11
GWEN
Rhiannon had a key. If it took me too long to answer the door when she inevitably came knocking, there was a good chance she would use it. We wouldn’t have enough time to get Simone in my closet or under the bed before she made it inside. Rhiannon would see Simone’s face, freak the hell out, and a few things could happen from there. The worst of them would be her finding out about the murder. Not much better would be Simone getting kicked out of the ranch for endangering it.
Our best bet was keeping Rhiannon from seeing Simone until her face healed. That meant either I slept on the couch, or we shared the bed.
My back was killing me. I wasn’t taking the couch. Nor was I going to make my best friend sleep on the floor when her face looked like a human punching bag.
Sharing a bed for the night wouldn’t kill us.
Getting comfortable was a bit inconvenient, given the fact that neither of us were extraordinarily small women. My chunky dog who always slept where Simone now lay wasn’t happy about the arrangement either.
But the stress and chaos of the day, paired with the fact that I’d hardly slept in nearly forty-eight hours, made falling asleep a simple task. As soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out cold.
To my surprise, a dreamless sleep followed. Considering the nightmare I’d had the night before, tacked onto the nightmare I’d lived through afterward, I expected to have one tonight. Then again, I had responded to violence with violence. Not only had I survived, but I’d championed my opponent.
Was that to say that I was proud of what I’d done? Not exactly.
Simone was at risk. The entire ranch was at risk. My freedom was at risk.
But that was my only regret. The possibility of losing the freedom we’d left our lives behind for.
I’d experienced a host of trauma in my life. Troy’s relentless psychological and physical abuse had lasted through most of my adolescence and adult life until the last year. The sexual assault I had endured from a boyfriend I’d had before Troy. The drug and alcohol abuse I’d seen growing up, living in poverty—those had kept me up at night.
But Killing David? That didn’t.
While I wasn’t proud of what I’d done, I wasn’t ashamed of it either. It’d been self-defense. If I hadn’t killed him, he may have killed me. Simone too. Soon after, his daughter could’ve been on the chopping block.
No, it wasn’t pride. It was relief.
I was relieved he couldn’t hurt anyone else, that justice had been served.
Because of that, I slept like a baby all through the night. Only to be awoken from a tap on my cheek.
Tilting back, I blinked hard. For a heartbeat, only a heartbeat, I didn’t recognize the person beside me. Her left eye was still swollen shut. Those thick lips were still twice theirnormal size. But her smile was the same as it’d always been, reminding me of where I was and why she was here.
“Morning, sleepyhead,” Simone said. “Did you know you snore?”
Yawning, I rubbed the crust from my eyes. “I also talk in my sleep.”
“Yeah, you said something about stars and ladybugs.” She reached past me to the side table, coming back with a big silver tray with a plate. Steam floated from the hot waffles, scrambled eggs, and mug of coffee at the corner. “Your alarm went off an hour ago, but I turned it off for you since you don’t have work today.”
Perplexed, I stifled another yawn and sat forward. “And made me breakfast in bed?”
“Well, I made breakfast, and you were in bed, so I figured why not.”
I situated the tray on my lap, avoiding Honey at my side, sniffing away. “Is it our anniversary or something?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I don’t think there’s a way to interpret anything that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours as not weird.”
“Which is why I made you breakfast in bed.” She snatched a blueberry from the fruit bowl on the edge of the tray. “You saved my life. You very well may have saved the ranch. You offered to take care of my kid, went out of your way to help me make sure Rhiannon doesn’t find out about any of this, and you got rid of the guy who has made my life a living hell since I was sixteen years old. I owe you one.” She gestured to the tray in my lap. “I figured I could start with breakfast.”
“If this is the treatment I get for killing abusive husbands”—I bit into my waffle —“maybe I should do it more often.”
“Open an agency.” She lifted her hands in the air, as if gesturing to a sign in neon lights. “Assassin Guinevere: husband hit you? Call now to get a free quote for his murder.”
