22. June #2
“Sure thing.” He kisses my cheek, then returns to the kitchen to refresh my drink. And me? Well, I guess I can’t help myself. Checking to see if I’m still in Bryan’s line of sight, I cast a quick, apologetic look at Violet, then move around the banister and up the stairs without a backward glance.
Jagger doesn’t stop me, and Violet doesn’t question it. Why I feel the need to check on a certain someone when my non-boyfriend is fixing me a drink in the kitchen.
Good. Maybe I’m not so unhinged after all.
When I reach the second floor, I look around, fighting my helplessness.
I’ve never been up here before. I have no idea where I’m going.
Not really. Nibbling the edge of my bottom lip, I approach the closest door and reach for the handle when Violet’s warm voice echoes behind me. “Next door down. That one’s Hawke’s.”
I was so distracted, I didn’t hear her follow me. I wipe my sweaty palm with my fingers, then look at one of my best friends.
“I get it, June. Trust me. If anyone gets it, it’s me.”
“It’s not like that,” I start.
“It never is.” Her mouth lifts on one side. “Take your time. Jagger and I will cover for you with Bryan.”
“Thanks,” I whisper.
Quickening my steps, I approach the next door and reach for the handle, but hesitate. Is this a bad idea? Do I even care if it is? Making a fist, I knock instead. The sound is quiet, but it’s enough to grab Ford’s attention. “Occupado. Go somewhere else.”
I reach for the handle again and twist it open before I can talk myself out of it. With his butt planted on the mattress and his head in his hands, Ford’s head snaps up. “I said—” The words fall flat as he scans me up and down. “To what, uh, to what do I owe the pleasure, June Bug?”
Closing the door behind me, I lean against the hard surface and press my hands to it. “Is this the part where you say I should see the other guy?”
“Normally, I’d say yes, but, uh, this time, I’m the one sporting the, uh, the trophy.
” He motions to his face and rolls his eyes.
He wants me to think it doesn’t affect him.
That it’s only a bruise. And maybe if he was talking to someone else, they’d believe him.
Me? Not so much. However, if I’ve learned anything in my short friendship with Ford Harden, it’s that pushing the guy isn’t always the best way to get an answer out of him.
Nope. It only makes him clam up, and I don’t have the muscles to pry him open.
So instead, I try something different. I take a page from his own book.
“Good thing chicks dig scars,” I say.
A look of mirth forms at the edge of his mouth. “Good thing.”
“Mind if I take a closer look?” I can tell he wants to say no. His shoulders hunch ever so slightly, and he fights to hold my gaze. “Please, Ford?” I murmur.
Another beat passes, and I swear I can hear my own heart pounding in my ears as I wait for permission to approach him. Finally, his chin dips, and I edge closer.
The mattress sinks as I sit beside him. “What happened?” I ask.
“Once a smart-ass, always a smart-ass.”
I nod my understanding, then take his hands, checking his knuckles. They’re calloused but clean. No split skin. No blood or bruising or redness. The realization doesn’t make me feel any better as I brush my thumb against his skin. “You didn’t fight back.”
He shakes his head. “I’m, uh, I’m playing the long game.”
The long game? What is he talking about?
My gaze finds his. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m playing the long game,” he repeats, though the humor seems to be missing this time.
“And who are you playing it with?” I prod.
“You want the truth, June Bug?” His gaze is so sharp I’m surprised I haven’t been cut.
“I want whatever you’re willing to give without feeling pressured into it.
” I hesitate. My attention catches on the damaged side of his face.
“Wait here,” I order. A bathroom connects to Ford’s bedroom, and I disappear inside it.
Searching the stained wood cabinet, I find a washcloth and wet it with cold water before returning to Ford.
He hasn’t moved a muscle. Instead, he’s staring at the wall in front of him like I’m not even here at all.
Why does that not make me feel any better?
I bite my bottom lip and approach him once more.
“Here.” I press the cool washcloth to the angry cut surrounded by red, puffy skin on the side of his face.
“It’s not an icepack, but…at least it’s something. ”
“Look at you. Nurse June. Does this persona come with a naughty outfit, too?”
I peek up at him, then turn my attention back to the damage. “Only for my good patients,” I volley.
His eyes widen before mirth replaces his surprise. “Bribery, huh? Is that how you treat all your patients?”
“I mean, we do have a treasure box at the end of every appointment.”
His smile grows before disappearing altogether as he leans into my touch.
I don’t know what it is. The defeat. The somberness enveloping his room.
But it’s like the mask has slipped once more, and I’m gifted with the real Ford all over again.
The one I met during our little study session, then again when I dropped off a loaf of sourdough, and once more when I was sick last weekend.
The one I can’t help but feel pulled to.
It’s like an invisible string connects us.
The problem is, I’m not sure if I’m the only one who feels it.
“Daddy Dearest,” he mutters.
“Huh?”
“That’s who I’m playing the long game with.”
My frown deepens.
“Daddy Dearest, or, more widely known as Titas Harden. My father.”
Shock courses through my system as I register his words. His father? He can’t be serious. Can he? My fingers flex into the washcloth. “Your dad did this to you?” I whisper.
“Piece of work, am I right?”
“Ford—” I start to pull my hand away, but he grabs my wrist, keeping me in place.
“It’s fine, June.”
Fine? Being hit by your dad is fine? Rage builds inside of me like a volcano. No, it’s faster than a volcano. More explosive and instantaneous. Like dynamite. I’m a stick of dynamite, and with one simple word, I’m ready to detonate. “We need to call—”
“There’s no one to call, June.” Resignation taints his words, and he leans into my palm.
The washcloth separates me from his actual skin, but the heat of him seeps through the moist terrycloth as he stares up at me.
No mask. No lying. No snark or wit. He’s been stripped bare for only me to see, and I’d give anything to take away the pain in his eyes.
“How long?” I ask. “How long has he been hitting you?"
Something sparks in his gaze, though I can’t place the feeling. “Here and there since I was four.”
“Four?” My heart cracks even more. “Ford—”
“To be fair, it’s usually my own fault. I’m not very good at keeping my sarcasm in check. But here’s the thing.” He pauses before grinning like a lunatic. “The bastard makes it so damn easy.”
“It’s not funny, Ford.”
His smirk stays in place. “Kind of funny, June.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No,” I snap. I pull the washcloth away and set it on the bedside table.
“It really isn't.” I blink away the burn in my eyes, caught between desperation to fix this—to go back in time and save the little boy who was put through this—and the overwhelming desire to let him keep his head in the sand if it’ll protect him from facing what he’s been through. “This isn’t okay, Ford.”
“Never said it’s okay,” he argues. “Only said it’s kind of funny.”
“And how is it funny?” I reproach.
“Because I’m a grown-ass adult who could beat the shit out of him until he stops breathing. But what do I do?” A haze hits his eyes. “I just…”—his shoulder lifts in a shrug—“stand there.”
Another shard pierces my chest.
How do I fix this? How do I tell him he isn’t wrong for feeling the way he does, but this isn’t right, either?
From the outside looking in, Harden Heights and The Drift feel so…
normal. But the longer I live here, the more I see all the cracks in the facade and how deeply it’s affected the people I care about, including the man in front of me.
A smart, funny, charismatic, attractive billionaire prince who, from the outside looking in, seems to have his crap together.
Instead, he’s falling apart at the seams with no one the wiser. It guts me.
“You know it’s not normal, right?” I whisper.
“I mean, I know between you and Violet and Lexie, it might seem normal, but it’s not.
” An image of my mom and dad rises to the surface.
It makes me want to cry even more. I bite my bottom lip to keep it from wobbling, determined to get through this conversation even if it kills me.
“Parents are supposed to love you and cherish you and make you feel better when you fall down and scrape your knee or get a B on your spelling test or…anything, really. They’re not supposed to do…
” I trail my thumb against his swollen cheek, my chest aching. “This.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”
“I’m serious, Ford,” I whisper, desperate to get through to him. “You don’t deserve this.”
“And what do I deserve, June?”
“Someone who loves you unconditionally.”
“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind, too,” he repeats with the same snark as before.
“Ford.” I don’t know why I say it. Why I’m pushing my luck, or why I followed him into his room in the first place.
I can’t help it, though. He deserves more than being backhanded by his dad, all because he was a little snarky.
Hell, even if he was being a total asshole, which, considering who Ford is, is a very real possibility.
It still wouldn’t justify the bruising along his cheekbone he’s sporting.
“Why are you here, June?” he demands. It isn’t angry. It’s defeated.
“Jagger invited me—”
“I mean in my room,” he clarifies.