Page 153 of Off the Grid

“Dad. You can’t. You can’t.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because . . .” My voice is a desperate waver as I struggle with the adrenaline running through me. I need to get to Riggs. I need to see if he’s okay. All that blood. His anger.

And my dad? His tremors? I refuse to load him with more stress right now by telling him something that happened six years ago.

Later. I’ll tell him later. When more is resolved.

“Dad. You have to listen. He had his reasons. He . . . you can’t do this.”

“I can and I fucking will,” he thunders as he moves about the small space, his body slow and his tremors enhanced by the stress.

“No. Please. He was trying to protect—”

“He just disgraced this entire team over some school boy stunt for who knows what. I have more than just your boyfriend to think about.”

“My boy—”

“You think I don’t know every fucking thing that goes on with my team? I do, Camilla. I do and I’m hurt that you kept this from me.”

Oh God. He knows. I hate disappointing my father.

But I need to speak out here. Act now on this and then we’ll revisit this discussion later.

“You’re wrong for so many reasons. Riggs was defending—”

“So now you’re going to lie for him to defend him? Now you’re going to ruin your reputation—”

“DAD,” I shout but he just walks out and slams the door behind him.

Fuck. I can’t explain now. He’s too worked up. His Italian temper too triggered. Later. It will have to be later.

I need to find Riggs.

Thankfully, he’s in his driver’s room. He’s slamming shit around as he shoves it in a bag. “Riggs.”

“Not now.” His back is to me, his hands braced on the table in front of him, and his head hung low.

Defeated. He’s the personification of it.

“C’mon. Talk to me. Please. How are you? Are you okay?” Nervous about the unknown, about how to fix this, I ramble. “I didn’t mean for you to—”

“I’m fine. Fucking fine,” he says evenly. “I just . . . I need a minute.”

Desperation rattles its way through me. “I’ll get him to hire you back. I’ll make it right. I’ll make it—”

“How?” He turns to look at me and my heart breaks. There is blood on his knuckles. I can see it now. His own cheek has a red blemish from where Brandon must have landed one in defense. I want to reach out—touch him, comfort him—but the expression on his face tells me now is not the time. “The whole world just saw me bash the fucker’s face in. You wanted viral? You just got it with the ten cameras that happened to be filming. Congrats. I’m sure it’s good for the Moretti brand.”

“We can make everyone understand. We can—”

“How? Do you actually think I’m going to make you share with the world what happened? Why I reacted? Do you think so little of me that I’m going to throw you under the bus to save me?” He steps into me.

“I don’t know what to think.”

“You know me better than that.” His smile is reticent and so sad. “You’re okay, right?”

I nod.