“That’s not fair! I can explain, man.”
Wyatt doesn’t give Weston time to respond, his scathing attack just keeps going. “What? You asked Santa for some pussy for Christmas and he delivered four months late?”
My blood chills at the words and my temper takes hold of me.
“Excuse the fuck out of you!” I say, barging into the kitchen, where the two men are facing off. “You have no right to put yournose in his fucking business like this. And you have even less right to put it in mine.”
Puffing up my chest, bringing myself up to all of my five feet tall, I hold my hand in Wyatt’s face and he dodges it with a swerve of annoyance.
“Your face has clearly been inhisbusiness,” Wyatt spits out, eyes on my swollen mouth.
Shame that the only time my lips look like anything is after a BJ. As useless as having to go to the beach to get beach hair. The puffy pout is a dead giveaway, and while it’s none of his damn business, there’s no denying his accusation either.
“My face can do what the hell it wants,” I retort.
“My brother and I had plans now,” Wyatt seethes, face close to mine. “Seems you were distracting him from our family dinner, and what pisses off my wife, pisses me off tenfold. So thisismy family’s business, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t you fucking talk to her like that!” Weston is in front of me, protective stance and all, roaring at his brother.
“I don’t need you to defend me!” I shout right back at Weston.
“Fuck this,” Wyatt says, shaking his head. “Don’t bother coming. I’ll get the grill by myself. You just have fun, like you always do. Don’t worry about a thing. You never fucking do.”
Wyatt turns his back and stomps off, but Weston calls out after him.
“Why do you need my help with the grill?”
“I don’t, asshole, I was trying to spend time with you. My mistake.”
The door slams, shaking the house, and Weston shouts, “Fuck!”
He spins around, hands knotted in his messy, thoroughly sexed golden hair.
“He’s such a prick!” Weston yells.
“So are you!” I tell him.
“Me? What the fuck did I do? I was standing up for you!”
“Yeah, well, don’t! I don’t need you defending my honor. I can take care of myself, Weston.”
The mask of anger falls from his face, replaced with concern as he steps closer to me.
“Hey now, I know you can.”
He reaches out an arm for me, and I duck it, pissed.
“Talk to me, Amelia. What’s going on?”
Taking a few calming breaths, I reevaluate my environment. Count the knives on the block on the counter. Realize there is no danger here. Weston isn’t my dad.
As much as that encounter annoyed me, I’m okay. We’re all okay.
But the worst part of that little blowup is the memories I work so hard to outrun have caught up to me. Triggered by their words, the anger in their voices, and Weston’s stupid need to defend me, the worst days of my life float in front of my eyes once more.
Flashing lights, sirens. Headlines that I couldn’t escape. Whispers, jeers, and taunts.
Questions pound my mind, the kind that kept me up for years, that I do my best not to think about these days.
