“Everything is not fine. What you’re doing is technically illegal.” Blake works his jaw. “Leave it. This is over, for your own good—before you get in any more trouble or I haul you up in front of Sheriff Langley. All of you, get home.” His gaze darts to Andrea. “Including you. Come on.”
Andrea stares at him in total horror. I’m pretty sure the pink spots on her cheeks are pure rage, not the cold air.
“Oh my God, Dad,” she nearly whispers, so strained it’s like she can barely get her voice out. Her gaze darts to me for a second, pleading, but I’m just a helpless bystander.
It’s not my place to intervene. When I offer a confused grimace, she just turns her glare on her father again. “I’m not going anywhere with you. I’ll find my own way home.”
“Andrea—”
He reaches a hand out, but she’s already turning and stalking off, putting another girl between herself and her father as the group starts to trail away. Clark stops, though, glancing back with a resentful look.
“For someone who says he knows what he’s doing,” he murmurs, “you sure fuck up with her a lot. She doesn’t want to hate you, you know.”
Before he, too, turns and walks away.
Blake just stands there, staring, his eyes angry black and blue seas. Then his hand falls limply to his side before he curses and drags it through his hair, shaking out a bit of half-melted snow. “Goddamn. Now I got kids telling me how to raise my kid?”
I step closer to him, trying to offer support. “He’s her friend. She’d tell him things she might not tell you.”
“Maybe so. Doesn’t mean I like it.”
He looks so defeated.
So exhausted.
Honestly, I’m worried how it’s going to affect his leg. Stress can cause tons of flare-ups with chronic pain issues.
But he looks down at me after a moment, sighing. “We’re done here. Need a ride home?”
“Sure,” I say.
It’s not what I really want to say. But I feel like what I want to get out won’t be welcome.
The ride back to Charming Inn is quiet, Blake locked up and brooding in his own head, and I don’t want to interrupt his thoughts.
I’m also a little distracted myself.
Considering I’m still shivering half to death from melted snow soaked into my clothes, I’m focused on getting as close to the heater vents as possible to dry off.
As he pulls up along the lane near my cabin, engine idling, I bite my lip and take a risk, reaching over to rest my fingertips on his forearm. He’s rock-hard under my touch, so tense.
“Blake,” I say. “It’ll be okay. She’s young and emotional. Everything makes her mad right now. She’ll come around.”
Whatever I’m expecting, it’s not the cold, forbidding word he spits out.
“Stop.”
Just one word, but it’s enough to punch the breath from my lungs.
He stares straight ahead, not looking at me, his face a fixed mask.
“I’m sorry?” I say faintly.
“Just fucking stop,” he repeats—low, grim, the voice that seduces me so much now feeling like a granite wall between us. “I get it. You just want to help, Peace, and I’m grateful. But I don’t need it. I don’t need therapy. I just need to get the hell on with my life.” His fingers tighten on the steering wheel so hard I can hear the leather groan. “So how about we stick to you doing your radio spot, and leave the rest alone?”
That shouldn’t hurt so much.
But it stings deep, stings hard, like needles at the corners of my eyes.
They prick with more than just the sharp, cold air. I shove the passenger door open and take several deep breaths of night, trying to choke down the lump in my throat.
“Sorry,” I say numbly, my voice sounding dead, empty, remote even to me. “I didn’t mean to intrude or…or to upset you. Thanks for the ride.”
He doesn’t say anything.
Doesn’t even look at me.
So I just turn and walk away, all messed up inside, and remind myself that every risk has its price.
Sometimes it’s pleasure.
Sometimes it’s nothing but pain.
I took a gamble and lost.
8
Rhythm and Tone (Blake)
I know.
I’m such an asshole.
That’s all I’ve been able to think ever since the other night.
That I’m pure defensive scum for the way I talked to Peace.
It’s like some switch flipped inside me when we were sitting in my Jeep. Her by the moonlight and the stars reflecting off the snow. All I could remember was how small and fragile and sweet she felt under me. And all I could feel was a strong dose of fear warning me not to fuck her up.
She’s too young.
Too kind.
Too gentle.
She wants to give too much of herself.
And me? I ain’t good at accepting that kind of thing.
Hell, I can’t even let my brother give me money that’s rightfully mine from Ma’s inheritance.