Untamed (Unbeautiful 2)

Chapter 5

The Truth Stings

Ryler

The morning after Emery and I go to the concert, I sneak out of her bed in the early hours of sunrise and head back to my place. It took a lot of effort to leave her warmth, and I missed it almost instantly. But I had to get home and put the wall back up between work and want. My job comes first and getting heavily involved with Emery is going to mess that up. We need to be friends somehow. I just can’t figure out how.

I lie in my bed well into the afternoon, sporadically working on the assignment and wondering about Emery. Does she remember last night at all? If so, does that mean that perhaps she won’t be as cold and distant toward me anymore?

She’s consuming my mind. Part of me wants to say to hell with my job and just let her consume me; run away with her and never look back. The revelation is striking. The last time I had intense feelings like this was toward Aura, and that got me into a shit load of trouble.

I can’t let myself get into that kind of trouble again.

Around two in the afternoon, I slip on a clean T-shirt along with my boots, then head upstairs to check on Emery, like Doc has instructed me to do every day.

Halfway out the door, I receive a text from Doc.

Doc: If Emery asks, you told

me that she went out last night. I know this sounds strange, but she needs to believe that you told me.

My heart skips a beat as I read the message. I pause in the stairway, lighting up a cigarette as I try to think of how to respond.

Me: Okay.

I hesitate, not wanting to ask, but needing to know just how much trouble I’m going to be in.

Me: How did you know we went out?

Doc: I have my sources. Don’t worry, Ryler, you’re not in trouble. I know my daughter is hard to resist. I know she’s the one who instigated going out in the first place and you were just giving in to her.

Me: That’s not quite how it happened.

Doc: You don’t need to cover for her. I know the truth, Ryler.

Me: The truth is I took her out last night. It was all on me. I’m sorry.

Doc: I didn’t text for a confession, Ryler. I simply texted you to make sure that if Emery asks how her mother and I found out about her going out last night—which trust me, she will ask—you are to tell her that you informed me because it’s your job.

It feels like there’s a threat hidden in his words, a do-or-else-you’re-dead sort of thing. Not seeing another alternative other than refusing and risk losing everything I’ve built over the last eight months, I text that I agree to do it. Then I put my phone away, and finish off the cigarette while mentally cursing myself.

I kick the wall a few times, wishing I could scream until my lungs burst. God, I fucking hate this double life. I want out, but I have to finish first; otherwise, I’m walking back to a life almost as equal shitty as this one.

One of my neighbors walks out in the middle of my meltdown and gives me a horrified look. Unable to verbally apologize to him, I stop beating the wall with my foot. Then I collect myself and drag my feet toward Emery’s place.

It’s mid-June, and the temperature is in the nineties. The sunlight blares down on me as I ascend the stairs and heats up the fabric of my black pants and T-shirt. For a moment, I wish I was a shorts and tank kind of guy, wish I was a different guy in a different life, but changing my clothes isn’t going to make that possible.

When I reach Emery’s door, I feel weighted down by what I’m about to do. I pause, mentally preparing myself before using the key to get inside. I slam to a stop the second I step foot into the living room.

Emery is sitting on the sofa, staring at the coffee table with her hands on her lap, and her back is as rigid as a board. There’s nothing on the table, though, except a half-eaten bag of chips.

I walk around so I can catch her eye. When she looks up at me, I move my hands, “Is everything okay?”

She shakes her head with her eyes fixed on me. “No, I don’t think it is.”

Something’s off. I think about the text Doc just sent me and wonder if that’s what might be behind this.

“What’s wrong?”

She stares at me hard and I grow fidgety underneath her overpowering gaze. “My mother came to visit me,” she says with her attention fixed on me.

My expression plummets. “Sorry. That sucks. I know how much you hate your visits with her.”

“Do you?” She searches my eyes for something.

“Well, it always seems that way.” I fiddle with the leather band on my wrist, wondering what the hell has caused her deep assessment of me. “I mean, I’ve seen her visit once and leave your house another time, and both times, it seemed like seeing her shook you up.”

She bites down on her lip so forcefully the skin around her mouth turns white. “Did you tell my father we went out last night?” she sputters.

My body locks up and begs me not to answer, but fear of going against Doc burns in my throat, right beneath my scar. “I had to,” my hands lie for me.

Instead of yelling at me, she folds her arms and sinks back in the sofa. “Okay.” Her knee restlessly bounces up and down as her teeth sink deeper into her lip, drawing blood.

I round the coffee table and stand in her line of sight. “I had to. It’s part of my job.” My eyes plead with her to understand, but how could she? All she knows is that I work for her father, nothing more.

“Okay, I understand.” She rises from the sofa and starts for the hallway, brushing past me. “I’m going to go work on the assignment.”

I open my mouth, wishing I could call out to her, but not a single sound passes my lips. She shuts the door, disappearing into her room.

I grit my teeth, wanting to scream. But like always, the silence wins.

Over the next few days, Emery and I manage to finish our Creative Writing partner project without actually working together on it. We fall right back to our old routine of barely speaking, only it feels worse this time. After dancing, laughing, and getting drunk, then spending the night together, I was reminded of the spark between Emery and I, reminded of what I was missing out on over my choice to keep working as an informant.

When Wednesday rolls around, we drive to the University of Wyoming together, per her father’s instructions. The drive is quiet and painful. Ten times I almost break down and tell her that it wasn’t me, that I didn’t betray her trust—that her father made me—but I’m starting to realize that the sole fact that I listened to her father in the first place will cause Emery to distrust me.

By the time we make it to the classroom, I’m sweating bullets from the stress. I’ve barely slept more than a few hours a night, spending a lot of time writing in my journal about my future, about my wants, about Emery.

Emery, Emery, Emery, she fills my head too much.

Consumes my thoughts.

I’m getting in too deep.

I need to get out,

but how?

How can that happen?

When I don’t want it to end.

Don’t want her to go.

Thankfully, being at school offers a distraction from the tension between Emery and me. We still have to sit by each other because Doc has made it pretty clear I’m not to let her out of my sight.

“I think we’re going to fail the assignment,” Emery mutters, frowning at her paper on the desk.

I jump from the sound of her voice. I think it might be the first time she’s spoken to me since she asked me if I told her father.

I pop my knuckles then lift my hands in front of me. “We’ll be fine,” I sign when she looks up at me again. “You’re a good writer.” I offer her an encouraging smile.