Her voice breaks on that last word, barely audible, but enough to knock the air from my lungs.
And just like that, my buzz dies.
I shoot up so fast the room spins, grabbing my keys from the coffee table, and stumble toward the front door.
“I’m coming,” I manage to say between breaths. “Stay inside, don’t open the door, don’t—fuck, I’m coming right now.”
Carter intercepts me. “You’re not driving.”
“Move!” I shove his shoulder. “I’m fine. I have to go—she’s scared, Carter!”
“You’re drunk,” he growls.
“I don’t give a shit!” I snap. “She’s there alone! What if they try to break in? What if—what if she’s crying and I’m not fucking there?—”
“Maverick,” Reed says calmly, stepping in from the side. “We got you. You’re not getting behind the wheel.”
“Reed, get out of my way, man. Please,” my voice cracks. “I need to get to her.”
Reed meets my eyes, and something softens in his expression. He nods slowly, pulling his hoodie on. “I’ll drive your Bronco and follow Carter.”
“I’ll take you,” Carter says, already reaching for his truck keys. “Catalina, stay here.”
Catalina immediately protests. “No, I’m not staying! Amelia needs some?—”
Carter cuts her off as he steps closer and cups her face. “Darlin’, I don’t want my girl anywhere near that mess. Let me handle it.”
She exhales hard through her nose with her arms folded tightly. But after a second, she nods. “Fine.”
Carter leans down and kisses her, as she grips his hoodie, whispering something against his lips before pulling away.
I’m already halfway to the door.
As soon as it opens, the Tennessee air hits me with acold, sharp sensation full of pine. I hear the gravel crunch under my boots as I walk over to Carter’s truck, with Reed trailing behind, holding my keys.
Silver stars above blur behind my burning eyes, my chest so tight I can barely breathe.
I’ve been telling myself this is fake, it’s for my image, but the line between real and fake is starting to blur, and the second I heard her voice, trembling and scared, I knew it was real.
maverick
. . .
“What the fuck,” I mutter, throwing up a hand to shield my eyes from the bursts.
They’re fucking everywhere, blocking the porch, crowding in, pressing elbows into each other’s ribs just to get a little closer.
Parasites with lenses. Hyenas with dollar signs in their eyes.
“MAVERICK!” one yells, voice cracking with desperation, his camera pushed over someone else’s shoulder.
Another lunges forward, with their mic extended. “Is your marriage a PR move?”
“Is she pregnant!” someone else shouts, climbing up onto the wooden beam to get higher ground.
A woman’s voice cuts in, sharp, jeering. “Is she a tattoo artist or a stripper?”
Heat surges through me, white-hot, snapping my patience in two. I throw open the truck door so hard it rattles on its hinges and jump down, gravel spitting beneath my boots.
