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Chapter 12
BRIANNA
A loud banging at my front door startles me awake, and I fly out of bed, my arm whipping around and catching on the charging cable for my phone and sending it flying halfway across my bedroom. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter, scrambling after it, knocking into walls as I desperately try to wake myself up.
The pounding on the door continues, and I curse and grunt to myself, not one to handle early mornings very well. This is definitely not what I planned for my Saturday morning.
Finding my phone halfway under my bed, I consider leaving it and getting it later, but there’s no telling who’s at my door. I want to have it in my feisty little hand in case I need to call 911 or hit some asshole over the head with it. But fuck, if I were to break my screen on someone’s head, I’d be pissed.
Getting on my hands and knees, I reach under my bed, pushing my monster cock out of the way before curling my hand around the phone and yanking it. Then using the edge of the bed, I haul myself up to my feet and am just about to trudge to the door when I catch sight of the time. Shit, it’s 6:30 in the morning on a Saturday.
What the absolute fuck?
Who in their right mind would be banging on my door this early?
Fucking Xavier. That’s who.
I was able to deal with the barging in for constant dinners and the overwhelming need for attention, even during the middle of my shows. But a Saturday morning wake-up call is where I draw the line.
The rapid pounding on the door gets louder, and I groan as I hastily hurry to my closet to grab a robe, more than aware of how the banging is going to piss off my neighbors. I mean, shit. I still consider myself to be the new girl in my apartment complex, and the last thing I need is the neighbors hating me for stupid shit like this.
Whipping around to scurry out of my room, I come to a startled stop, finding a body in my fucking bed—a body that was there without my fucking consent. Fucking Xavier. He just signed his death certificate. Rage burns through me, and I grip the edge of the covers, yanking them right back, needing to double check the asshole still has his fucking clothes on.
I go to give him a piece of my mind and throw his bitch-ass out of here when the pounding at the door gets that much worse.
“Fucking hell.” I grit my teeth, storming out of my room. I swear if this is Bobby carrying on like this, I’m going to whoop his ass, and trust me, after finding Xavier in my bed, I’m gonna be a force to be reckoned with. Though on the bright side, at least Bobby would be able to help me get this asshole out of my apartment.
Finally making it to the door, I grip the handle and go to yank it open when it occurs to me that it might not be Bobby at all. He has a game tonight and needs to be in New York. There’s no way he’d risk missing that to be here in Denver.
My brows furrow as I step closer to the door, trying to listen through it for any hint of who it might be, when the banging sounds again. Anger blasts through me, and suddenly I don’t give a shit who’s on the other side. I tear it open, rage burning through my veins. “Who the fuck do . . .”
Shit.
Carter.
I suck in a gasp, my jaw dropping in shock as I take in the man standing before me. My lack of sleep and rage about Xavier only sends me over the edge. “What are you . . .”
Wait. Something’s wrong.
Those eyes I love so much are red-rimmed, and that liveliness I could always count on is non-existent. Even at the bar last week, he seemed broken, but this right here—this is an empty, shattered man.
I wrack my brain for what could possibly be going on, but all I know is that for Carter to be standing here at my door after everything we’ve been through, it must be bad. “What is it?” I breathe, terror gripping hold of my chest and refusing to release me as I search his broken stare. “What happened?”
His brows furrow, the pan only getting stronger as if having to say whatever it is out loud makes everything worse. Carter creeps toward me, his hands flinching at his sides, desperate to reach out and draw me into his strong arms, but he won’t, even now. “It’s . . .” he starts, and I feel myself already hanging off his every word, but he cuts himself off, his gaze lifting over my shoulder as I feel an arm snake around my waist.
