Five Ways to Fall (Ten Tiny Breaths, #4)(36)

She offers a small smile as she pulls away. “You should write to the manufacturers and complain.”

“And tell them what, exactly? That their soft cups don’t hold up well when a chick shoots you with a semiautomatic paintball gun at point blank range?” The sting actually went away within a few minutes but, damn, did it hurt. It probably wouldn’t have been so bad if I didn’t already have a raging hard-on and a growing case of blue balls. Still, I’ve hammed it up for Reese’s benefit, hoping I can guilt her into some hand action during the car ride back to the office.

She shrugs. “I don’t know. Come up with something. You’re the lawyer. Come on, let’s go.” She ducks into the passenger seat of my car before I can answer. Honestly, I thought I’d be forcing her into my car to come to Warner. But between the gun to the privates and her friends texting to say they’ve left ahead of us, she’s not fighting me. In fact, she seems to be in a rush to get out of here.

“You okay?” I ask, climbing into the driver’s side, ready to blast the air conditioning. Even with a quick shower in the changing room, I’m already sweating again in this heat. “What’s wrong? Feeling guilty over ruining a magical moment for the happy couple?”

Her lips press together and she pauses. “No. I just thought it’d feel better than it did. It was . . .” She shakes her head. “Nothing. Let’s go before I change my mind about work.”

“Shit, we can’t have that.” I slide my key into the ignition and crank the engine. “I’m starving, though.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Good. We’ll stop and get you some small children to eat on the way, you wicked woman.” I’m about to throw the car into drive when I see a redheaded woman and a tall dark-haired guy walk across the parking lot toward us, talking slow, rigid steps. The woman’s cut-off shorts are free of paint but I can’t say the same for her legs, which are mottled with dry red paint. Welts run up the underside of her thighs.

“Wait a minute.” I squint to get a better look at their faces. “Isn’t that . . .?”

“Drive!” Reese demands, pulling on her sunglasses and hunching over slightly.

As we pass by, Reese turns away at the same time that I get a good look at the big tattoo on the guy’s shoulder that had been covered by long sleeves before. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” I explode in laughter. “Did we just pull the ultimate ‘f*ck you’ on your ex and his new wife?”

Reese doesn’t answer, helping herself to my radio, tuning in to an alternative station. Chris Cornell’s distinctive voice comes on over the speakers.

“Holy shit,” I mutter with a chuckle. “Remind me never to piss you off.” I let her have her moment of silence as I turn onto the highway, while the pieces start to click. It makes sense. Reese had to know they’d be here. And she had to have figured out who the idiot showing up dressed like that would be. Finally, I ask, “How’d you know?”

I don’t think I’m going to get an answer from her. But then, with a heavy sigh, she admits, “Facebook. He messaged me last night. You were right. He was jealous of you. Then she posted something about coming here and, well . . . I couldn’t help myself.” A small, sheepish smile touches her lips as she ducks her head. “Do me a favor, though, and don’t tell anyone.”

I hazard, “I guess it probably hurt, seeing them like that, didn’t it?” It must have. Here I was, thinking how much fun it was catching two people going at it, but for Reese, it wasn’t just two people. It was someone she loved. By the way her mouth is twisting now, it’s someone I’m pretty sure she’s still hung up on.

After a long moment, she admits softly, “It’s not the first time I’ve seen it, but, yeah, it still hurt.” Though I really like her normal snarky side, I have to say that the forlorn side I’m seeing right now makes me want to pull over to hug her or kiss her or, hell . . . I’m seconds away from reaching across the console to hold her hand. That’s when my Bluetooth starts ringing, cutting into the music. A giant “Mama” displays on the screen.

Shit.

Reese looks from me to the display to me. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

“I’ll call her when we get to the office.”

As quick as a viper snatching its food, Reese’s hand snaps out and hits the green “Answer” button on my steering wheel.

I groan. “You really are a pain in my—”

“Hello?” My mom’s lax voice sounds out clearly over the speakers.

“Hey, Mama.” I shoot a look of exasperation to my passenger, whose dour mood has suddenly been replaced by a broad smile.

“Who were you just talking to?”

I take a deep breath. This is exactly why I didn’t answer. The only girl Mama has ever met was Brittany Jo, a girl I dated in sophomore year for all of two weeks and got trapped into introducing after one of my football games. And the only reason I remember the girl’s name is because Mama kept asking about her. For at least six months after I ended it by getting caught nailing her twin sister at a party.

Hell, I was drunk and they looked the exact same, except for their clothes, which I probably should have noticed. But her sister never said a damn word when I pulled her into the mudroom.