Page 69 of Easy On Me

Tyler.

Chapter Twenty-One

Tyler

I ran up the steps to Scott’s law offices, my heart pounding. Hannah had called the dealership directly, her words spilling in a rush.

Elizabeth Hall.

Off-Record.

A video.

Jase.

There'd been no question about me going to him. I hadn't told my boss what was up, just yelled that I had an emergency with my husband and I was leaving. The handful of blocks between work and Scott's never seemed so long.

I burst into the lobby, completely unconcerned that I was in someone's business. The only thing that mattered was Jase. Hannah came running as the door slammed shut behind me, face set in lines of concern, a hand outstretched to take one of mine. Her fingers burned hot, or maybe mine were like ice.

“I'm pretty sure he had a panic attack.” She tugged me toward Scott's office, her voice low. “He didn't want me to call 911 but his chest hurts.”

That bitch had one coming for this. If I got my hands on her . . .

I skidded to a stop at the door. Face in his hands, Jase learned forward in the same chair I’d occupied only a few days before, Scott sat in the chair next to him, a hand on Jase’s shoulder. His tall body heaved with uneven breaths.

Oh, she needed a beatdown for real.

Later, though. Jase came first.

Shaking off the shocked paralysis, I rushed forward to kneel at his feet. “Jase.”

I touched his cheek above his hand, and he flinched, a violent recoil. He didn’t raise his head, but pressed his fingers harder against his face.

That . . .

I didn’t have a word strong enough. He was a good man, and he’d loved her. He’d trusted her, and she did this because she was mad? Because life didn’t work out like she wanted.

That spoiled little girl.

I curled my palms around my knees when I ached to touch him, because obviously he didn’t want that.

Scott brushed my shoulder then pushed to his feet, the door closing softly behind him. On the mantel, a clock ticked. Jase’s shoulders heaved, his breaths labored.

My chest ached. I folded a hand over our baby.

“She . . .” His voice was thick, choked, even muffled by his hands. “You’re gonna see that.”

“No.” I reached for his knee and pulled my hand back. “No, I’m not.”

A rough scoff rumbled from his throat, angry and ugly. “My mama’s gonna see it—“

“No.” I shook my head, even though he wasn’t looking at me. “She won’t.”

“Every-fucking-body is going to see it.” Fury rolled off him in waves, his voice raw with panic and fear. “And . . . and . . .”

He lunged for the trash can by his feet, vomiting.

I cringed at the raw sounds, the pain and dry heaves buckling his body. I dared to brush the edge of his hair at his nape, and this time he didn't flinch away. Holding the wastebasket with shaking hands, he gulped in ragged breaths. I ran the softest of touches along his hair. He lifted his head, finally looking at me, his blue eyes dull.