Bringing Home the Bad Boy (Second Chance #1)(67)

Evan, naked, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt. “Fell on the diving board. Cracked his head.” The cell was still in his hand, and he spun, searching the floor. “Where are my shoes?”

“When?”

“Just now. They’re driving to the ER,” he said while searching, tossing dirty clothes over his shoulder. Then his voice got loud. “The f*ck are my shoes?”

Heart hammering, stomach tossing, she scrambled out of bed. “Ev.”

Aiming his loud, angry voice at her made her bristle. “Why Pat and Cliff bought a goddamn pool with a goddamn diving board is beyond me. Too old for that shit.”

She had already pulled her sundress over her head. “Is Lyon okay?” He was being irrational, but she understood why.

He spun on her. “He needs stitches. That sound okay to you, Ace?”

Pins and needles prickled her from head to toe. Partially for his anger, partially because stitches sewn into the kid she loved more than life itself was… scary. Tears of worry burned the backs of her eyes.

He turned and jogged down the stairs, calling behind him, “Lock up when you leave.”

Leave?

“Evan! Wait.” She heard keys jingle and the door open, catching up to him at the side door. He paused long enough to poke his head back in. “Wait,” she repeated. He waited, but his brows were creased, that Downey look of determination etched into his features. “I’m coming with you.”

“Charlie, I don’t have time—”

“I’m coming with you,” she stated more firmly. “Let me run home and get dressed before we make an hour-and-a-half drive to Fairport. In the meantime, you can put on socks and underwear, which you will need later when we’re stuck at the hospital longer than we’d like to be.”

His eyes narrowed, but she could tell she was getting through.

“You’re upset. I can drive.”

“You’re not driving, Ace.”

Well. Worth a shot.

“At least grab some granola bars while I’m getting ready. Pat and Cliff will refuse to leave Lyon’s side and likely be starving when we get there.” She knew the Mosleys. That’s exactly the way this would play out.

He dropped his keys in his pocket, a sign he was going to wait for her. But the miserable expression, the worry in his eyes, intensified.

“Ace.”

She reached up and palmed his cheek. “He’s in good hands. We’ll get to him as quickly as we can. May want to pack a change of clothes if we have to stay the night.”

Something severe crossed his face. His eyes narrowed and he reached for her, squeezing her hand and then pulling her into him the rest of the way. She went to him, allowing him to fold her in as she held him.

“My boy.” The two words were spoken roughly, into her hair, and in a broken tone similar to the night he called about Rae.

Charlie’s stomach flopped.

But she had to be strong and not let that break her. They had a long drive to make and someone needed to be levelheaded. She pulled away, looked into his eyes, and put her hand on his cheek. “I know, baby.”

“If—”

“No, Ev.” She shook her head. If nothing. There was no if when it came to Lyon. He was going to be fine. He was going to live a long, healthy life. So was Evan. So am I, Charlie decreed, sending a look up to the heavens and silently saying, Right, Rae?

To which she’d like to think Rae cocked her head to one side and affirmed, Damn straight!

Evan took her hand from his face and squeezed her fingers. “I’ll pack. Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes,” she confirmed, then grabbed her purse from the sofa, bolted out the side door, and sprinted to her house.

Twelve minutes later, they were on the road. She kept up a constant stream of chatter the entire drive to try and distract him, but it was useless. Plus, she was just about talked out. She’d jabbered on about everything she could think of while he remained mostly quiet, his eyes alert and frowning at the windshield.

The trip was almost over, and she was relieved. She couldn’t take much more of his worried silence.

Giving up, she grasped his hand and twined their fingers. He squeezed, a light squeeze, but the action relaxed her. “Here for you, Ev.”

He spared her a glance and his lips lifted the slightest bit. “I know, baby.”

She sagged back in her seat, feeling more tired thanks to worry piled on top of her sleepless, and active, night. Her eyes closed on their own, but he spoke, making her instantly alert.

“Messed up,” he said.

“Sorry?”

“I messed up,” he reiterated, louder this time. Untangling their fingers, he put both hands on the wheel. “Acted like a kid—an irresponsible kid while my kid—my only reason for breathing in and out—was bleeding—”

She heard his voice go taut, fighting through what may have been tears.

“Bleeding from his head in Pat and Cliff’s swimming pool,” he finished.

“That wasn’t your fault,” she interrupted, unwilling to let him take the blame.

“Wasn’t it?” Again, he turned his angry tone on her. “I didn’t insist they come take him this week so I could paint? So I could get into your pants?”

She sucked in a breath, telling herself he was worried and didn’t mean what he was saying. But, ouch.