“She’sh my gilrllllfr—Ow!” Another thump.
“Zach?!”I try opening the restroom door, but I only get a couple of inches before it stops, blocked from the outside. Through the crack I see two sets of writhing legs. One pinning down the other. “Hey. Let me out!”
Another thud tells me that Zach is probably beating the hell out of Josh. I have to stop this. I cinch the towel around me tight and shove against the door. “Zach! Stop it!”
A blur of legs and a scuffling noise precedes the door flying open, and Zach stands there panting, red-faced, eyes wild.
“Are you okay?” He crowds the doorway and reaches for me. Then his eyes take in my state—wet hair, body wrapped in nothing but a towel, and I swear, I read murder in his gaze. “Greta—”
I grab his forearm before he can step back and literally beat Josh to death. “I’m okay. I’m okay.” But I’m not even sure it’s true because I’m shaking from head to toe, and this is all so fucked up. My throat closes on a sob, and then, thank Christ, Zach takes one step forward and I’m in his arms.
“Thank God… Oh, Thank God,” he breathes into my hair, squeezing me tighter than I’ve ever been held. “God, Greta. I thought… I thought.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I squeeze back against them. If I start crying now, I may never stop. And I’d really, really like to put some clothes on first.
“I—” I hiccup. “I need to get dressed. C-Can you—”
Behind him, Josh is getting to his knees on the bathroom floor, eyeing us with slow-dawning comprehension. “What—”
Zach’s spine straightens and he turns, shielding me from view with his broad body. “Get the fuck out.”
Eyes wide, Josh moves, but apparently, it’s not fast enough for Zach. Grabbing his elbow, Zach hauls my drunk ex to his wobbly feet and neatly shoves him down the steps into the kitchenette. Zach slides the door shut behind him and leans his forearms against it, panting.
I stand there frozen.
“I’m sure you want some privacy to get dressed,” he says before taking a deep lungful. “But I just need a minute.”
I’m not about to argue. I’m still shaking, but the Zach in front of me is livid.
Without looking at me again, he takes three long, slow breaths before slowly opening the door.
“Let me know when you’re dressed,” he says without looking at me. Then he’s shutting the door behind him.
I take four unsteady steps and sink onto the foot of my bed, a total wreck. Russell hoists himself on the mattress and sniffs my face, whimpering.
“I know, buddy,” I say, running a hand down his wide back. “That was pretty intense.”
He whines again, and it’s the only sound in the camper—except the buffeting winds. I expect to hear the guys arguing or at least talking, but there’s only silence.
Knowing I’d better take advantage of the detente while it lasts, I stand and mindlessly pull clothes out of my dresser drawers. A pair of panties. Sleep shorts. A comfortable sports bra. A long-sleeved T-shirt.
Even when I put these on, I feel like I’m not clothed enough, so I wrap myself up in my thick, black, robe.
I pull on socks and slippers. Hell, I’d put on army boots if I thought they’d help me face what awaits me outside.
When I tug open the door to the kitchenette, both men are so still, it’s like I’m visiting a sculpture exhibit. Zach leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed over his chest, eyes locked on Josh.
My ex sits on the edge of the couch, elbows braces on his knees. Head hanging.
Neither one of them looks at me when I step down.
“Sssso… this is how it is,” Josh slurs.
I flinch, but Zach doesn’t. “This is how it is,” he says flatly.
Josh moves nothing but his gaze, lifting it to Zach’s.
“Can’t be that serious,” he mutters, eyes narrowing to slits.
