I gently shoved her shoulder blade. “Hey, Reject.”
Fuck, Abigail in her white dress looked like something out of a damn fairy tale. The sand interlaced with the confetti and glitter, and as she walked barefoot through it, I wondered if she actually was.
A Crowne July Fourth is not your average backyard BBQ. Politicians, CEOs, and celebrities were among the attendees, and they all used it as a chance to network. You don’t just show up; you don’t buy a ticket to this thing; you get invited. Invites are some of the most sought after in the world.
I don’t give a shit. I focused on Abigail.
I shoved her again, harder. She ignored me, acting like she was so damn interested in her fucking phone. I reached over her shoulder and snatched it out of her hands, holding it high above her head as she tried to grab it back.
A gold rose?
It had the stupid hashtag they’d used for this party. I handed the phone back to her, suspicion creeping up my spine. It was the same jumpiness Abigail had yesterday. Was she hiding a boyfriend?
“What’s this?”
“Nothing. I don’t know—”
“A guest has made the request I send this to you, Ms. Crowne.” A server appeared, interrupting her. He held up a fucking gold rose on a silver platter.
“Got some boyfriend I don’t know about?” I asked.
Abigail froze, then slammed the thing out of his hand. The platter and the rose fell to the sand.
I didn’t have a chance to ask her what the fuck she was doing, because a moment later she fell to the ground with it.
A few heads turned to look.
I bent down. “Not getting enough attention?”
Abigail turned into me, grasping my tuxedo lapels. Shock stunned me. She shook, fucking shook. Abigail didn’t shake.
Her skin is sheet white, breath raspy, but it’s her eyes I was locked on. Wide yet far off. I’d seen this reaction before, in the eyes of every employee at Crowne Industries when the building was under lockdown for an active shooter.
The beach faded out. The people watching us disappeared.
Whatever black blood existed between us vanished.
“Abigail,” I whispered. “I’ve got you.”
I covered her hand with mine, slowly lifting her up with me as she held my lapels for dear life. I placed my shoulder over hers, shepherding her from the beach into Crowne Hall. The smell of sparklers and pastries and salt air was at our back as we climbed the stairs up to the alcove, where she would be safe from prying eyes and cruel hashtags.
I was too aware this was where we’d come as teenagers. Where I’d co
mforted her before, when she’d cried about her mother and first dropped her walls.
“Abigail, look at me,” I said evenly.
She was shivering uncontrollably, whatever terrorized her about to consume her entirely.
I gripped her chin, lifting her violet red-clay eyes to mine. The fear in them filled my gut with acid, just as much as the utter helplessness I felt. I was supposed to protect her.
“Focus on me,” I commanded.
She searched my eyes, fear fading as she locked on me like a magnet.
“Take a deep breath,” I said.
She did.