Page 119 of Split You Open

“Hey, Ledger!”

I shoot Colly—Rhett’s assistant manager—a tight smile as she waves a greasy hand at me as I walk by, heading for Rhett’s office for the second half of the day.

I tried to slip up to the cabin to find Blair today during the lunch break, but Rhett had been expecting me. He sputtered and spat at me like a furious fucking cat until I left with my lunch—made up by Wes this morning—in tow. It’s been like this for five fucking days.

No one is letting me get close to Blair.

And Blair isn’t making this easy.

My hands ball into fists as I disappear out of sight of the others. With things with Dixie still unknown, the guys’ utter distrust for me, and the inability to get Blair alone to hash things out—running this business is the last thing I care about. It’s smart, though, that Wes decided to reopen things when we all got back.

I have employees to keep happy.

Sucking in a deep breath, I throw open the door to Rhett’s office and stomp in.

It’s a pigsty in here.

I don’t know how he gets anything fucking done. Thank god he’s not like this up at the cabin. I wouldn’t let it fly. Slamming the door shut behind me, I stalk over to his desk and toss the brown bag on top. As I flop into the chair, I grimace. The half-ass stitches tearing at the lettering in my chest pull and twist, causing me to grimace.

“Fuck…”

It's been five days since being carved up by my goddaughter. The wound is more itchy than painful now, but every once in a while, if I move a bit too quickly or twist a certain way I’m reminded of Blair and her beautifully cruel revenge.

The most fucked up part of the recovery?

Each time I hurt, I’m reminded of Blair’s name etched into my chest and I get hard. So fucking hard. Blair’s never looked so fucking good despite her suffering.

Guilt always accompanies the rush of desire, though. Always.

If we could just talk I could, I don’t know, fix the hurt simmering in her eyes. It’s always there when our eyes meet now—as little as that happens. Typically, I find her tucked under someone’s arm or, in Santi’s case, being sat on when everyone is hanging out together. But it’s like she can sense me. Blair will look up and our eyes will meet just for a fraction of a second.

And it’s there—her hurt, anger, and yeah, desire.

“This is a fucking nightmare,” I mutter as I reach up with one hand to pinch the bridge of my nose while the other adjusts my stiffening cock.

Just as I let go of both, the walkie talkie on my hip buzzes.

“Code Red,” Wes snaps over the frequency. He says it only once, but the warning comes in loud and clear.

My stomach drops.

Code Red? Now?!

I’m on my feet in seconds—ignoring the pain in my chest that accompanies the move. Shoving my hand into my pocket I’m instantly reminded that I’ve not been given phone privileges back. Fuck! What’s Wes seeing in the security cameras? What trouble is headed our way?

Are we under attack? No, we can't be... It’s the middle of the day. Why would—fuck. Maybe, we are? If the people after Blair are desperate, why not show up in the middle of the day? Causing chaos while my employees are around would be a brilliant move.

I’m darting out of Rhett’s office, out of Building A and up the gravel driveway as fast as I can fucking move. A white truck with Santi at the wheel barrels by me. He parks beside the cabin and hurries for the back door. We hit the porch steps at the same time. The back door is flung open as Rhett ushers us in.

“We have drones combing the area,” he announces. “Blair’s gone downstairs to grab a rifle.”

Relief floods my veins and I let out a short-lived sigh.

Drones are bad, but they’re just here to monitor. They’re easier to handle than an army of killers storming the property.

I nod. “We need to find whoever’s controlling them.”

Alerts are beeping like crazy from Santi and Rhett’s cell phones.