It’s why I snuck away in the wee hours of the morning. If I’d woken up with his strong arm wrapped around my waist, tugging me close, nestling me against him, I’d have begged him to stay.
Begged. Me! Of all people.
“Your brother was on TV,” my dad says, yanking me out of my emotionally charged memories. He plucks the remote from my fingers and starts pressing buttons.
“What happened?” It’s not the first time Ryder has been on TV, but it’s the first time since he moved to Revival.
“Big accident on the highway. One of the casualties is that politician under investigation. His mistress was in the car and is in the ICU.” My dad surfs the local channels, looking for coverage so his chest can puff up with pride for his eldest child.
I sit up from my slumped position on the couch. “Do they expect foul play?”
“Don’t know.” He mumbles under his breath when the remote acts up. “Catherine, this thing doesn’t work.”
“It’s finicky.” My mom walks over and pats him on his broad shoulders. “Here, let me.”
It’s a lie. My father’s war with the remote is entirely user error. Not that he’d ever admit it.
My mom takes over.
“Go to the local YouTube channel,” Hailey says.
When we find the press conference, the county emblem fills the screen for thirty seconds before the commissioner comes on and begins talking, briefly explaining the situation that led to Congressman Crenshaw’s death, before he says, “I’ll turn it over to Sheriff Radcliffe for details of the ongoing investigation.”
The rotund, bald man steps away. There’s a commotion before my brother, a younger version of our father with darker hair, steps into frame, taking a stoic stance to the left of the podium.
Then the sheriff comes on to the screen.
Shock knocks all the air out of my lungs as the man I screwed in every way known to man takes his position behind the podium.
Ohmygod!
No, no, no, no, no, no!
My skin gets hot, then clammy.
I stare at the screen in horror.
I blink, hoping he’s an aberration.
But no, he’s still there.
Dressed in a uniform, with tactical gear strapped to the narrow hips I’d wrapped my thighs around so hard my muscles are sore, he’s speaking with stern, direct authority.
With the blood rushing in my head, I can’t process what he’s saying.
No names. No personal information. No feelings.
Those were the rules.
One and done.
Yet here he is, a nightmare on my television screen.
My head goes woozy. I might faint.
Why, universe? Why!?
All I wanted was one night of freedom.
