“Oh, hey. I didn’t think you’d pick up. How are you?” He sounds genuinely surprised.
I can hear the rush of people filling a stadium in the background. Nashville always draws a good crowd. Hunter’s not pitching tonight, but he will tomorrow. Tonight, though . . . tonight he’s free. Just a flight away.
“I’m coming to Nashville.” I don’t wait for his invitation. My phone is on speaker a second after the words leave my lips and I’m searching for a flight.
“Oh, wow. Really? Are you . . .”
“I get in at nine,” I say, pacing my room now that I’ve pressed purchase and used all my points for this last-second trip.
“Okay, you’re flying, then. Do you need somewhere to stay?” His shy, roundabout way of asking is sweet. But I’m not in the mood for sweet.
“I’m staying with you. And we are fucking. Text me the hotel info.”
I end the call before he finishes his excited acceptance, and a few seconds later the device in my hand buzzes with his hotel address, followed by a wide-eyed emoji and a sly grinning avatar that I think is supposed to be him.
I dump a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, three pair of panties and a clean bra into a duffle bag and zip it up, not looking back after leaving my room. I’ll buy whatever else I need when I get there.
It’s time to throw some good money after bad.
Chapter 13
Hunter
I think Renleigh might be a zombie.
That’s the only explanation for what’s about to happen. Or not happen. Shit, at this point I have whiplash from trying to figure this girl out. All I know is she texted me a few minutes after nine, saying she was already in a rideshare on her way here. I’ve been hovering just inside my hotel doorway ever since. I’m sure the guys who have seen me think I’m waiting for a hooker.
The elevator dings down the hallway, and my pulse kicks up again, the same way it has the last four times someone got off on our floor. I bite my bottom lip in anticipation, hoping it’s not another dude rounding the corner. The first sign of her is her sneakers and black leggings, then my eyes trail up to her pink sweatshirt, and my dick swells. It’s been trained to behave a certain way when she wears that thing. But then I get a glimpse of her expression as she barrels toward me, and all my anticipation-fueled adrenaline boils into instant, crushing concern.
She’s . . . crying.
“Hey . . . hey, it’s okay,” I say, holding one arm out as I keep my door open with the other. Renleigh folds into me, andI sweep her inside and let her collapse against my chest in a messy, tear-soaked ball of emotion.
“What’s wrong? Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?” The hairs on the back of my neck spike while I stroke her back as she rests her face against my chest. I inspect her clothing, at least what I can see, and am tender with my touch just in case. If someone hurt her on her way here . . . if she had an issue with the rideshare driver . . . anyone. . . I swear.
“I’m not hurt. I’m . . . I’m fine,” she says, sniffling as she pulls away a bit and runs her long sleeve across her nose and eyes.
“Yeah, you seem fine.” My sarcastic tone seems to amuse her, and she shakes with a single laugh before another sob takes over.
“Why don’t we sit down. Come on. Let me . . . let me take this.”
I pull the duffel bag straps from her shoulder and toss her light bag into a leather chair in the corner of my room, then guide her to the foot of the bed. She sits next to me, then quickly folds herself into a ball on the mattress, laying her head in my lap while she soaks my sweatpants-covered thigh with tears.
“You wanna talk about it?” I sweep her hair away from her face, combing through the wild knots with my fingers, and tucking the strands behind her ear.
She shrugs.
“I don’t know what to say. It’s kind of a long story.” Her gaze flits to mine, her eyes red and glassy, and it breaks me to see her like this.
“Well,” I say, pausing while I run my thumb along her red puffy cheek. “I’m not throwing tomorrow, so if I’m tired as hell, nobody will give a shit. Why don’t you tell me about it? The whole thing?”
She stares into my eyes for a few quiet seconds without blinking, and I’m careful not to make a single sound that may cause her to hesitate about opening up. She seems fragile.Scared, perhaps. Definitely hurt. Not physically, but her heart is in pain. I can tell.
I used to find my mom like this sometimes, curled exactly this way at the foot of my parents’ bed. She always told me she just got sad when my dad was out of town. She missed him. And I counted down for the day he came back home and made her seem whole again.
“My parents’ relationship is just kind of . . . fucked up.” She quivers with a faint laugh and bites her lip, almost as if she’s embarrassed.
“I think all relationships are a little fucked up. What kind of fucked up is theirs?” I’m being sincere, and I think she can see that in my eyes as she relaxes and shifts to sit up next to me.
