Chapter 36
Lucky
Ethan’s house is too quiet.
Not bad, quiet. Just… quiet enough that my brain keeps checking for threats like a paranoid raccoon that’s been fed caffeine and childhood trauma.
A few days have passed, but my body hasn’t caught up. I’m still waking up hard, heart pounding, certain I’m trapped in that trunk again. Ethan keeps the hallway light on for me at night and pretends it’s because he “forgot.” I let him pretend.
I’m sitting on his couch now, wrapped in one of his flannels because it smells like cedar and safety, staring out at the lake. The water is glassy, early sunlight slicing across it like someone had taken a blade and drawn a single, perfect line.
I should feel safe. I am safe, technically. Ethan said Michael Sheifer will never be a problem again. And Ethan doesn’t make promises lightly—he says something, it’s gospel.
I didn’t ask how he knew, and I don’t want to know either.
But I know the look in his eyes when he said it. Dead calm. Absolute. Final.
So yeah… Sheifer’s gone. Forever.
Sam disappeared from Cedar Falls as fast as he’d appeared, like he was never here at all.
Those two were vague as hell about what they did together in the army, and I’m not stupid enough to dig.
Whatever they were trained for… it wasn’t regular soldier stuff.
It was the kind that stays off record and off lips.
Fine by me.
I want normal. Or my version of normal—which is basically chaos but without the stalking and attempted-murder seasoning.
My phone buzzes, and I flinch. That’s new. I hate it.
Banks’ name flashes on the screen. I take a breath and answer.
He goes straight into manager mode.
“Lu, thank God. I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Are you okay? You sound—different.”
“I’m fine, Banks.” I tuck my knees to my chest. “Just… had a rough week. I’m good now.”
I don’t tell him about Sheifer.
About the kidnapping.
About the screaming in the woods.
No. That gets buried in Cedar Lake Falls, where it belongs.
He clears his throat. “Well. Crisis or not, we need you in LA. The new track? I want you to record a demo ASAP. Got a meeting lined up with a label that specializes in indie artists.”
“Good,” I say. “But I’m not coming back to LA.”
Silence. Then—“Come again?”
“I made my decision. I’m done with all that noise. I want you to find a recording studio in New York. A producer out here on the East Coast. I live in New York. Not LA.”
I glance out the window again. The lake barely moves.
“I’m staying in Cedar Lake Falls.”
A beat. Then Banks laughs—relieved, delighted, maybe a little shocked. “Holy hell, Lu. You sound… centered. I like this. I really like this.”
“I’m working on it,” I mutter.
“Oh—before I forget—Connect Records called again. They want to hear your new sound. Open to negotiate.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp and hot. “I’m never working with them again.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I told them to shove it. Lawyers are handling the contract. You’re done with Jett Langford. Officially.”
My chest loosens. Just a little. A quiet I can live with.
“Thanks, Banks.”
“Anytime. Now go write something brilliant. And Lucky?”
“Yeah?”
“Proud of you, girl.”
The call ends. I stare at my reflection in the dark phone screen. No stage makeup. No neon hair. Just me.
Just Lucky.
The real one. The messy one. The one who almost died and still woke up wanting more—music, freedom, a life that doesn’t hurt.
And Ethan.
God. Ethan.
I step closer to the window. The lake glows gold. Everything feels like a reset button I never knew existed.
I chose sanity and myself today. And if Ethan wants me the way I want him…
I smile to myself, small and scared and hopeful.
Then maybe I finally get to choose him, too.
The soft click of the front door unlocking barely grazes my nerves—because I already saw it on the kitchen screen. Motion alert, front sensor: Ethan.
Good. Anyone else and I’d have grabbed the nearest object and hurled it out of instinct.
I don’t go to him. I’m not ready for walls and ceilings yet. Instead, I slide the porch door open and step out onto the deck.
Warm air rushes over me, brushing my skin like something close to forgiveness. The sun is brighter than it has any right to be, and the lake… God, the lake looks unreal. Glassy, endless, shimmering like it’s trying to hypnotize me into slowing down.
I roll up the sleeves of Ethan’s shirt—the one I stole this morning because it smells like him—and the fabric slips higher on my forearms. One is still bandaged.
Ethan said it wasn’t deep enough for stitches, but every time I look at it, my stomach sways like I’m back in that trunk or running for my life in the woods.
I’d kill to play my guitar, but my shoulder’s one big bruise, and the rest of me feels like I’ve been through a blender labeled ‘Panic.’
A floorboard creaks behind me—heavy, certain footsteps. Ethan's footsteps.
I don’t turn.
His arms slide around me from behind, slow and sure, wrapping me up like he’s been waiting to do it all day.
He nuzzles my hair aside and presses his lips to the side of my neck.
My eyes flutter shut at the warmth of him, at the scent that is just…
Ethan. Smoky, clean, a little wild. Like forest and rain. Like safety, I don’t have to earn.
He doesn’t say anything. Of course, he doesn’t. Silence is his first language.
But right here, with him anchoring me, silence doesn’t hurt.
“It’s so peaceful here,” I murmur, my voice slipping out smaller than intended. “I get why you brought Lily here and why you wanted her to grow up somewhere like this.”
His arms tighten, just a fraction. Enough to say he heard me. Enough to say it matters.
I turn in his hold, sliding my hands up his chest, careful with my bruises. He keeps me locked against him, like he’s scared I’ll dissolve if he lets go.
“I talked to Banks earlier,” I say, searching his face.
A flicker. Barely there. But I see it—the micro-smile he thinks I’m too distracted to catch.
“I told him to find a recording studio in New York,” I continue.
His brows lift a hair. He doesn’t speak—he never wants to influence me by accident. But he’s watching me with that quiet, consuming intensity that could melt steel.
“I’m not going back to L.A.,” I say softly. “Not now. Maybe not ever.”
Ethan doesn’t say anything at first.
He never does — the man could win awards for strategic silence, but the smile he’d been trying to hide tugs again, small but real, like he can’t help it.
His arms tighten just a fraction around my waist…and then his thumb slips beneath the hem of his shirt I’m wearing and brushes the bare skin of my hip.
My whole pulse shivers.
Yeah. That’s definitely a reaction.
I swallow, eyes locked on him, pretending I’m not melting like a coward.
But then… a sound. A soft exhale, almost a laugh.
“So you’re staying,” he murmurs against my shoulder, “and making my life complicated.”
I jab my fist into his ribs—not hard, just enough to tell him I heard the smile in his voice.
“In a good way,” he adds quickly, hands tightening on my hips like he’s anchoring me to him. “Most days.”
A laugh escapes me—tiny, breathy, surprised. God, I needed that.
The lake glitters in front of us, sunlight dancing like it’s showing off. Somewhere, a bird chirps. Somewhere deeper inside me, something unclenches.
I lean into him without thinking. “You like complicated,” I say.
“I like you,” he corrects, voice low, honest in that infuriatingly simple way he has. “Complicated comes with the package.”
My throat burns.
My chest does something stupid and hopeful.
“So you’re not kicking me out anytime soon?” I ask, trying to make it light but feeling the weight of it anyway.
His thumb sweeps my hip again—slow, intentional.
“Lucky,” he murmurs, “you’re not going anywhere.”
And somehow… that doesn’t scare me. It feels like breathing.
He dips his head before I can say anything, kissing me slowly at first — steady, deliberate, like he’s reminding himself he can take his time with me now.
But I’m the one who loses patience. I fist the fabric of his shirt and pull him closer, pressing my body into his, needing the heat, the weight, him.
He answers instantly, his mouth deepening the kiss, his hand sliding under the hem of his shirt on me — warm fingers skimming up my thigh, tracing the curve of my hip, higher. My breath hitches when his thumb grazes the edge of my panties.
“Ethan…” I whisper into his mouth, not sure if it’s a warning or a plea.
His other hand cups the side of my jaw, tilting my face up.
The kiss turns hungry, like he’s been holding himself on a short leash for days and finally lets it slip through his fingers.
My hands roam over his shoulders, the hard plane of his chest, the nape of his neck where he’s always warm.
He makes a low sound when I tug him closer again, a sound that vibrates straight through me.
The deck feels too open, the world too bright, but his body is all shadow and heat and familiarity. And for the first time since the trunk, since the forest, since the hands that grabbed me in the dark — I feel alive instead of afraid.
He presses his forehead to mine, breathing hard. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, voice rough.
I shake my head, sliding my hands up his back. “Not today.”
His smile is small, crooked, and dangerous in the best way.
Then his hand moves higher up my thigh, and he kisses me again — deeper, firmer, like he’s claiming every shaken part of me and putting it back where it belongs.
His fingers hook into the waistband of my panties, tugging them down slowly, inch by inch, exposing me to the cool lake air.
The fabric slides over my hips, past my thighs, and pools at my ankles.
I step out of them, heart pounding as he straightens just enough to lift the hem of his shirt I'm wearing, pulling it up and over my head in one fluid motion.