Chapter 51 – Waylon
chapter
fifty-one
Waylon
I called Mom because I thought hearing her voice would make me feel better. Usually, it did.
Instead, the stress in her voice cranked up mine. Dad was out of rehab again and asking to see her. Thank God he still didn’t know where she lived. He’d gone through Grandma, and when that didn’t work, apparently, he’d gotten a call from a certain Kane.
That motherfucker Marcus sent him to the hospital where Mom worked. Sperm donor wanted to see me too.
Over my dead body.
Dr. Bobblehead on my nightstand had nothing useful to add.
I wanted to ignore the knock on my door. I got up and answered it anyway.
Trace stood there in a hoodie and slides, hands shoved in his pockets, hair pushed sideways from sleep. He took one look at me and stepped inside.
“I was going to call.”
“No, you weren’t.” He dropped onto my couch like he lived there, which he basically did. “Ryder texted me. Said you seemed like you needed a babysitter.”
“I don’t need a babysitter.”
“Cool.” He picked up my TV remote, turned it over, and set it back down. “What do you need?”
Trace waited. When he got like this, he could sit there all night while I tried not to answer.
I sat down in the chair across from him. “Aaron’s tracing the calls Marcus made to the front offices. Seattle, Dallas, maybe more. He used Dalton’s name, but Aaron thinks the calls came from Marcus’s phone. Mom dealt with Dad herself. She wasn’t even scared.”
“Of course she wasn’t,” Trace said.
“I’ve been worrying about her for half my life.”
“You were eleven when you started worrying about her,” he said. “You were a kid. That made sense then. Doesn’t mean you have to keep doing it.”
I had no comeback for that. I looked down at my phone.
I picked it up to close Aaron’s email. My thumb moved to the voice-note folder instead, to the one from the parking lot with Marcus. Aaron already had it. I hadn’t listened to it since the night it happened.
I pressed play and held the phone up so Trace could hear it too.
First came me, going on about hot chocolate and marshmallows, walking to my truck after practice. Then his footsteps, and then his voice, clear as anything.
Johnson. I’ve seen you watching her.
I let it run all the way to the end, three minutes and forty-one seconds of him admitting everything.
I’ll destroy her before I let you have her.
Every word came through clear. I lowered the phone.
Trace’s jaw had gone tight. “That’s Marcus.”
“Yeah,” I said. “The night he threatened her in the lot. This is the recording Aaron’s had for weeks.”
Trace sat forward. “He said that? To your face?”
“Every word of it. He copped to the scholarship too — told me himself, one phone call and it was gone.”
Trace didn’t say anything for a second.
“That’s a direct threat,” Trace said.
“He put himself on record. Aaron already confirmed the calls to the teams came from Marcus’s cell, not Dalton’s. Marcus wasn’t using his father’s power. He was faking it, and I don’t think Daddy Dearest knows.”
Trace rubbed both hands over his face. “Jesus. He’s been fucking with your draft.”
“Yeah. Seattle backed off. Dallas won’t return Aaron’s calls. Now scouts think I’m a fucking problem because of him.” I set the phone on the coffee table. “If Dalton finds out Marcus has been calling teams in his name, he has to shut this down. He can’t pretend it’s just family shit.”
Trace leaned back, his eyes on the phone.
“Aaron has the phone records,” I said. “I’ve got Marcus threatening Josie in his own voice. We put them together and take everything to Dalton.”
“Then use it,” Trace said.
“I’m calling him now.” I picked up my phone. “We need a plan before Marcus figures out what I have.”
Trace settled deeper into the couch.
“You’re staying?” I asked.
“You’ve got a plan to build,” he said with a shrug. “I’ve got nowhere to be.”
Usually, I would’ve told him to go home. Tonight, I was glad he was there.
“Okay,” I said.
I pulled up Aaron’s number and pressed call.