An Ounce of Hope (A Pound of Flesh #2)(40)

“We’re here,” he said gently.

She looked out of the window, returning from wherever she’d been in her uncharacteristic silence. She opened the truck door before Max could hurry around the hood and began shuffling across the lot, gripping the edges of his jacket around her hard enough to make her knuckles white. It drowned her, but it was keeping her warm. He followed her up the stairs and along the corridor, thankful that he was only across the hall from her room. If she needed anything, he knew he could get to her quickly. She pulled out her door key, the shaking in her hand pronounced and not conducive to finding a keyhole.

She muttered a curse under her breath before Max took the key and opened the door for her. She entered with a sigh, leaving Max in the doorway, torn. He knew he needed to make sure she was all right to be on her own. She’d knocked back two pills like they were Skittles back at the bar, but he didn’t want to freak her out further. A man making himself at home in her room was not what she needed right now. That shit was clear as day.

“You can come in,” she muttered. She turned on the side lamp, kicked off her shoes, and dropped onto the edge of the bed.

Max did as she asked, approaching her cautiously, closing the door behind him. After a moment of silence where she stared at the floor, Grace cupped her palms to her face and began to sob. Carefully, Max crouched in front of her, placing a hand on her arm.

“I’m such an idiot,” she managed through her tears. “Such an idiot.”

“No one thinks that,” Max assured her. If anything, everyone in the bar had been terrified by what they saw. Truthfully, he felt sorry for Buck. She’d certainly sobered him up some.

“It’s been . . . so long since I’ve had— I haven’t done that for a while. I thought, being here seemed to, I thought it helped me forget.”

Max’s thumb moved against her skin, a gentle whisper of a movement to calm her. She rubbed her face and wiped inelegantly at her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have shit to be sorry about,” he told her firmly. “It happens, trust me.”

She released a breath of wry laughter. “I guess we’re messed up together, huh?”

Max nodded.

Grace closed her bloodshot eyes and exhaled. “I’m just so tired.”

“I should let you get some sleep,” Max offered, standing gradually and gesturing to her bed.

“That’s just it,” she complained, slapping her hands to her legs. “I can’t. I take my pills and still I lie awake or the nightmares come and I’m too frightened to shut my eyes again.” Her face creased, frustration stiffening her shoulders, and the tears started again.

Max rubbed the back of his neck, helpless. “What can I do? Do you want a drink? A bath? I could run you a bath if you want.”

Grace sniffed and cleared her throat. “Could you . . . could you stay? Just for a little while. It might help me fall asleep with you here, and I, I don’t want to be alone.”

The humiliation of asking him such a simple question seemed to wash over her and rest in her imploring eyes.

“Sure,” Max said without thought or pause. “Get into bed.”

He walked across the room to sit in the high-backed chair in the corner of the room, experiencing a twinge of déjà vu of the day he’d awoken from his own panic attack in rehab to find Elliot watching over him. Grace stayed fully clothed; she didn’t even remove Max’s jacket. She simply slipped under the covers and snuggled down.

“Thank you, Max,” she murmured, her words muffled by the pillow.

“You’re welcome.”

It took a while for her breathing to even out, for her slight form to lose its hard edges and fall safely into sleep. Strangely, it didn’t feel weird for Max to be sitting in the low lamplight watching Grace sleep. It didn’t feel imposing or creepy. It felt right. It felt right that she’d asked him and he felt right doing it. He was damn certain he wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to do it, especially the * cop whose eyes betrayed the lust he harbored for her. Max sat back, comfortable, warm, and he watched. He glanced at the digital clock on Grace’s side table.

It was midnight.

He’d stay for another half hour and then he’d leave.

Max was wrenched from an unexpectedly deep sleep by a bloodcurdling scream. Max shot into a sitting position, dazed and shaken, and wondering where the hell he was and what the f*ck was going on. Gaining his bearings, Max looked over to the bed to find Grace fighting with the sheets, crying and calling out gibberish that chilled Max’s bones. On sleep-heavy legs, he rushed over to the side of the bed. Sweat speckled her grimacing face.

“Grace. You’re okay.”

Her voice became hoarse with her screams. “Rick, please! Don’t, please!”

Max reached for her flailing arms, before she could hurt herself, and took her hands. “Grace, you’re safe.”

But still she fought.

It wasn’t until Max—in a moment of lunacy, and without another solution—climbed into bed with her, holding her close to his chest, that she started to calm. The fight in her ebbed slowly, leaving her breathless, and clutching Max’s T-shirt like a lifeline.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. I won’t let him hurt you.”