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Three
Imaginethe two people you trusted more thananyonein the world betraying you. Slicing your heart open, then watching it bleed out without ever lifting a finger to stop it. Then picture seeing that reminder day in and day out, realizing notonlydid they wound you, they betrayed you in the worst way imaginable, and the world has a fucked-up way of never letting you forget it.
That pain doesn’t stop. There’s not a switch you can just flip off. You can only ignore it for so long before it becomes a permanent, dull ache somewhere deep inside of you.
When the news of Beau’s kid broke, the last thing I wanted to do was stay in Chicago, where the entire world has a front row seat to the worst betrayal I’ve ever known. I wanted to put my fist through the wall and break everything in my house, but instead, I drank an entire bottle of whiskey, puked my guts out and then went to bed.
Alone. Just like every other night.
The next afternoon, when I was able to crack my eyes open, I found my phone under the couch with a text message from Conrad, saying he booked me four days at a small inn off of Lake Geneva. I guess he knew I would need time to digest this and come to terms with it, and the last thing he wanted was to find me on the home page of The Puck Bunny’s site with another headline. Hopefully by the time I make it home, the tabloids will have found something else to latch onto. If only it was that easy.
I log into my phone then turn off notifications and silence it for the rest of the day. I don’t answer calls from the guys, my parents, or Conrad.
I need to be alone to process this, and the feeling of betrayal that’s once again rearing its ugly head.
Sitting in my truck, staring at the doors of the Brickhouse Inn, trying to keep my head from going to places I don’t want to visit, a storm brews above me, painting the sky an onyx color that settles over the Inn. Heavy, fat raindrops begin to fall, splattering against my truck.
It’s soothing in a way. The rhythmic beat of the rain against the tin of the inn’s roof, and I realize this probably is the best thing for me. I need time away from Chicago to clear my head. To not be surrounded by daily reminders from the media and my family of everything I’ve endured in the past two years.
Outside, the rain begins to fall harder, and if I don’t get out now, I’ll only end up stuck in a downpour. My phone beeps with a weather alert, and it looks like this storm isn’t going to blow over anytime soon. I sigh heavily, grabbing my duffle bag that’s in the passenger seat, then shut my truck off. The second I open the door, the wind crashes against it and rain pelts my face.
Holy shit.
The wind whips and billows as I make my way to the wrap-around porch of the inn, finally taking shelter under it. I shake my hair, trying to get some of the rain out of my eyes. The damn sky all of a sudden opened up with a torrential downpour.
My fingers wrap around the slick metal of the door handle and I wrench it open, stepping inside. Rain still drips from my hair onto my already soaked shirt and bag as I stand in the entry way. I scan the small room, my eyes dragging over the antique furniture, and realize that it’s a lot cozier than I expected.
At this point, Hell is probably a lot more comfortable than outside right now.
“Hi, checking in?”
An older lady with light gray hair and a pair of thin-framed glasses walks into the room. She’s wearing a long dress with a light pink apron tied around her neck that’s covered in flour, as if she’s come right out of the kitchen from baking something.
“Hi, I’m here to check in. I called ahead...” Lowering my voice, I say, “Briggs Wilson?”
“Ah yes, Mr. Wilson. My name is Margaret and I run the inn. I'd be happy to get you checked in and show you to your room.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
Margaret types away on the computer at the desk and then looks up and smiles, her eyes kind and warm. “Darn it. My computer is down from the storm. Let me just write this down and I’ll input everything once it’s back up.”
Using the pen next to her notebook, she jots down a few messy lines then looks back up and smiles widely at me. It immediately makes me feel at ease.
“Okay, got you squared away. Breakfast is at eight. I drop new towels off every other day, and there’s a phone in your room if you need to call down for anything. As I was saying, unfortunately due to this storm, our phones and internet have been down, but we’re hoping it’ll clear up soon.”
“Not a problem. Thanks.”
Her smile is kind and genuine. “Follow me, and I can sho-”
The front door behind me bursts open, a strong gust of wind sending it flying against the opposite wall, almost knocking me over, but the girl stumbling over the threshold actuallydoesknock me over. She tumbles into me with so much force, it knocks us both straight to the ground.
The hardwood below me creaks as we hit it, and her elbow goes straight to my balls, and I immediately groan. Low and deep, I feel the pain radiate up to my stomach, making me nauseous.
“Oh, fuck.”
She’s got to be all of five feet tall, at least a foot shorter than me, but she just tackled us both to the ground like a fucking linebacker with my balls being the only casualty.
“I’m so sorry, oh my god, I’m so sorry, I’m so so so so-” the tiny terrorist apologizes profusely. I can hardly see her face because it’s being hidden by a curtain of blonde hair, but I can faintly see the hazel, honey irises of her wide eyes staring back at me.
