Page 55

“You didn’t have to punch him,” I say.

His eyes lift to mine. “Yeah, I did.”

Chapter

Seventeen

Autumn

The motel room feels too quiet after the bar. The second the door shuts behind me, the silence settles heavy in a way I wasn’t expecting. Music and laughter still echo somewhere in my head, along with the sickening crunch of Tripp's fist hitting Jacob's face.

I drop my purse onto the little table harder than necessary. The cheap lamp throws yellow light across the room, catching the scuffed toes of my boots and the faded floral pattern of the comforter. Everything looks mundane, but that somehow feels like a lie after tonight.

Which is annoying, because nothing about tonight was normal.

I drag both hands through my hair, wincing when my fingers catch in the tangles.

"You're an idiot," I tell the empty room.

The air conditioner rattles in the corner, a steady mechanical breathing that doesn't quite fill the space. I toe off my boots. One hits the wall with a dull thud before tipping over. The other follows. My socked feet sink into the thin carpet as I stand there for a second too long, staring at absolutely nothing while adrenaline still hums under my skin.

Not shaking. Just... awake.

I need a minute… or ten.

The bathroom light flicks on with an ugly fluorescent buzz when I push open the door, harsh enough that I squint immediately. Motel mirrors should come with warning labels because absolutely nobody looks good under lighting this offensive. My mascara somehow survived, barely, though my hair looks like I got dragged backward through a wind tunnel.

I lean both hands against the counter, head dropping for half a second before I finally force myself to look up.

Bad idea, because the second I stop moving, my brain catches up.

The memory of Jacob’s hand slipping under my shirt makes my stomach clench, not because of the touch itself, but because of how wrong it felt the second it happened.

I’ve dealt with drunk bikers and entitled men long enough to know how to handle myself. I know the difference between annoying and crossing a line, and I shoved him hard. Probably would’ve done more if Tripp hadn’t gotten there first.

Which is the problem.

Not Jacob… them.

Because the second they enter my mind, warmth settles low in my chest before I can stop it, and I look away from my reflection fast enough to avoid unpacking what that means. My mouth presses into a thin line as I grip the edge of the counter for half a second before pushing away from it.

Annoying. Completely, unbelievably annoying.

Because the problem isn’t that they cared. It’s that I liked that they cared.

I peel off my top first, fingers catching on the soft fabric before I drape it over the door instead of throwing it on the floor like I want to. The shorts follow, denim dragging slowly against skin that still feels too warm.

My stomach drops.

No.

Nope.

Absolutely not.

I pause, hand flattening against my stomach as I stand there in the motel bathroom.

Because I know this feeling.