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“Because the idea that someone of his reputation could do that is blinding,” Lars said, his accent a little thicker than usual.
Rush reached out and grabbed the back of his neck, giving it a squeeze. “Yeah, but around here, we believe each other and not some stranger’s faulty reputation.”
Rush was the perfect example of someone not being what their reputation fronted.
Knee bouncing a mile a minute, I glanced at Prism, and a worried look passed between us.
I shot to my feet. “I’m going over there.”
“Call her,” Ryan urged. “Ask her if she’s okay.”
“Yeah.” I agreed, fishing out my cell. Calling her first would be better. It wouldn’t freak her out as much as me bursting in there. After I heard her voice, I could drive over there and sit in the parking lot until she got off.
I hit the button for her number, and the line rang. And rang. Then rang some more.
When her voicemail picked up, anxiety punched me in the gut.
“Maybe she’s with a customer,” Wes suggested.
I dialed her again, reaching into my pocket for my car keys.
Hey, this is Jess! Why are you calling? Hang up and send me a text.
A flashback of the night I found her sprawled out in a puddle of her blood rocked me back on my heels. She didn’t answer that night either.
That feeling of dread I’d been hauling around since driving away from her?
It morphed into feral panic.
“Something’s wrong,” I roared, grabbing Prism by the arm and yanking him with me as I shoved through our bros to run for my car.
Please don’t let me be too late.
38
Jess
She didn’t deny the accusation.
She whimpered—a clear admission of guilt.
My thoughts were still whirling, my mind still confused as I tried to process the information literally unleashed into my mind. Not everything was as completely clear as I’d thought when it was assaulting me, but as soon as I was able to shake off some of this nausea, I’d be able to think straight.
As soon as this girl stopped staring at me like I was the murderer and not her.
Gasping, I said, “You tried to kill me!”
“What?” she yelled, the force of it raising her to her feet. She stumbled back a couple steps, and I was grateful.
I wasn’t scared of her, per se.
I was older. Bigger. I grew up in a rough neighborhood and was left to fend for myself because my parents were drug addicts. I knew I could take her. But she had literally tried to kill me. Almost succeeded. And that knowledge shook me to my core.
“No,” she refuted. “That wasn’t me. It wasn’t. I would never try and kill anyone.”
I scoffed. “Well, the broken ankle and stitches in my head say otherwise.” I gasped. “Oh my God! Did you shove me in a washing machine?”
How the hell would she manage that?
