Over My Dead Body
EASTON
Practice runs long today. With preseason games lined up, and the major ones around the corner, we’re on a tight schedule.
Coach Brennan adds a third power play drill at the end of an already full session, and by the time I’m off the ice and out of the locker room, it's closer to six than five.
My shoulder is tight. My left knee doesn’t feel like it’s mine.
I roll it out in the car, one hand on the wheel, the other working the joint in slow circles, and I think about the leftovers in the fridge and whether Riley has eaten, and whether she will fight me on eating again tonight the way she did last Tuesday when she decided the answer to dinner was a handful of crackers and a book.
Not today though. Dinner is a must for my girl. Even if she fights, and I’m looking forward to it.
But that’s not what has me pausing.
My girl. I just called her that.
Sweet Jesus.
Well, she doesn’t know it yet. But she’s mine, and I’ve accepted it.
The drive home is longer than usual. Thirty minutes later, the gate comes into view at the top of the drive, and I clock the car immediately.
Black. European. Not a rental, and definitely not a cab. The plates are private, the kind of private that costs a small fortune. It's parked just off the gate on the narrow shoulder of the road, engine off, driver behind the wheel.
I slow down.
There’s a man at my front door.
He's standing with his back to the gate, hands easy at his sides, in a suit molded to his lean physique. Dark hair neatly slicked back, good shoes, and a relaxed posture. He turns when he hears the car.
I know who he is before he turns.
I’ve seen his face in three separate press cycles in the last two weeks. I have seen it in the news alert on Riley’s phone the afternoon she got into my car. I have heard his name in her voice, flat and clinical, like a medical diagnosis.
Preston fucking Sinclair.
My hands tighten around the steering wheel.
He has no business being here. Not at my house. Not anywhere Riley feels safe.
And he sure as fuck isn’t getting what he came here for.
I sit in the car for exactly three seconds, forcing the first wave of anger back under control. Then I pull through the gate, cut the engine, and get out.
Preston turns at the sound of my door closing.
He looks at me and smiles.
It’s one of those smiles for the media. The one with years of practice, enough to look unrehearsed, warm enough to read as genuine, and empty enough that if you are paying attention, you can see straight through the back of it.
That smile does something ugly to my temper.
“Easton Blake.” He says my name like we are old acquaintances reconnecting at an event. His hand is already extended. “Pleasure meeting you.”
Oh, I have no pleasure.
Matter of fact, my hands are itching to rough the fucker up, and toss his fancy ass out of the gates.
But I don’t do anything. I don’t take his hand. I stare back, face drained of all emotions.
When I don’t take his hand, he drops it and looks around the property.
“Quite a fine place you’ve got here.” He gestures around, then his eyes return to mine. “I must say, you’re quite a difficult man to find.”
All right. I’ve had enough of the pleasantries.
“Preston.” I deliberately leave off the Sinclair, and my voice doesn’t come out smooth.
I watch something register behind his eyes. They harden, the smile drops. He hears it in my voice. I have no regard for him, and we’re not buddies. But his smile returns, and this time, a little too bright.
“I hope I'm not catching you at a bad time.”
Every instinct in me wants him gone, but I keep my voice cold and controlled. “What can I do for you?”
He tilts his head slightly. Considering. “I think you know why I'm here.”
“Get to the point, or get off my property.”
His smile tightens. “Oh, of course. You’re a busy man, and I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time than necessary.”
He slides his hands into his pockets, so fucking comfortable standing there that I have to remind myself that putting my fist through his face would create more problems for Riley, not fewer.
“Riley Brooks. I know she’s staying here, and I appreciate the care you’ve shown her during this difficult time. You’ve clearly been a good friend to her.”
My jaw locks.
“But I’m concerned about her,” Preston continues. “I think you can understand that she’s been going through a very difficult phase, and the people who care about her are worried. Her family. Her friends.” He pauses deliberately. “Me.”
I say nothing.
“I’m not here to cause trouble. I only want to make sure she’s all right. That she’s in a safe environment. That the people around her have her best interests at heart. And that she’s willing to come home so we can help her and give her all the love she deserves.”
I look at him. “She’s safe,” I grit out.
His expression doesn’t change.
“And she’s an adult,” I continue, keeping my voice level even though every muscle in my body is tight. “She decides where she stays, who she talks to, and whether she wants your help. If Riley needs something, she’s perfectly capable of asking for it.”
He nods slowly, wearing the patient expression of a man dealing with someone who simply doesn’t understand.
“You know, Riley has a tendency, when she’s under stress, to make decisions she later regrets.
It’s something we’ve navigated together for years.
I know how to help her through it. Her family knows.
The people who have been in her life.” His eyes settle on mine.
“With respect, you’ve only known her for a few weeks. ”
My hands curl into fists at my sides.
He’s good.
Really fucking good.
Every sentence sounds reasonable if you don’t know what’s underneath it.
But I do.
I’ve seen Riley panic because using her own credit card might tell this man where she is. I’ve watched her apologize for needing things because somewhere along the way, people taught her that having needs made her difficult. I’ve seen her face when his name appears on a screen.
And this asshole wants me to believe she’s the problem.
“We can’t trust her with you,” he says gently. “You have to understand that.”
My entire body goes still.
Trust her with me.
Like she’s something to be passed between men.
Something in me snaps taut. “You don’t get a say in who Riley trusts.”
For the first time, his smile disappears completely. “I think if she and I could have a conversation, privately, away from all of this noise, we could work through what happened and find a path forward that is good for everyone. For her especially.”
He looks at the house. “Is she here?”
I don’t respond. A part of me wants to affirm what he already knows.
Tell him she’s with me, she’s safe, and she’s mine. That his hold on her has expired, and she’s flourishing. But I stay quiet. I wouldn’t give him anything to work with.
“If I could just—”
The front door opens.
I hear it before he turns. Riley is in the doorway.
She has a book in one hand, bare feet, and she has clearly come to the door because she heard the car and wanted to check, and now she's standing very still in the frame of my front door with the light behind her, looking at the man on my driveway.
The color has left her face.
All at once, like something warm has been put under cold water. Her hand tightens on the doorframe, and the book drops a half-inch in her other hand without her noticing.
Something in me goes very cold and very quiet.
Something lower than anger, and more useful.
I step sideways until I’m between the doorway and Preston.
Preston still looks over my shoulder.
“Riley.” His voice changes. Softens. “I’ve been so worried about you.”
She doesn't answer.
“I know things have been hard. I understand why you needed space. I just want you to know that I'm here. Whatever you need.”
She still doesn't answer.
Preston looks at me briefly. A look that says we are two reasonable men dealing with an unreasonable situation, and he trusts me to understand that.
“She’s been through a lot,” he says, quietly to me. Like she's not standing ten feet behind us. “She needs people around her who can give her stability. If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to take her home. To her family. To the home where she’s grown in love.”
There it is.
Gentle on the surface. Possessive underneath.
I think about the news alert on the afternoon she got into my car, the three lines of carefully worded concern about her wellbeing and mental health, issued forty minutes after she ran.
I think about the texts her father sent; I think about Riley on the couch two weeks ago with a hundred and forty-eight notifications, and her hands shaking.
Then I think about her life in these past few weeks.
How she’s been carefree and has started slowly embracing the life she wants without trying to fit it into another person’s definition of what she should be and what’s expected of her.
I think about her face right now, behind me.
I turn toward the door.
She's looking at me. Not at Preston. At me. And the expression on her face is the one I have been watching for three weeks, the one she wears when she's holding herself together with both hands and running the calculation of how long she can keep doing it.
I hold her gaze for exactly one second.
Then I turn back to Preston.
“Riley will return home when she’s ready,” I say.
“Oh, you know it’s been long enough. It’s been almost a month. You can’t keep hiding her from her family. She needs…”
“She isn’t available,” I say again, my voice dropping lower. “And you’re not coming to this address again. Riley is safe here, and I intend to keep it that way.”
Something flickers across his face. The polished expression doesn’t crack exactly, but it hardens around the edges.
“I’m not sure you fully understand the situation.”
“I understand it perfectly.”
“Riley and I have a significant history. A relationship that—”
“History.” The word comes out sharp enough to cut him off. “That’s exactly what you are to her. History.”
His jaw tightens.