The day after a fight was always the worst. He’d learned that in the prison infirmary.
His dad appeared in the doorway. “What was I going to the kitchen for?”
“Ice.” It was the third time his father had returned to ask. And he didn’t even remember having to ask the time before.
He gave Trace that blank stare.
“Ice, for me, Dad.”
“Oh, right.” He nodded, but still stared, confused. “What happened to you?”
Trace sighed. “Can you just get the ice?”
“Sure, sure.”
But after his dad left the room, the television clicked on, and a chair in the living room creaked.
Trace groaned and reached for the Advil on his nightstand. He popped three pills into his mouth and washed them down with water, wishing they would do something for the pain in his chest.
When he replaced the bottle on the nightstand, his gaze held on the clock: 2:15 p.m. He wondered how Avery was handling everything today. Wondered if Delaney had found someone to finish the café for her. He’d tried calling Avery twice already in hopes of talking her into letting his friend come help, but she wasn’t answering.
Not that he blamed her.
And fuck, that just made all the memories flood back in—the panic on her face when she’d begged him not to go after the truck, the relief swamping her when he’d returned, the alarm when she’d seen his injuries . . . But the worst—the very worst—had been her fear. That spark of fear when he’d reached out to touch her . . .
A throbbing ache kicked up at the center of his chest. Yeah, that was the real killer. After everything they’d been through and shared, she was still afraid of him.
But again, he couldn’t blame her. He’d been thinking about this for the last twelve hours while he hadn’t been able to sleep. He had been beaten up and covered in blood. JT had looked just as bad. By going after JT like a vigilante and kicking the other man’s ass just to get the appliances back, Trace had proven that while he may have paid his debt to society, he was still living on the edge of acceptable behavior.
And for the good girl who lived to please and nurture others with an ingrained need to make all things right, Trace had to look like a broken man with too many missing pieces to salvage the whole.
“Why aren’t you at work?” His father was in Trace’s room again and now shuffled to Trace’s bed and lowered to the edge.
Trace had already told his dad a half-dozen times why he wasn’t at work, but he told him again. “Because my job is over.”
But in some ways, Trace felt like his life had ended along with that job. At least the spark of life that had kept him going over the last few months. A spark named Avery.
“Then why aren’t you finding a new job? You’ve never been one to sit around.”
Trace huffed a laugh, but he didn’t smile. “Because I hurt everywhere.”
George looked at Trace as if noticing the bruises and cuts for the first time. “Oh, yeah, you’re a mess, aren’t you? Probably couldn’t get a job lookin’ like that anyway.”
“Good point.” And just one more bubble burst.
The front door opened, and Gram’s voice floated down the hall. “Hello, boys. I brought goodies.”
George’s face lit up. His posture straightened, and a smile turned his mouth. “Avery brought turnovers.”
Trace groaned. His father could remember Avery and her apple turnovers, but he couldn’t remember to bring ice from the kitchen.
Pearl stepped into the bedroom. George’s smile fell, and he shot Trace a look. “I don’t think that’s Avery.”
“Good eye, son.” Pearl found that amusing. “And what are all the handsome men in my life doing back here?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Pearl started toward Trace and ran her hand over his hair the way she had when he’d been sick as a kid. “Poor Trace. How are you feeling, honey?”
“As good as I look.” And he couldn’t take all this fuss. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to sit up. “Since you’re here, Gram, I’m going to run to the café.”
If he could stand without passing out.