Page 9 of Weston’s Treasure

4

Before I’d left for college my dad had sat me down and told me, I had to let my mother go. He’d warned me there would come a time when my ambition would be tainted with her bitterness if I didn’t put her behind me. He’d explained that my determination and drive to excel had to be my own and not because my mother had told me I was worthless.

I thought about that conversation a lot through the years. What was my true motivation and purpose to push myself to succeed? Why did I always have the need to prove I was better than what she thought I was?

My dad was a good man if not a little selfish in some ways. He was also reflective and caring. He didn’t want me to carry the burdens my mother had piled on my shoulders.

His warnings had come to fruition. The day had come where I was holding onto the bad stuff, the bitter, the burden, the need to prove something that was not mine to prove. And it was going to get me killed. I was being stupid and I knew it. I needed Weston’s help. I needed them all but I didn’t know how to accept it graciously, so instead, I behaved like a bitch to show them all I was strong and capable.

But I was not capable of getting myself out of this mess. And as much as Weston had been a first-class dick, he’d been correct, I didn’t have mad gun skills. I couldn’t track down who had caught on to what I was doing and stop them. I couldn’t protect myself against a gang of drug dealers.

“Listen, Silver—”

I put my hand up to stop Weston. I hated that he no longer sounded angry. His tone had changed to gentle and compassionate. Two things I didn’t want from him.

“You’re right. Is that what you want to hear? I can’t do it on my own. But I don’t want to burden the rest of you with babysitting me.”

Damn, and I was back to eating crow and it tasted shittier this time around. I was tired of having to admit I was wrong.

A logical person would simply modify their behavior so they didn’t have to utter the admission. But unfortunately for me, I had a hard time with logic and an even harder time holding my tongue. Especially around Weston. He seemed to have the uncanny ability to reach inside of me and pull out the bitchiness.

“No, I want you to tell me you understand you’re in danger and you’ll stay here so I can protect you,” Weston said.

And that was when it happened. When I stopped being an irrational bitch and looked at Weston. Really saw him for the first time through clear eyes.

Instead of seeing him as an opponent, I considered the possibility that maybe he’d been trying to look out for me all along. Not that I liked the way he’d gone about it, but he’d done it all the same. Hadn’t he been the one to warn me in the first place? The rest of the men I’d met with were all too happy to let me be the one to board the ships and snoop around. After all, it was within my right to check the navigation charts.

But not Weston. From the very beginning, he’d expressed his concern for my safety.

“I understand. But…” I saw Weston’s eyes glitter with annoyance and rushed to finish, “I’d like to help.”

“How can you say you understand and still make that offer?” he inquired.

“I don’t mean, be on the front lines. But I have something to offer. I know those waterways. I know the routes they’d take and what time of day they’d take them. I’m aware I’m in danger. This isn’t me being stubborn, it’s me offering to help so we can wrap this up. The faster that happens, the faster I’m out of your hair and we can all get on with our lives.”

As true as that statement was, it was a depressing thought. My normal life consisted of working, going home alone, having an occasional beer with one of the guys I worked with, maybe talking to my dad on the phone if he had service, but mostly it consisted of me being by myself.

Pretty damn sad for a woman my age.

“I’ll take you back to your apartment so you can pick up what you need,” Weston offered.

“Do we have a deal?” I pressed.

“Yeah, your help will be needed.” Weston hadn’t stopped staring at me and something had changed—his light brown eyes were no longer spitting daggers at me, instead, they looked kind. Understanding. Gentle, even.

All the more reason for me to invest all of my time and energy into taking out the drug dealers. It was hard enough keeping my body’s reaction to Weston in check when he was being an asshole, I had a feeling it would be damn near impossible if he was being nice. And neither one of us needed me to throw myself at him, even if I really wanted to know what his hard muscles felt like under my hands. It would have to remain one of the many wonders of the world, never to be explored.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later I was in Weston’s Jeep Wrangler. But the surprising part was, I was wearing his sweatshirt. Before we’d left he disappeared upstairs, then minutes later reappeared with a hoodie and thrust it at me, explaining he still had the top and doors off his Jeep and he didn’t want me getting chilly.

It was thoughtful.

It was out of character.

It also made my belly whoosh.

I didn’t like this side of Weston, or more to the point, I really liked it—therefore he needed to go back to being a jerk so I could continue to dislike him.