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I fucking hate the vulnerability in her voice. This woman is a fucking queen and should bow to no one, and I kind of hate my best friend for knocking her crown askew. “You stay as long as you need,” I tell her firmly, not caring one bit that I’ll soon be facing Colton’s ire.
“West—” he starts, but Stacia cuts him off.
“Three months. Put it in writing. I’d hate to overstay my welcome.” She polishes off her espresso before carting her mug to the sink to rinse it out. “Just let me know when the contract is ready, and I’ll sign it. Until then, I’ll be in my room.” She turns and flees before either of us can respond.
Chapter Eleven
Stacia
I pause halfway up the stairs, my chest heaving. I knew this was a bad idea. But desperation is the mother of all bad ideas, and as much as I hate to admit it, I’m a little desperate.
As I try and catch my breath, the sound of their masculine voices reaches me. “Way to be a fucking asshole.”
“My job isn’t to be nice; it’s to watch out for your best interests.”
“Maybe sometimes my best interests aren’t the most important thing.”
Colton’s resounding sigh reverberates through my body, causing a painful ache in my heart. “Far be it from me to try to stop your death on your cross.”
I know I should retreat the rest of the way to my room, but I’m rooted to the spot, eavesdropping on a conversation fully not meant for my ears.
“Be a little more dramatic, Colt.” The clanking of dishes being thrown into the sink punctuates his words. “I’m not being a martyr; I’m not dying on a cross or falling on a sword. I just…want to help out a friend. I know I’d want someone to be there for me if I was in her shoes. Right now, I need you to be my friend and not my lawyer. Think you can handle that?”
West’s decree is met with a silence that is so prolonged, I consider slinking the rest of the way up the steps. That is, until Colton says, “Yeah, man. I’ve got your back.”
Their footsteps sound, alerting me to the fact that they’re heading my way. I scamper up the remaining steps as quickly and quietly as possible, all but dive bombing into my room.
I throw myself down onto the bed and take a few deep breaths, trying to calm my racing heart.
Their footsteps sound in the hall, and for a second I worry they know I was listening. I grab my phone, trying to act nonchalant in case they bust up in my room like before, but a door opens and shuts down the hall. Thank God.
My relief at not being caught listening in is a palpable thing, and with my heart no longer in my throat, I dial up my mom. She doesn’t answer, so I try my grandmother instead.
“Stacia, dear, did you speak to the lawyer?”
I hate knowing I’m about to let my grandma down, but I’m not going to lie to her either. “It’s not good. The short of it is, they’re not willing to risk scandal to represent him.”
“Well, shit,” Gramma curses, sounding as disgusted as I feel.
“It’s gonna be okay. I talked to my boss, she is gonna give me extra hours, and I found somewhere to stay so y’all won’t be crowded. I’m gonna figure this out—I’m going to make sure Dad comes home.”
She sniffles. “This shouldn’t be your weight to bear.”
“Regardless, it is. I know my dad; I know his heart. He’s innocent, and the thought of him rotting away in a cell makes me sick.”
“You’re a strong young woman. I’ll keep working on your mom, and if we hear from Ken, I’ll let you know—same for you.”
“Yes, ma’am. I love you.” She echoes back the sentiment, and I end the call.
It’s only then that I realize I’m trapped here. Trapped with literally none of my stuff. As fun as driving West’s Mercedes was, I’m having serious regrets. And seeing as he’s locked away with Colton the asshole, I’m truly stuck here.
Shit.
Maybe AJ will come and get me? My fingers fly across my screen as I send her a text.
Me: 911.
AJ: What’s up?
Me: Can you come get me?
AJ: Um yes. Where are you?
Me: …West’s.
AJ: !!! I’m on my way, but be prepared to answer questions.
Me: Yeah, sure. Just let me know when you’re here.
The next five minutes feel like the longest of my life, but finally her text comes through telling me she’s idling at the curb. I slide my feet into my shoes and creep quietly down the stairs and out the front door, not wanting to deal with either of the overbearing alpha men in the house.
I slide into the passenger seat of her badass matte black ’69 Chevelle. The thing is a fucking beast, and for a split second, I worry West will recognize it. But I cast my misplaced worry aside—who cares if he knows I left? I live there now, and I’m free to come and go as I please.
