“Know what?” Paisley gasped, hungry for gossip.
“It’s Amanda,” I said. “The girl who keeps showing up. Something is—off with her. I can’t tell if she’s on drugs, or what, but she stopped by the high rise this morning before work and kind of had a breakdown.”
“What kind of breakdown?” Hansen asked.
“I don’t know, really,” I admitted. “She kept calling me Peter.”
“Who’s Peter?” asked Paisley, and I shrugged.
“Beats me. Maybe a father? An ex-boyfriend?”
“Some guy she probably kidnapped and has tied up in her basement,” added Hansen, and despite the situation, we all chuckled.
“I feel bad for her,” I said. “I was going to call an ambulance to have her evaluated, but she took off before I could. She’s going to end up hurting herself, or someone else.” I sat down to tie the laces on my boots, wishing I could turn around and go home and spend the rest of the day with Peyton doing nothing at all.
“Alright, well, forget Amanda,” Paisley said, waving the conversation off. “I want to know what happened with Peyton.”
“You’re so nosy,” I scolded her, and Paisley laughed.
“Yeah, but you love me anyway.”
I started to walk out of the locker room and Hansen and Paisley followed, hot on my heels like they were worried they would miss something if I got too far ahead.
“I went to her apartment last night after work,” I told them, taking a seat at the dining room table to catch up on the paper. “Just like I told you I would.”
“And she was there?” Paisley asked, and I nodded.
“She was there, but with a guest. Her boy toy in the city.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes.” I could feel the heated rage simmering to the surface of my consciousness, threatening to explode over. Just thinking about finding Peyton on the floor as that douchebag tried to hurt her made me want to rip someone’s throat open. What would have happened had I not shown up? Would she have been raped? Beat? Worse? “He was hurting her,” I continued, knowing that the truth would get out sooner or later. Hansen and Paisley were my best friends; I couldn’t hide much from them.
“He was hurting her?” repeated Hansen. “How? What happened?”
“He was shit faced and I think he was trying to rape her.”
“Jesus,” Paisley’s hand fluttered to her mouth. She looked pale. “Did you call the police?”
“No. I beat the shit out of him and sent him on his way,” I said, annoyed. In hindsight, I most definitely should have called the police, but letting them brush it off with a slap on the hand wasn’t enough for me. If the motherfucker ever showed his face around again, I’d kill him the next time.
“That’s rough, man,” said Hansen. “Is Peyton okay?”
“She’d smashed a wine glass over his head right before I went in, so it’s probably safe to say that she would have killed him herself given the opportunity.”
“Was she glad to see you?” Paisley asked, and I shrugged.
“Maybe for the obvious reasons, but it took her a minute to open up to me.”
“But she did, right?”
“She did.”
“So, what now?”
“Well,” I mused, leaning back in the chair to lace my hands behind my head. “I asked her to marry me, and she said yes.”
“What!” Paisley jumped to her feet to hug me, throwing her arms around me from behind, squeezing me. “You’re a lucky, lucky man,” she said, straightening up after a moment. “I would have said screw you.”
