Hetch (Men OF S.W.A.T #1)(84)

Hetch doesn’t move, just stands there, taking everything I give: every hit, every word, every tear. It’s not until my head becomes too heavy, and my sobs too quiet do I realize he has me in his arms, holding me steady from my own volatile storm.

“I’m sorry, I–” I start to pull away, his embrace too much for my broken heart, but like my soul, his arms don’t allow it.

“I hate I did this to us, Liberty. But I’m here now, and I’m not leaving again. I’m fighting for you. Fighting for us. Can’t you see?” A calmness settles between us, yet uncertainty still churns viciously around us. We’re stuck in the eye of the storm. One wrong move here could tear both of us apart, destroying everything we had and could have been in its wake.

“Hetch, I nee?” I start to say, attempting to fight against my own wants.

“Whatever you need, sweetheart.”

“I need some time.” My words are the resistance my body doesn’t want to hear. Seconds seem to drag into minutes, and like a criminal serving time, I feel each and every one of them.

“Then time is what you’ll have, sweetheart.”

A simple promise with a simple concept.

Time.

It all comes down to time.

A temporal length of an event or an entity’s existence, period.

I’m not sure how it’s going to end, nor do I know for certain the duration of us, or the continuance of him and me, but judging by his curt nod and set jaw, he has a plan.

And I don’t expect any less of him. After all, having a course of action and being able to see the big picture in order to focus on the outcome is Hetch’s specialty.

Different scenario, but the same strategy.

Something tells me I’m not going to stand a chance.

I am his end goal.

Hetch will find a way to cement his way back into my life.

I just don’t know how or when.





Twenty-Nine





Hetch





“What the hell do we need to go there for?” Fox grumbles beside me after I tell him to head to Cherry Lane Flowers across town.

“Why else do you visit a f*cking flower shop, Fox?” I try to keep my patience in check, but after four hours with Fox and his perpetual mood, I’m not doing too well.

The minute I turned up for my first shift back and discovered I was patrolling with Fox instead of Sterling, my partially good mood was in jeopardy.

“So, you’re still groveling like a f*cking puppy?” He thinks we’re heading to Cherry Lane to order flowers for Liberty, but he would be wrong. The flowers are for my mom. Not only have I been a stupid fool with Liberty for the better half of a month, but I've also been a dick to my mom.

For three years.

From ignoring her calls months on end and missing memorials for my dad, to letting her knock on my door for hours only to leave her on the other side begging me to let her in. Thinking back on those moments, I wish I had answered the phone, showed up on the dreaded anniversary, but most of all opened the door and let her in. Maybe if I had let her in, the one person who hurt like me, I wouldn’t have pushed everyone else I love away.

Maybe I would have let Liberty in from the get go.

“They’re not for her.” I don’t know why I clarify. Fox doesn’t need to know I’ve not only f*cked up with Liberty, but I've also f*cked up in every aspect.

My mom. My sister. My job.

“So, you’ve sorted things out with Liberty then?” he presses, like every other time he’s tried to engage with me today.

“I didn’t say that.”

It’s only been two days since I promised Liberty space. Two days since I stood there, holding her in my arms while she laid into me. Two days of trying to figure out how I’m going to fix this mess I’ve put us in. I wish I knew what I was doing. If I could go back to the night I walked out on her, I would. But I can’t. And now I don’t know what to do. I’m torn. Part of me wants to march over there and demand she let’s me back into her life, but the other part—the part that’s scared I’m going to lose her completely—has me holding back. I have to figure out what she needs from me to trust me again.

“Well, in that case, maybe you should open your wallet up a little wider and order two bouquets of flowers.” Fox, oblivious to my inner turmoil, continues to play with me.

“Liberty’s not the kind of woman you win over with flowers.” I reject his jab. If my f*ck-ups were fixed by a simple bouquet of flowers, I’d have dropped into Walmart for a ten-dollar bunch last week when she ripped me a new one about not showing up for Mitch.

No, I need more.

Something deeper.

I need to be smart here and think this through before making my move.

“Well, you got me there,” he agrees, clicking his tongue. “So, what are you doing to win her back?” The question is loaded. Careful, but also challenging.

“I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Figures.” He laughs outright, and I weigh up the dangers of what a blow to his arm while traveling at eighty miles down the freeway might cause.

Too much danger. I’ll get the prick later.

“Shut the f*ck up, Fox. Like you have any better advice.” It may be an insult, but it also may be my way of prodding. Either way, I’m not about to admit I’m hoping he will share some sage advice.