Total pages in book: 15
Estimated words: 13385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13385 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 67(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
“Thought you were supposed to be on a date,” he griped when he answered the phone. No doubt, I was disturbing “adult time” since Harbor and Elliot had Robin, their son.
“I was,” I retorted. “Something happened before I got there to pick up Selma. Her front door was barely hanging on the hinges, and she was bleeding on the floor. Unconscious. I had to call 911. I’m headed to the hospital to sit with her. Do you think you can see if one of your contacts in the police department will keep you updated on what they find out?”
“Yeah, I can do that. She okay?”
I sighed. “I don’t know,” I told him honestly, slowing as we came into Sandersville. They flew ahead, but I couldn’t do that. Getting a speeding ticket was not in my plans. “When I find out more, I’ll shoot you a text.”
“Sounds good. Hang in there, brother.”
I was going to do my fucking best. Right then, I felt like I was hanging on by a mere thread.
The emergency room was pretty much dead when I got there. After giving my name and lying about being Selma’s fiancée, they let me back to her room. The back of her head was being stitched up, and I could see a bruise discoloring her pretty face, which only made anger surge in my veins. I tamped it down and took a seat beside her hospital bed, doing my best to get comfortable.
I had a feeling I was going to be there for a while.
My neck ached something fierce when I cracked open my eyes. I’d spent the entire night in the hospital and finally allowed myself to doze off around three A.M. this morning when Selma’s CT scan came back fine. My head had been hanging, my chin resting on my chest, which was no doubt the cause for the neckache.
“Hey,” Selma rasped. I looked over at her, wincing when pain lashed through my neck at the movement. She was sitting up a little with a cup of water in her hands.
“How are you feeling?” I asked her as I stood from my chair. Fuck, my entire body hurt. I hadn’t even hit thirty yet, but I felt old as fuck.
“Head hurts.” She looked up at me. “Thank you for calling 911 and getting me help.”
Reaching out, I brushed some of her hair back from her face. Her face was a bit pale, a testament to her pain. “What happened?” I asked her.
She looked away from me, her guards slamming up against me. “It’s nothing. Just a personal thing. It won’t happen again, so there’s no need to worry about it.”
I snorted and pressed my palms against the mattress on either side of her head so I could lean over her. She swallowed thickly, her lips parting the slightest bit as she looked back at me. Her eyes were shielded, but I saw the lingering fear in her gaze. That fear fucking pissed me off. Because if she would just tell me what the hell happened, I could get the problem taken care of for her.
“Selma—”
“I’m not telling you anything, Remi,” she said quietly. “Please respect my decision.”
I pushed off the mattress and worked my jaw around. Angrily, I shoved my fingers through my hair. “I found you bleeding on your fucking kitchen floor, Selma. Bleeding. I thought you were dead. Do you know how that fucking made me feel? Thinking I walked in on your dead body?” Tears blurred the pretty color of her eyes. “And you just expect me to respect your decision to not tell me who the fuck put you in this goddamn bed?” I jerked my hand in her direction.
“Yes,” she snapped, defiantly tilting her chin up at me. “I do.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I snarled. I stalked to the door. “I need a fucking breather. I’ll be back later.”
“Remi—” she choked out as I swung open the door. But her words were cut off when I walked out and shut it behind me.
How the fuck did she expect me to just not question her, to not demand answers? Her cheek was bruised. She had stitches in the back of her head. She was suffering a concussion. Her neck was discolored in the shape of handprints. And she just expected me to be okay with no answers?
The image of her bleeding on her kitchen floor would forever haunt me. There was no way in fucking hell I could ever be okay with not knowing who hurt her.
eight
Remi
“Maybe she has a good reason for not telling you what’s going on,” Beau said before raising his beer bottle to his lips.
When I’d called Seb, ranting because I knew he wouldn’t speak and would just let me spew, he’d texted the other guys and told them to meet us at the clubhouse, which was why we were currently sitting around the chapel table.