudice her parents had drilled into her when she first joined the industry, she’d eventually realized something they never did.
There was freedom in being unapologetically yourself.
And if there was one thing Bronte excelled at, it was being exactly who she wanted to be.
We both quiet down before the mood slowly turns solemn again.
“What the fuck is going on, Lenn? Who would leave a dead bird in your nest? That’s pure insanity!”
“I have no idea. I just started getting these stupid fuckin’ text messages and all of a sudden, I’m in some kind of war with them. I didn’t sign up for this shit.”
I chew on my lower lip, replaying the text thread over and over in my head.
One message in particular keeps clawing its way back to the surface.
At the time, I’d dismissed it in favor of the more immediate horrors.
But now, with my nest stripped bare and the adrenaline beginning to wear off, I can’t ignore it anymore.
“B, they mentioned something about my Dad. They said something about me paying for his sins. Something about…with him gone now, I have to suffer for the things he did when he was alive.”
Bronte’s eyes bug out of her head. “What the fuck kind of sadistic bullshit is that? You and I both know that your dad was one of the most gentle men there was. Sure, he was a beast on the ice but the moment he stepped off it, he was a massive teddy bear.”
I nod, having thought the same thing. He was never cruel. Far from it. Which is why I had passed their message off as nothing more than baiting me. And you know what, perhaps they still are. But they have access to me in ways I am not fucking comfortable with, so I need to take this seriously.
“I don’t know what to do,” I murmur, burying my head into my blanket.
“What did the police say?” Bronte says after a beat.
I snort, “Somehow I don’t think the law is going to be on my side with this one.
They mentioned something about a bunch of kids and sending a night watch to patrol the area.
But they didn’t even offer to come check out the place.
They probably thought I was a crazy person because I hadn’t been to bed when I went down there and I was under all kinds of stress.
This is what I get for being a female, unmated Omega.
I’m literally treated like an afterthought. ”
Bronte doesn’t reply straight away. She knows I am right. She’s seen it happen enough times to know I’m not exaggerating. To most people, an unmated Omega is something to pity. Someone unstable. Volatile. Weak. Stigmas that I have proven time and time again that I am not, but to no avail.
“What are you going to do then?”
I sigh, looking over at my best friend. “I’m just going to have to weather this storm and hope like fuck they are just trying to scare me and not actually hurt me.”
Bronte’s shoulders drop, as does her face. She knows me well enough to know that once I sink my heels in, moving me is damn near impossible. That I’m stubborn. That I refuse to back down from a fight, even when common sense tells me to.
“The moment this goes too far, you need to get the fuck out of here, Lenn. Come stay with me. Move into a place with better security or something. Just…don’t stay here trying to prove a fucking point.” I grab her hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
“I will. I promise.”
“The cops might not give a fuck, but I do. Oh, also, I’ve already ordered hidden cameras. There's a guy coming tomorrow to install them.”
Deciding that arguing is pointless, I decide that it’s probably for the best.
“You’re so bossy these days.”
“You just need someone to save you from yourself. Whoever the fuck it is, they’ve already made one mistake.”
She leans back against the couch, her eyes drifting toward the dark hallway leading to my ruined bedroom.
“What’s that?”
Her smile is borderline vicious.
“They think you’re alone.”