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“Maybe no ice cream next time,” I muse. “She did say dairy might fuck you up.”
I stay by Olivia’s side until she’s done. When she is, I lift her up from the floor. I don’t think about the acidic scent of vomit wafting off her as I help her rinse out her mouth.
“Sorry. I probably stink,” she says weakly.
“I play professional hockey, Olivia. You don’t know the kinds of horrors I’ve seen and smelled in a locker room full of men.”
“Yeah, but it’s gross when it’s, yanno…”
I nudge her shoulder. “Nothing about you is gross. Come on, let’s get you into bed.”
She doesn’t protest as I help her into the bedroom. While I still want to be stripping her down for other reasons, I get her out of her now-sweaty clothes and tuck her into the bed. All the color has drained out of her summer tan.
“Rest up for me, alright?” I say sternly. “I’ll see if I can make you something that’s gonna be light on your stomach.”
“Wait—I mean, don’t you want to…?”
Her voice trails off, unsure. I know what she’s trying to ask, even without her having to say it. I press a kiss to her forehead. “Next time,” I promise her. “When you’re good and rested up and can handle everything I plan on giving you.”
44
OLIVIA
I toy with my phone. Back and forth in my hands, like I’m a kid again playing hot potato. Reese is off at practice. I’m still in the penthouse, because right now, I can at least agree it’s probably the safest place for me to be. Samson is stationed outside, ready to spring into action at the first sign of trouble.
There are worse lives I could be living. I could ask for anything I wanted and one of those men would make sure I got it. I’m hungry? Boom, food. I’m thirsty? Boom, the straw of a virgin daiquiri held up to my lips. I’m sweaty? A hulking giant of a man will come swooping in to dab the moisture off my forehead with a thousand-thread count silk handkerchief.
But the thing I really want more than anything is my best friend.
I can’t ask Quinn to come here; I know that much. It’s not that I don’t want to be rebellious—I don’t want to drag her into what could be some serious trouble if some creep watching us catches her here.
A creep can’t peep on a call, though, right? And as good as Holly and her goon squad have been at making life suck to the nth degree, it doesn’t mean that they’re some CIA-level super hackers.
I pull up my DMs with Quinn. There’s a string of messages there, checking in on me. They go from asking how I’m holding up, to demanding proof of life, to cursing Reese out. Then they get progressively threatening in their promises of bodily harm if I don’t, and I quote, “quit moping around about my dumbass boyfriend and the wedlock he’s put me in.”
Quinn’s never been much of one to hold back her thoughts. “Filter” is not a word in her vocabulary.
Letting the last of my jitters out, I dial her number. It rings once and suddenly, her bright voice is spouting off in my ears.
“OLIVIA RENE CARTER! I AM GONNA WRING YOUR LITTLE NECK!”
“You know you can go to prison for that, right?”
“I DON’T CARE. YOU GHOST ME FOR WEEKS AND DON’T RETURN A CALL OR A MESSAGE AND NOW, YOU HAVE THE LADY BALLS TO RING ME UP OUT OF THE FREAKING BLUE?”
I draw in a breath. I knew that she was going to be upset when I called her. As loud as she is, there’s still a waver in her voice. There’s hurt there. I feel guilty—I should have called as soon as I got back from the cabin.
“I’m sorry. There’s been… a lot going on.”
“Too much that you couldn’t call me?! Say something? Shit, I didn’t want to ask your mom where you were because I didn’t want to bother or worry her but fuck, Livvy—that wasn’t cool.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
Quinn huffs. “Okay, well, spit it out then. What was the big idea, falling off the face of the planet like this for damn near a month?”
“I…” I sigh. It’s hard to even summarize all the twists and turns my life has been taking. “Reese had me stay at a cabin for two weeks. He got paranoid about some creepy shit that’s been happening?—”
“And you couldn’t tell me?”
