Chapter 16
JESSICA
My thumb hovers over the app, because I hate living here and not contributing to anything, so I need to check after spending all the money on suppressants to see how much money I can give Carlos for the repairs and just any contribution I can make to the household.
Account frozen.
The phone slips from my hand, bouncing on the quilt.
No.
I snatch it back up, fingers clumsy. Refresh the app. The loading circle spins and spins.
Account frozen.
"No." The word comes out strangled. I'm on my feet again, pacing faster. My heart hammers against my ribs. "No, no, no."
I jab the bank's number. Press the phone to my ear so hard it hurts. I need to get estimates on the house repairs. The water damage isn't going to fix itself. While on hold I listen to some awful instrumental version of a pop song I can't place. My free hand clenches and unclenches at my side.
Twenty-three minutes. I count every second while pacing circles around the small room, wearing a path in the floorboards that probably isn't actually there.
"First National Bank, this is Brenda! How can I make your day better?"
The cheerfulness makes me want to scream.
"My account is frozen." I force the words through gritted teeth. "The one ending in 4739. I need to know why."
"Let me just pull that up for you!" Keyboard clicking, rapid-fire. "Okay, yes, I see that. Mr. Whitmore called yesterday afternoon to report suspicious activity on the account."
My stomach drops like a stone. I stop pacing mid-step.
"Mr. Whitmore doesn't have access to that account." My voice sounds hollow. "He's not on that account. That's my account. From before."
More clicking. Each tap feels like a nail in a coffin.
"Hmm, I'm showing here that he was added as a joint account holder. Let me see... yes, here it is. March 15th of last year."
March.
The word echoes in my skull. I'm moving again, but I don't remember telling my legs to walk. To the dresser. Back to the bed. My reflection catches in the mirror - pale face, wild eyes, hands shaking.
March. What happened in March?
Then it hits me.
I grab the edge of the dresser to steady myself. The wood is smooth and cool under my palms.
The romantic weekend. Callum had surprised me - "Just you and me, baby, let's get away from the city." A boutique hotel. Room service breakfast. Sex that felt like he was trying to prove something.
And on Saturday afternoon, he'd said, "We should stop by the bank while we're here. Take care of some paperwork. Just boring adult stuff, but we can grab lunch after."
I'd been hungover. Tired from staying up late. He'd ordered mimosas at brunch and I'd had three because they tasted like orange juice and sunshine.
The bank had been cold. Too bright. A woman with a tight smile had pushed papers across a desk. So many papers. Callum's hand warm on my back, his thumb drawing circles through my shirt.
"Just a formality, baby. So I can help you if there's ever an emergency. You know, if something happens and you need me to access your account. It's what couples do."
I'd signed them. Barely read them. Just wanted to get back to the hotel, to the warm bed.
My knees buckle. I sit down hard on the bed.
"Ma'am? Are you still there?"
"I'm here." My voice cracks. I clear my throat, taste bile. "How much is in the account?"
"I'm showing a balance of $447.62 before the freeze."
Mom's emergency money. The $1,000 she wired, because he knew that I needed suppressants and having nowhere to go. And the rest were spent on suppressants and food since I’ve been here. But now the little I had is all frozen.
I stand up too fast. The room tilts. I brace myself against the wall, pressing my forehead to the cool plaster.
"The freeze could take up to thirty days to resolve," Brenda chirps. "But I can submit an expedite request if you'd like!"
Thirty days.
Thirty days with nothing.
"Yes," I whisper. "Please."
"Wonderful! I'll get that processed for you right away. Is there anything else I can help you with today?"
I hang up without answering and let the phone drop onto the bed.
My wallet is on the nightstand. I grab it with shaking hands, flip it open. Three dollar bills - worn and soft from being folded and refolded. Two quarters. One dime. Seven pennies.
I count them twice. Three times. Like the amount might change if I just look hard enough.
$3.47.
That's everything. Everything Callum can't touch because it's physical, tangible, mine.
The bacon smell is stronger now, mixed with coffee and something sweet - pancakes, maybe. My stomach growls despite the nausea churning in my gut. I haven't eaten since dinner last night when I'd forced down three bites of spaghetti before excusing myself.
A knock makes me jump so hard I drop the wallet. Change scatters across the hardwood, pennies rolling under the bed.
"Jess?" Carlos's voice, muffled through the door. "Breakfast is ready. Sergio made enough bacon to feed a small army, and Pedro's threatening to eat it all if you don't come out soon."
I stare at the door. At the coins on the floor. At the phone on the bed showing my frozen accounts.
"Coming." The word barely makes it past my lips.
I drop to my knees and scramble for the coins. My hands are still shaking. A penny has rolled too far under the bed - I have to lie flat on my stomach to reach it, stretching until my shoulder protests. When I finally close my fist around it, I feel like crying.
One cent. I just crawled across the floor for one cent. I shove everything back in my wallet and stand up. Smooth down Carlos's hoodie. Run my fingers through my hair. Take three deep breaths that don't help at all.
Then I open the door and walk toward the kitchen like I'm heading to my own execution.
The kitchen is chaos and warmth and noise.
Sergio stands at the stove, flipping pancakes with one hand while gesturing with a spatula in the other, arguing with Nacho about whether butter belongs on both sides of garlic bread.
He's wearing a grey Henley that pulls tight across his shoulders every time he moves.
His dark curly hair is still damp from a shower, dripping onto his collar.
Nacho sits at the table in his sheriff's uniform - the khaki shirt pressed sharp, the badge gleaming in the morning light. He's already working through a plate piled high with eggs and bacon, occasionally interjecting in the garlic bread debate with his mouth full.
Pedro leans against the counter by the coffee maker, wearing scrubs the color of storm clouds. His wire-rimmed glasses have slipped down his nose. He nurses a mug the size of my head, scowling at nothing and everything, his jaw tight with whatever thoughts are churning behind his grey eyes.
And Carlos.
Carlos is sprawled in a chair at the head of the table, feet propped on an empty seat, his work boots leaving faint dust marks on the chair cushion.
He's wearing a flannel shirt - red and black checks - unbuttoned enough to show the white t-shirt underneath and a strip of tanned collarbone.
His dark curly hair sticks up in seventeen different directions like he rolled out of bed and didn't bother with a mirror.
He's got a piece of bacon in one hand, gesturing with it while he talks, and a grin on his face that suggests he knows exactly how good he looks and doesn't care who notices.
The moment I step through the doorway, his scent hits me. Sandalwood and sawdust, warm and earthy and so distinctly alpha my omega practically purrs.
I tell it to shut up.
"There she is." Carlos waves the bacon at me like a victory flag. "We were starting to think you'd climbed out the window again."
"Don't tempt me." I move to the table, hyper-aware of four sets of eyes tracking my movement. My legs feel like they might give out.
Sergio slides a plate in front of the empty chair without a word.
Pancakes - three of them, golden brown and steaming.
A pile of crispy bacon. Scrambled eggs with melted cheese.
More food than I've eaten for breakfast in two years because Callum always said pancakes were empty carbs and bacon was basically poison and eggs should be egg whites only.
My stomach growls. My throat tightens.
I sink into the chair and grip my fork like a weapon.
"Rough morning?" Carlos asks. His voice has lost the teasing edge.
I stab a pancake. The fork goes through with a satisfying resistance. "Callum froze my account."
The kitchen goes quiet. Completely, utterly silent.
Sergio's spatula stops mid-flip. A drop of batter hits the stovetop with a tiny hiss.
Nacho sets down his fork. It clangs against his plate.
Pedro's mug pauses halfway to his mouth. Coffee sloshes over the rim.
Carlos's feet drop from the empty chair, hitting the floor with a thud.
“How?” His voice has gone flat. Dangerous.
I cut a piece of pancake. Shove it in my mouth even though it tastes like sawdust. Force myself to chew. Swallow. "The one I opened when I lived in Pine Hollow, because I’d forgotten that he’d known about it.”
“I don’t understand, how did he do it?” Nacho's sheriff voice has emerged - steady, professional, but with an undercurrent of rage. "If he wasn't on that account—"
"He was." The words taste like ash. I cut another piece of pancake just to have something to do with my hands.
"He added himself last March. Convinced me to sign papers during a 'romantic weekend getaway.
'" I make air quotes with my fork. Syrup drips onto my plate.
"I didn't even realize what I was signing. I was in love or so I thought, but one thing I’m sure about is that I was stupid and—"
"Stop." Sergio turns off the stove. Moves to the table. Sits down across from me with deliberate care. "You were being manipulated."
"Same thing."
"Not even close."
Pedro sets his mug down on the counter with enough force that I'm surprised it doesn't shatter. "That manipulative piece of—"
"Pedro." Sergio's voice carries a warning.
"What? I'm not allowed to call him what he is?"