In the Stillness(59)

I shake my head, suddenly feeling awful that I’ve made him feel bad. “No, sorry, I’m just wicked drunk.” I start crying again. “Just bring me to your house.”

His tongue smoothes across his lips. “Try to let me know if you think you’re going to throw up, okay?”

“Mmhmm.” I use my free hand to squeegee away rapidly falling tears.

As soon as his car starts winding its way down the curves of the back roads, I rest my head against the cold window and pass out.





Chapter 29





“Natalie, wake up, we’re here.” I jump at the sound of Ryker’s voice, certain I’m dreaming. He walks around to my side of the car and opens the door. “Can you walk?”

Pulling my eyebrows in, I try to gain some balance, even though I’m sitting. I stand, only to immediately fall back onto my seat. And throw up on the ground between my feet. After a few minutes, I rest my head on the doorframe, feeling empty from the inside-out.

This is just perfect.

Ryker places his hands on his hips and with a deep sigh, looks to the ground for a moment before looking at me. “Okay,” he sighs again as he leans into the car, “I’m going to carry you in. Is that all right with you?”

“Yeah.” Glancing down at my arm, I’m glad to see the bleeding has stopped. I wrap my arms around his neck, careful to turn the cut away from his shirt.

Resting my head on his shoulder, I flicker my eyes up and study Ryker’s face. His jaw is tight, gorgeous eyes focused on his front porch. He has every reason to hate me, yet he’s bringing me to his house to take care of me. It’s all too much, and I start sobbing into his shoulder.

“Does it hurt?” His voice is doused in urgent concern as he opens the door.

“Yes.”

Everything does.

Ryker sets me down on his couch. “Sit tight, I’m going to run upstairs and get some peroxide.”

While his footsteps fade up the stairs, I look around. It’s a standard large, old farmhouse but, thankfully, looks nothing like the house from my nightmare. My breath catches as Ryker comes back down the stairs with the peroxide and cotton balls in his hand. He’s absolutely stunning, even amidst this tension-filled shit-show. Sitting on the coffee table in front of me, he reaches for my hand. Our eyes meet as I surrender my hand to him and he doesn’t even look away as he grabs the bottle of peroxide.

“So what happened?” He opens the bottle and reaches for the cotton balls.

“Um, I fell . . .” I’m pretty sure he saw the whole thing.

“No, I mean, why were you at a bar I’ve never seen you at, drinking an entire pitcher of tequila?”

I swallow as the tears come again. I’ve seriously never cried so much in my entire life as I have in the last two weeks. “I doubt you’d want to know.”

Ryker sets my hand on a towel in his lap, his blue eyes still searching mine. “I asked, didn’t I?”

“I’m sorry, Ryker,” I squeak out between even more tears.

“For what?” He looks up in surprise.

“I-I-I,” I’m stuttering through an ugly cry, “I ruined your life and I’m sorry.”

His face twitches. “Deep breath.”

“Huh?”

His voice is calm and even. “Take a deep breath, this is going to sting.”

He takes one with me as he pours the peroxide over my arm. He’s right. It hurts like a bitch, but not for long.

“So,” he continues, “you were at The Harp, getting dangerously drunk because you think you ruined my life?” Ryker’s eyebrows pull in as he pours another round of peroxide over my arm.

I shrug. “Among other things . . .”

Ryker dabs the cut dry and starts looking at my arms, I guess to see if I have any more gashes.

“You didn’t ruin my life—” he stops as his calloused thumb runs along my upper, inner arm. Looking down, I find him tracing the last place I cut. “Jesus, Nat . . .”

I shrug out of his hold, but it’s too late. His hard swallow as he looks away is the only proof I need that he knows what those marks are from. He’s seen them before, even if it was only once. His face melts as he squeezes his eyes shut. Before I can respond, Ryker’s walking to the kitchen and filling up a glass of water. He returns, setting the ice-cold glass in my hand.

“Drink this.” He paces around the coffee table and rubs a hand over his face. “By the looks of things, I think it’s safe to say I ruined yours.” His tone fills me with uncomfortable anxiety. He wants me out of here, I can tell. He doesn’t need some screwed-up ex-girlfriend messing up the good thing he clearly has going for himself.

Feebly, I try to console any guilt he’s feeling. I know what I can do to a person. “You didn’t ruin anything for me, Ry.”

Ry.

In a huff, his hands are running through his hair. He seems to choose to ignore my reply. “When you said you didn’t have a home . . .” Ryker shrugs, waiting for a response.

“Oh. Well, you see,” I lay on the cheery sarcasm I’ve become good at, “my boys are staying at my parents’ house this week and my husband—I just found out—has been having an affair for the last year. Which, really, is just as well since I was leaving him anyway . . . so last night I stayed at Tosha’s.” In one breath I just told him that I’m a mom, a wife, and a soon-to-be ex-wife. Neat.