TWENTY-EIGHT
LEXI
It’s not hard to find her.
Van Gogh is pretty distinctive, she’s the only Sprinter van we’ve got in the Heights.
Honestly, it’s a damn good thing Wyatt tipped Rory off the second Amelia flew out of the parking lot and I could get on her ass right away and catch her before she hit the interstate.
She saw me early on, I know she did. But I followed her for almost an hour before she finally caved, pulling off the pavement somewhere in the northern Smokies, in a deserted parking lot. Took her long enough.
Climbing out of the blue Nissan I’ve had since high school, I stand by her door, waiting for her to let me in.
When it slides open, two soggy teal eyes staring out at me from in the van, I can’t help it. My icy heart cracks for her.
“Big Momma,” I say with a pout, holding my arms out.
She steps down out of the van and falls into my hug.
I let her cry, one of the few people I somehow have patience for.
Maybe it’s because I see something kindred in her fiery spirit.
Maybe it’s because she’s been through enough in her short life.
The shit she shared with me and Rory? No one should have to go through that, especially not at twelve years old. To have it all blow up in her face again in one day? Sheesh.
Some compassion might be what she needs right now. And when this wound is starting to heal, maybe then I can bust her tits like I do with my sister. Show her she’s one of us now.
She barely comes up to my chin, and she can’t be half my width, but I hold her as she cries it out.
“I’m so mad at him,” she finally says, hiccupping between the words.
“I know, babe.”
“I didn’t need his help.”
“A badass like you? Hell no you didn’t.” My tone is light, but I mean the words.
She laughs, hiccupping again.
“Men like him don’t know what it’s like to have to fend for yourself as an independent woman,” I tell her, stroking her hair.
There’s something about this girl that brings out the protective side in all of us. Ironically, that’s what she hates. The girl could have our whole family wrapped around her little pinky finger and she thinks it’s a curse. I’d say it’s her gift.
“I’ve been doing it for eight years,” she insists.
“Me for twenty.”
“Shit, you’re old.” She giggles at the scowl on my face.
“Rude.”
“How old are you anyway?”
The nerve of this girl. Oh, to be twenty-something again.
“Not old enough to be your mother, and young enough to still have some fucking fun, okay?”
