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He sings Dig Down Deeper once more.
It hits differently this time, seeming like a prediction.
I’ll dig down deep, Bobby, so you can get yours.
Chapter 22
Bobby
“Did Ilene make you dinner?” Something’s wrong with Willow, and food is always a good guess with any woman. I learned that from Mom and Shayanne early on.
She hums in answer, though it’s a complete non-answer. She’s here physically, but her mind is somewhere else, her eyes unseeing and her smile nonexistent.
“Hey,” I say, grabbing her around the waist and pulling her body to mine, aligning us so that I can get her full attention. “What’s wrong?”
She ducks her chin, avoiding my eyes. Oh, we’re not playing this game again, sweetheart. I chased you once, and if I have to chase you again to find out what’s going on in that pretty little brain of yours, I will.
Tell me all your secret thoughts, I’ll protect them from harm. Let me into your private moments, I’ll share the solitude with you.
I lift her chin with one hand, whispering, “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Did someone do something? Need me to crack a skull for you?” I’m joking—well, sort of. If someone did something to scare or piss off my girl, I will handle it and deal with any consequences that might come. But I was watching all night, barely able to take my eyes off her across the room, too far away for me to touch with my fingertips but hoping my words would reach her heart. But I didn’t see anything amiss, so I expect to get one of her soft smiles in return for the joke.
One doesn’t come.
She blinks behind her frames, only looking at me for a brief second as if the sight of me pains her.
“Wait . . . did someone say something about me?” Considering my reputation and the lengths some people go to get a piece of me, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone was banging on the grapevine a bit. “If so, it’s lies. Whatever it is. I love you, only you.”
Her nod is of agreement but not resolution. She brushes her bangs back and sighs, “Can we go home? I’m fine, just tired.”
Rule number one of women—when in doubt, feed them. Rule number two—‘I’m fine’ means they are most definitely, one hundred percent, not fine. But I don’t argue. If she doesn’t want to tell me what it is so I can fix it, I can at least comfort her through it so she knows I have her back.
I pull her to my chest, holding her head against my heart, which is racing too fast with the need to punch something, someone, whoever made my girl sad. Since I can’t do that, I grip her waist a little tighter and lay soft kisses to the top of her head.
“It’s okay. Whatever it is, it’s okay. I got you.”
The slightest jerk of her muscles is all the warning I get before she pulls away. I can see words on the tip of her tongue, dancing in those mood-ring eyes that are wilder than a thunderstorm right now. Whatever she’s thinking, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want to hear it. Not now, not ever. Because I can see that this is not about a handsy tourist. Something’s wrong. And I like our little bubble of blissful happiness where all I need is her kiss, her touch, her heart, and everything is okay.
“Yeah, let’s go. We can be at your place in five, in a bubble bath in ten.” I take her hand in mine, pulling her toward the door. I throw Hank a nod of goodbye. In the truck, Willow lays her head back on the headrest, looking at the starry sky through the passenger window. “Can we . . . go to your place instead?” She rolls her head my way. Though the question seems easy, the plea is in her eyes.
“Yeah. Sure.”
The ride through town is quiet, and the silence once we hit the country roads makes me want to scream. The deafening emptiness fills my gut with dread. Whatever it is, I don’t want her to say it. This dark void is better than whatever it is. I’m sure of it.
Inside, we tiptoe upstairs so we don’t disturb Brody and Rix. I can hear my brother’s soft snores from the top of the stairs, and he’ll be up in a few hours to start the new day’s work.
I pull off my shirt, dropping it to the bedroom floor. I unbutton my pants, but before I toe my boots off, I realize that Willow is frozen. She hasn’t moved from the doorway, and if she could make herself smaller, I think she would.
I sink to the edge of the bed, running my hands through my hair, gripping the strands hard in punishment. For what? I have no idea. With a breath for strength, I rest my elbows on my knees and look up at her.
