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A hand reached out beside me, pushing a bill into the machine, and I didn’t have to turn around to see who was standing behind me.
The tattooed hand and fingers were enough.
The water dropped, and I bent down to grab it before turning around to face Fender.
He studied me closely, his eyes taking in every inch of my face, then his hand touched my waist, and he pulled me into him by wrapping his arms around me.
All the tension I had been feeling suddenly disappeared, and I melted into him, closing my eyes tightly before losing any more tears.
He held me in his arms, his fingers gently caressing my shoulders.
I didn’t care how much he hated me, and apparently, it didn’t matter to him either in this moment. I let it happen, needing someone to hold me tight without saying a word.
Jagger had held me this way last night, but it hadn’t helped. Most likely because Woodrow’s condition had been unknown at the time.
Now that I had seen him being alive, relief was all I felt.
He slowly loosened his grip around me way too early, and as he stepped back, I looked up at him with the tiniest smile. “Thank you.”
He looked confused for a second, then he simply nodded, knowing exactly what I was thanking him for.
His eyes dropped to the water bottle in my hands, then he cleared his throat. “Let’s go back.”
We walked beside each other in silence until we reached the room, and I headed over to his bed to hand him the water.
“Thank you, kid.”
We spent the morning and afternoon at the hospital, making sure Woodrow was getting all the help he needed, and as he got tired from the meds, Rodney told us to go home and have dinner.
Woodrow would have to stay at the hospital a while longer. He’d have to get some tests done.
After saying goodnight and stepping out, a doctor entered the room and I overheard him say a name I hadn’t heard in two years.
It was said in a whisper, but I still heard it.
“Falco’s worried.”
I stopped and looked back to Woodrow’s room, staring at the door after hearing my father’s name being spoken.
Falco’s worried.
What did that mean? My father was dead. Shot and drowned by Woodrow, his brother. Why would he be worried?
My gaze met Fender’s, and once again, he was staring at me with that angry gleam.
God, I couldn’t make it right for him.
First he ignores me, then he starts messing with my head, flirting, and saying dirty things to me, then he touches and hugs me, and now he’s glaring again.
No way I would ever understand that man, no matter how attracted I was to him.
I tightened my jaw and swallowed hard, wanting to scream and launch at him. But I stayed calm and ignored my intrusive thoughts.
I turned away, deciding that I had misheard whatever the doctor said. I wasn’t in the right headspace to deal with this.
***
I was frustrated, and I liked to stuff my face with sweets whenever that was the case. I hid in the kitchen while the others were over at the bar. I’d soon have to leave or stay here and help the old ladies cook dinner, but truthfully, I didn’t feel like hanging out. I wanted to go home and be alone. I still hadn’t finished that stupid book.
