Page 49 of Seale the Deal

You need help up? he asks, his voice low.

No. I think I’ll just live down here, thanks, I mumble into the bush.

He huffs out something between a sigh and a laugh, and then his hand finds the centre of my back. It’s barely a touch. Just enough to say I’ve got you without drawing attention. But it lands like a full-body embrace. I close my eyes for half a second and let myself lean into it.

Come on, Ruger says softly, the gravel in his voice lower than usual. Let’s get you home.

Ruger slides his arm under mine and gently lifts me to my feet like I weigh nothing. The motion makes the world tilt for a second, but he steadies me with that same warm hand at my back. It stays there as he walks me over to Remi. She’s still giggling, sprawled in a chair with her empty wineglass cradled to her chest like it’s an award she’s just won.

You gonna be okay getting yourself to bed? Ruger asks.

Remi raises her glass in a wobbly salute. You kidding? I can handle my booze. Take care of Bambi so she doesn’t wander into traffic.

I’m fine, I mutter despite my bra being full of pine needles from Remi’s bushes.

She’s fine, Remi echoes with a grin. She only mistook my backyard for a bed. She snickers like she just told the funniest joke in the world.

Okay, then. Ruger starts to direct me away from his sister.

Hey! she calls out. Are you okay? Can you drive?

Yes, Ruger replies, his tone edged with annoyance. I had one beer and have been drinking water ever since.

It’s called female bonding, Remi retorts.

It’s called being a public safety hazard. Good night, Remi. Thank you for dinner.

I love you! I call to my best friend as Ruger leads me away.

We walk through the house and out the front door to Ruger’s truck. The stars are sharp above us, scattered across the sky. It’s quiet, save for the crunch of our shoes on gravel.

His hand is still on my back, and damn, it feels really nice right now. Even though I’m a mess, I feel more cared for in this moment than I have in a long time.

He walks me to the passenger side of his truck and opens the door.

I climb into his truck. He closes the door behind me as I lean my head against the cool window, and I let him take me home.

Chapter 7

Ruger

DAYS LEFT ON VISA: 83

I pull into the driveway and shift the truck into park. Wrenley’s slouched in the passenger seat, one socked foot propped on the dash, the other tucked under her thigh. At some point in the less-than-five-minute drive, she kicked her shoes off, mumbling something about them being too grippy.

Whatever that means.

I come around to her side, open the door, force her to put her shoes back on, and offer a hand. She waves me off like a stubborn toddler insisting she can do it herself.

Suit yourself.

She manages getting out of the truck and the first step up the porch just fine. The second? Not so much. She doesn’t just stumble into the house; she crashes into it like a wrecking ball, pine needles skittering across the laminate. Her body hits the entryway rug, and she lets out a bark of laughter, followed by a hiccup, and then another giggle because her hiccup was, in her words, so fucking funny.

I try to help her up, but she mumbles, My shoes.

Don’t worry about them, I say. Your shoes are fine.

That’s such a weird thing, she slurs. I thought that was for ease on TV shows. No one wants to watch someone take off their shoes. Except Mr. Rogers. I guess there’s always an exception.