Bronte stands on the other side, dressed in a pair of ridiculous fluffy pink slippers, leggings and an oversized hoodie that swallows her tiny frame. Her dark curls are piled on top of her head in a messy bun, and judging by the lack of makeup and the concern written all over her face, she must have left the second I called.
Her blue eyes widen.
“Oh, Lenny, no. Come here, babe,” she says, her voice barely registering over the ringing in my ears as I practically fall into her arms. I’ve not seen her since my father’s funeral. Haven’t really spoken to her either. She knows about the team. I got that out of my system in a series of voice notes the morning after I finally wrapped my head around inheriting the Cardinals. But this? She knows nothing about it.
Her body falters beneath my weight before she steadies us both.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Lenny. Who do I need to stab? No. Don’t answer that. I look terrible in orange,” she says, tightening her hold around me. “Come on. You’re freezing. I’ll make coffee.” Closing the door behind me, Bronte wanders deeper into my apartment, making herself at home and I can’t help but smile. This is the woman who held my hair back when I was drunk when we were younger. The woman who sat beside me in silence after Dad died because neither of us knew what to say.
“I didn’t know who else to call.” That’s all I manage to say as my emotions come to a standstill, meeting me all at once in this moment.
“You know you can call me anytime, anywhere, about anything. I’m either there for you in spirit, or in the flesh, babe,” she says, searching my cupboards for coffee mugs.
“You’re practically a therapist at this point,” I say with a sigh, half joking, yet unable to deny the truth behind the words. Bronte snorts, finally locating the mugs which were in the cupboard she opened the first time.
“Please. I charge too much. Besides, therapists don’t threaten to commit murder on your behalf. I’m much more versatile.”
Despite the tears threatening to fall and the horror of the last few hours still heavy in my chest, a laugh escapes me. Bronte pauses, smiling softly over her shoulder.
“There she is,” she murmurs. “I was wondering where you ran off to.”
I pull the blanket tighter around myself, watching as she moves around my kitchen like she owns the place, opening drawers without asking and muttering under her breath when she discovers I somehow have six wine glasses and only two coffee mugs.
“Sorry for being so high maintenance lately,” I murmur, reaching out to grab the coffee from her hands. Bronte stops mid-step, fixing me with a look over the rim of her own mug.
“Babe, I once stopped you from drunkenly adopting a pigeon because it looked lonely. That ship sailed years ago.”
I snort softly.
“His name was Brian.”
She shoots me a look that tells me she’s unimpressed, earning a watery chuckle from me. Her expression softens, and she reaches out, brushing my hair behind my ear.
“You don’t have to apologize for friendship, Lenny. Especially not with me. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere,” she says, taking the coffee from my hands before I have the chance to spill it all over myself. Grabbing my hand, she guides me back to the couch, waiting until I’m wrapped beneath my blanket again, before placing the mug into my hands and settling beside me.
“Tell me what the fuck is going on.” Her blue eyes search my face, all traces of teasing gone. The worry in them only deepens as she takes in the blanket wrapped around me like armor, and the tremor I can’t seem to stop. By the way her eyes keep darting toward my hallway, I know she can smell it. The blood. “You’re fucking terrified,” she says, her voice much softer now, reaching out to hold my hand. “What happened?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out, because where the fuck do I even start? Instead, I do the only thing I can think to do. Leaning over, I pick up my phone from the coffee tableand hand it to her. Bronte frowns before taking it from me. The confusion on her face quickly fades as she scrolls through the messages. Her brow furrows. Then her eyes widen as the color drains from her face.
“Lenn…” she whispers, scrolling until the soft sounds of the video fill the room. I stare into my coffee, unable to watch her reaction.
“What the actual fuck is wrong with people?”
I glance up, taking in the furious expression on my best friend’s face. Her jaw is clenched so tightly, I swear I hear her teeth grind.
“You tell me right now you don’t know who these assholes are, Lennon.”
“I don’t know who they are.”
“Have you gone to the cops?”
“I went down to the station first thing this morning. Bunch of paperwork. The usual.”
Bronte lets out a frustrated sigh, tossing my phone onto the couch before springing to her feet.
“I could do it, you know. I could go to prison.”
“Bronte—”
