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Finally, the urge to flee kicked in. She couldn’t tolerate another minute in that house under false pretenses. “I’m fine,” she said, sounding robotic. “Actually, I feel a little sick. I’m gonna go.”
Keith frowned with genuine concern. Her heart clenched as though it’d been squeezed with a giant fist. “Here, I’ll come—”
“No! Stay and watch the game,” she cried with far more strength than the situation called for.
And then she ran as though her life depended on it.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“WHAT JUST HAPPENED?” Keith asked from where he stood in his den, watching Mickie run from his house as though her panties were on fire. He spun to his siblings. “What the hell did you guys do to her?”
“Nothing!” all three shouted at the same time.
“Well, it wasn’t me.” He ran a hand through his hair, tugging the strands as though it’d pull the frustration out of him. “She was smiling and laughing when I left her with you three.” He stalked toward the door where’d he’d left his shoes.
When he came back to the den, sneakers in hand, Ronnie was standing in front of her chair, wringing her hands. “Do you think she’s sick?” she asked with genuine concern written on her face. That was Ronnie. Hard shell, soft gooey insides.
“That’d be my guess,” JP added with a nod. He raised his hands, beer and all. “Swear we didn’t say anything to piss your girl off. You better run over to her house and make sure she’s okay. And, maybe I’ll stop eating this pizza now.”
“What the hell do you think I’m doing?” he murmured as he stuffed his feet in his shoes.
Mickie had been feeling fine all day, and the look on her face as she’d run was more despair than illness. No, not despair.
Shock. Complete and utter shock. What the hell could have happened in the two minutes he’d been gone to put her in such a state?
As he straightened, he caught sight of the empty beer bottles littered across the coffee table. “Oh fuck,” he whispered. He’d taken her word that the presence of alcohol didn’t bother her.
Jagger rose as well. “What?” He gripped Keith’s shoulder.
“The beer. I bet Mickie is struggling with being around us when we’re drinking.”
Ronnie looked so stricken he moved to pull her in for a hug, but JP got there first. “I don’t know, man,” he said as he held their sister. “She’s hung with us while we were drinking plenty of times and has always been cool with it.”
True. But what the hell else could it have been? “I’m gonna go check on her. I’ll let you guys know if it’s anything serious.”
He turned and jogged out of the room. An uneasy feeling settled low in his gut. For some reason, dread clawed at the back of his neck, and his senses went on high alert. Whatever had driven her from his house at full speed was big.
Ronnie caught up with him as he was exiting the house. “Keith,” she said as she grabbed his arm. “Please apologize for us if it was anything we did. I really like her, and I don’t want to lose her friendship.”
“Hon, I’m sure it wasn’t anything you did. Okay?”
Mouth turned down, she nodded. “I like her for you, too,” she whispered, staring at her feet. They never spoke of relationships, or the emotional aspect of relationships, probably because none of them had been serious about anyone in ages. “You smile so much more now.” She met his gaze. “So, whatever it is, remember how much more you smile now, okay?”
He gave his sister a quick hug. “Be back later.”
After a quick run across the street, he found Mickie’s door open and let himself in.
“Michaela?” he called out as he entered the foyer. When she didn’t respond, he started for the newly renovated kitchen. Her phone buzzed from the counter three times, then stopped. Five seconds later, it started up again.
Frowning, Keith picked up the phone. Fifteen missed texts and six calls from someone named Ralph.
He’d spent the majority of nights with her over the past month. He’d been inside her countless times, tasted every inch of her body, and talked with her until the wee hours of morning more than once. Never once had the name Ralph come up.
Who was he?
Friend? Ex? Current lover? Husband? Shit, he knew nothing of her past. Not where she’d moved from, why she’d moved, who’d been in her life. The only information she’d volunteered was that of her sobriety. And even then, he knew the bare minimum.
Not that he’d tried to dig deeper. No, he’d been enjoying the fun, the sex, and the surface-level connection. At least he’d told himself he had been. Now that she might be in some kind of pain or trouble, he wished he had some background knowledge to go on.
