Spinning back to her, I overshoot it out of anger and have to steady my landing. Throwing my arms in the air, I lean forward, yelling back at her, “Because you’ve never made any huge fucking mistakes, right? Your family forgave you, Rory. You’re not going to give him the same chance?”
I’m off, done with her.
“You’re a bitch for ruining today,” she calls after me.
“You’re just a bitch!” I call back, without turning my head.
I can’t believe I fought for her, tried to clear her name with Dad and work up to some reconciliation between them.
She doesn’t deserve my help with him anymore. She can choke on her regrets when it’s too late.
I’m not making her same mistakes.
Pulling up my dad’s contact, I press dial and listen to it ring through the car’s speakers. He answers on the second ring.
“Princess, how did it go?”
“Can you come over?” I whisper, nose working overtime to keep my tears at bay. “I need my dad.”
NINETEEN
WILDER
Some scars never leave you, even after years of water under the bridge. There were too many days in New York I looked over my shoulder on the way home, or took the long route instead of leading any watching eyes straight to my place. One thing I was never without was a plan.
After getting a letter from them here in Smoky Heights, all that’s come back to me with twice the force to my gut.
The letter in New York wasn’t a fluke.
I’ve spent two months trying to convince myself it was just a new outreach community program they’re doing to improve relations or some shit.
It wasn’t an accident that note was on my door that night.
And it’s even less of an accident they tracked me down to the Heights.
What do they want with me?
To tell me time’s up, the deal is withdrawn, and to get back into service to die like my pops did?
It’s been almost eighteen hours since I burned the thing and my fingers still crawl with the sensation of it. Like I’m not safe in my own home, now that they’ve found it. That the rug could getpulled out from under me at any moment, just when I’m finally starting to get in a rhythm here.
Lexi, finally admitting there’s something between us.
Something suspiciously like feelings forming with her over the last few weeks, disguised as animosity, because that’s how she protects herself.
And beyond her, the swing of things at the restaurant.
Samuel, nailing his cooking temps without a thermometer, Charlie, who made every single sauce correctly on his last prep shift.
Even Dishy & Dishy Lite, as we’ve named him. It’s starting to become a family in the back of the house there.
My nose burns as I look at the men around me. Ronnie, who’s pitched his arm back to throw a dart that he’ll surely miss. Weston, cheering him on from the side, while Wyatt bounces his next dart in his hand, waiting for Ronnie to fuck this up so he can sweep the round.
These people have come to mean something to me in just a couple months of being here.
Even more precious than my freedom is not fucking up theirs.
My foot taps a furious beat on the dirty wooden floor as I watch all three of the guys laugh when Ronnie doesn’t even hit the board. My eyes can’t stop roaming the surroundings, looking for threats. The guy who came in six minutes ago, in the dark hat, at the far edge of the square bar. I’ve never seen him before. He could be just another local, spending his last couple of bucks for the week on a cold bottle of brew, or he could be someone who was sent here to extract me.
