Chapter 24
Maggie
Bridger’s hands shake as he drags the pads of his fingers over his buzzed-cut head. His hair is gone. All that beautiful, warm brown hair that was soft, silky, and slightly wavy… just, gone. Here I am, having just narrowly escaped death—because there’s no doubt that Kayla was here to kill me—and all I can think about is that Bridger’s hair is gone.
He’s utterly magnificent, of course. With the hair gone, the golden hue of his eyes pop against his dark lashes. His cheekbones seem sharper, his jaw more squared.
His lips.
Those lips are fuller… more sensuous.
I just narrowly escaped death and all I can do is stare at Bridger with a dark shadow of bristles on his head, and think… he cut that all off because of me.
Belle’s cries soften and she gives a small hiccup as she holds onto me tightly. Thank fuck Kayla didn’t touch her as it was going to be hard enough moving her past this trauma.
“You okay?” Bridger asks gruffly as he raises his shoulder and peers at it. My eyes drift there, and I gasp as I see his olive-green Henley dark with blood.
“Oh, my God, Bridger,” I cry out as I rush over to him, Belle bouncing on my hip. “You’re shot.”
“Grazed,” he says through gritted teeth as he fingers a jagged tear made by a passing bullet and tries to peer inside. With a grunt of frustration, he pulls his shirt off and tosses it to the floor where it lands beside Kayla’s head.
I don’t even spare her a glance. I scoot closer to Bridger and stand on my tiptoes so I can get a look at his wound. It’s about a two-inch groove cutting through his skin that’s about half an inch wide and oozing with blood. It’s not deep. As he wipes a finger over it, I can see pink skin underneath before more blood oozes.
“Goddamn, I’m a lucky son of a bitch,” he mutters as he barely gives me a glance and pushes past me to walk into the kitchen.
I watch as he grabs a kitchen towel and presses it to the wound before walking back into the living room and calling 911. I watch in shock as Bridger calmly tells the dispatcher what happened, and I’m surprised when he mentions that there are other police already on the way. I’m not sure how they knew what was going down, but before Bridger can even finish telling the full story, I see a police car pulling up behind Bridger’s Vette through the living room window.
A flurry of activity ensues as uniformed officers come in and take stock of the situation before checking on Kayla. Joseph Kizner arrives on their heels and goes immediately to talk to Bridger. Another car arrives, more local police, who, after talking to the first ones to arrive, stand around watching as one of the EMT’s attends to Kayla, who is still unconscious. The other EMT goes to Bridger. After giving him a quick examination, he cleanses and bandages his wound. There’s some words exchanged. Bridger gives a sharp shake of his head, and I hear him say, “I’m not going to the fucking hospital. It’s a scratch.”
Typical man.
The EMTs examine Kayla, who’s still out cold, but then quickly load her up and cart her off to, I assume, the hospital in Jackson. The second set of cops leave to presumably follow the ambulance and the first set split apart, one going to Bridger and the other asking to talk to me in the kitchen. Even though Belle witnessed firsthand her mother getting attacked by Kayla, held at gunpoint, and then her scream at me in the craziest of fashions, I don’t want her to have to hear any more of this. So I set her on the couch, give her a glass of milk, and I put Paw Patrol on for her to watch. She seems fine right now, but I want to hurry up and get this interview over so I can get her back in my arms so she knows everything is going to be all right.
Maybe after that, I can ensure that Bridger is okay, too, because as of right now, I’m sensing that he’s not.
*
A hand on my face, pulling my hair back and then stroking my cheek.
I come awake slowly, blinking against the glow of the lamp I’d left on beside Bridger’s bed. I knew I was overstepping boundaries when I came in here to lie down and wait for him. I knew he might be pissed to find me here. But damn it… he’d spent most of the day looking at me like I was a fragile glass ornament that could break at any moment and completely avoiding any personal talk.
After the police left, so did Bridger. I know the only reason he felt safe in doing so was because he’d had his chief of security, Cain Bonham, come and stay with Belle and me. All he’d said was, “Gotta go into work,” and then he was gone. And I was left staring at Cain, who I didn’t know other than what little I’d learned from Sloane on poker night. That consisted of the fact that he’d let Sloane have sex with Bridger, Rand, and Logan, as well as himself, which was still beyond my comprehension.
I cooked dinner, and Cain ate quietly with Belle and me. While he prowled around the living room and kitchen, checking doors and locks, I put Belle to bed and snuggled with her for a while before finally deciding to wait in Bridger’s bed.
No clue what Cain did. I felt his presence was unnecessary. Kizner felt pretty confident that Kayla was acting alone in her attack of me, and I felt confident in that as well. I mean, her exact words to me had nothing to do with protecting Zeke from further charges of kidnapping, or even protecting herself from criminal charges.
No, she’d said, and I quote, “Think you could fuck my man all those years, spawn his hell brat, and not think I was going to get some payback?”
Yeah… today was personal, and it was all about Kayla. I didn’t think anyone from Mayhem’s Mission was coming after me, but Bridger couldn’t be talked out of having Cain come stay with me so he could “go to work”.
And now he stares down at me, his hand falling away from my face. I sit up in the bed and give a slight yawn as I look at the bedside clock.
Almost one AM. Work must have been hopping.
“What are you doing in here?” Bridger asks gruffly.
“Waiting on you,” I tell him testily. “Figured you couldn’t avoid me if I was lying in your bed.”
“Not avoiding you,” he says as he pulls his shirt off and tosses it aside, then brings his hands to his belt buckle to work at it. He removes it swiftly.
Of course, I can’t think to argue with him. Not with his glorious chest and abs on full display, not to mention the erection clearly outlined against his jeans.
Turning, he sits on the edge of the bed. Bends over to take his boots and socks off.
Bridger angles toward me, sliding his hand around the back of my neck, and then he’s pulling me into him. His mouth meets mine in a kiss that rivals a firestorm, all hot and consuming. He groans in my mouth, pushes me back onto the bed, and brings his big body over mine.
I think about all the things I want to talk about with him. How I need to know where we stand. How I need to reassure him I’m okay and won’t break. Most importantly, how I really believe we could have something together if he’d just take the chance on me.
But none of that comes out because my mouth is occupied with his, and then his hands are stripping me bare, and then he’s got his jeans open and he’s inside of me.
“Oh, Bridger,” I moan as I tear my mouth away from his and stare with glassy eyes at the far wall. He’s hot and huge and filling me so completely that there is no rational thought to be had. It becomes only about the way he feels inside of me right now and the way he’s going to make me feel even better.
He moves his hips in luxurious strokes, taking his time and content to let us both build slowly. His mouth is everywhere… my lips, my earlobes, my throat, my nipples. One hand snakes between us, and he fingers my clit in agonizingly slow circles. My hands snake around his neck, sliding to the base of his scalp where I feel nothing but the prickles of stubble.
“You cut your hair because of me,” I whisper.
Not a question.
A statement.
His answer?
His mouth comes back to mine and he’s kissing me again, so he doesn’t have to answer me. So he doesn’t have to admit that something I did was so awful, he had to ensure I never did it again.
An overwhelming wave of sorrow flows through me, and I know this is the beginning of the end. Any self-respecting woman would push a man such as him off her, knowing he’d never be able to fulfill what she truly needed deep down.
But I’ve got no respect for myself. Not where Bridger’s concerned.
So I accept his slow lovemaking. I let him continue to kiss me and flutter his fingers against my clit while his cock thrusts deep and true. I let him build me up to the ultimate pinnacle, amazed when he bursts apart at the same time I do. He comes inside of me with a long groan right into my mouth, grinding his hips hard and setting me on fire again.
And as I fall back down to earth, I can’t say as I’m shocked when he pulls out of me, rolls off the bed, and tucks himself back in his jeans. He bends over, picks his shirt off the floor, and turns to me. “Listen… I’m wiped. I’m going to take a shower and hit the bed. Why don’t you head back into your room with Belle, okay?”
“Sure,” I say, my voice betraying me as it cracks with emotion.
To give him credit, Bridger actually winces before he turns away and walks into the bathroom.
The minute the door closes, the tears start flowing as I hastily gather my pajamas and underwear, putting them on with jerky movements. I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from letting out a sob. I’m losing him before I even ever really had him.
As I turn toward his bedroom door, the sound of his voice stops me. He’s talking to someone from inside the bathroom.
Without any regard to his privacy, I pad over to the bathroom door and place my ear against it.
“…so if it’s okay and you’re up for a visit, I’d like to come see you,” I hear Bridger say.
A long pause. Then, in a soft, caring voice, he says, “It’s been a long time, I know.”
Another pause, then, “Thanks, Adrienne. See you soon.”
I quickly back away from the door, my heart literally cracking in two. He’s leaving. Not sure when, but he’s leaving. And his voice was soft and gentle. Her name’s Adrienne.
The tears start pouring again, and I have no fight in me. As I said, no self-respect where Bridger’s concerned. He just fucked me and kicked me out of his bed, then quite possibly called a woman so he could go and see her.
I spin and run out of his bedroom, then crawl into bed with Belle. I wrap my arms around her and silently let my tears fall as I realize I’m nothing to Bridger at all.
*
I wake up early, hear Belle breathing deeply, and look at the alarm clock.
5:45 AM.
Slipping out of bed, I change out pajamas for jeans and a t-shirt before heading into the kitchen to make coffee. I slept fitfully last night, sometimes for maybe a half an hour at a time, before I’d dream about Bridger. Or were they nightmares?
As the coffee brews, I start putting things in order.
First, I need to call Aunt Gayle once the sun fully rises. My only choice is to go stay with her. Perhaps if I had a job, or a place to live, I could make a home here, but I have none of those things. I’m sure she could wire me some cash for bus tickets, or maybe she and Randall could come get us.
Second, I need to sit down with Bridger this morning after he gets up and let him know of my plans. While I’m clearly not within his, he needs to know I’ve decided that he can’t be in mine. I’m cutting out before he has the balls to finally tell me to my face that what we have has run its course.
The coffee finishes brewing so I pour myself a cup before heading back to check on Belle. She’s still sleeping. I head back into the living room and glance out the front window, do a double take, and then look harder.
Bridger’s car is gone.
Setting my coffee cup down on an end table, I pad back to his room. His door is open and the room is dim since the blinds are all shut.
But it’s light enough for me to see the note on his bed.
With my chest feeling like there’s a cinder block on it, I walk to the bed on shaky legs. I pick up the note and see it’s brutally short.
I’m sorry.
Bridger
My fingers curl inward, and the note crumples in my hand. Tears sting my eyes over the unfairness of it all. It’s not fair that he left me like this, without an explanation. It’s not fair that he’s crushed me and that he doesn’t even have the balls to sweep the mess left of me out his door.
Most of all, it’s not fair that my heart is so tied up with a man who can’t give me back what I so desperately desire.
I drop the note to the carpet and head back into the living room. After I grab my coffee cup, I walk to the phone, intent on calling Aunt Gayle and begging her to come get me. I’d talked to her just last night and filled her in on everything that had happened, assured her I was fine, and I know she could hear the hope in my voice that maybe I could have a good life here with Bridger.
Just as I pick the phone up, movement out the window catches my eye. For a split second, I think it might be Bridger coming back to tell me he made a terrible mistake, but then I see it’s Woolf walking up the porch steps, his black Range Rover parked in the driveway just behind him.
I walk over, open the door before he can knock, and say flatly, “He’s not here.”
Woolf surprises me by nodding. “I know. And I need to talk to you.”
“Oh,” I say with surprise as I step back from the door. He walks past me. “Want some coffee?”
“That would be great,” he says softly.
We settle down at the kitchen table after I make him a cup of java and I check one more time on Belle. She’s sleeping later than usual, but yesterday was pretty damn traumatic and she had cried so much, she was just exhausted. Of course, I cried a lot last night too after Bridger kicked me out of his room, and there’s no denying the zombie-like feeling I’ve got going on right now.
After he takes a sip of his coffee—he takes it black—Woolf sets the cup down, rests his forearms on the table, and his expression goes troubled. “Bridger went to stay with a friend for a while.”
“I know,” I cut in bitterly. “I heard him on the phone last night after… Well, last night I heard him talking to a woman named Adrienne. He said it had been a long time and he wanted to visit.”
Yeah, I let Woolf in on the fact that Bridger is two-timing me. Well, wait… can he be two-timing me if he’s not even one-timing me anymore? Are we officially over? Is that what the note was about?
So fucking confused.
So heartbroken, but I refuse to let it show.
I look at Woolf with my chin held high, and I expect his expression to turn even darker as he knows that I know about this other woman. Instead, his lips peel back and he gives a bark of laughter, followed by more laughter, and then on to dwindling chuckles.
“What’s so funny?” I demand.
Woolf looks at me and the chuckles die instantly when he hears the anger in my voice. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he does sound truly apologetic. “It’s just… Adrian’s not a woman. It’s a man. He’s an Episcopalian priest in Cheyenne that Bridger’s close to.”
My brows draw inward, knitted in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t mean to laugh at you, but your jealousy got to me. It also confirmed to me that you’ll fight for Bridger.”
“No, I won’t,” I proclaim firmly.
“Yes, you will,” he says just as staunchly. Before I can open my mouth to argue, he continues on, “Bridger’s fucked up in the head. No better way to say it. And while it’s not up to me to tell you the root cause of that, I can assure you that his issues run deep and stem from some horrific shit. He left so he can try to get that shit sorted.”
While I want to be heartened by this… while I want to have hope… I can’t find it within me. “He left me a note that sounded pretty much like a final goodbye.”
“Maybe it was,” Woolf says with a shrug of his shoulder. “Maybe it was just a temporary goodbye.”
“Well, he could have been a little clearer,” I snap, the frustration and heartbreak crashing down on me. “He could have told me to my face. He could have given me some indication of what he’s feeling. Instead, he fucks me, kicks me out of bed, and then skulks off in the middle of the night. Well, fuck you very much, Bridger. I don’t need that shit.”
Woolf actually winces, jerking slightly in his seat. “Maggie—”
I can’t stand the pity in his voice, so I stand from the table and move to the coffee pot to keep myself busy so I don’t shatter. I give a slight cough, clear the shakiness from my voice, and tell Woolf, “I’m going to go live with my Aunt Gayle in Coeur D’Alene. I’m hoping she’ll come pick me up, so Belle and I should be cleared out hopefully by tomorrow.”
“I think you should stay,” Woolf says, and I spin around to look at him. “Bridger wants you to stay.”
“What?” I ask in surprise.
Woolf nods. “He called me on his way out of town. Asked me to keep an eye on you and Belle. Told me to extend the invitation to stay here at his house for as long as you wanted, and for me to help get you set up with some type of job. He’s having me set up a bank account and transferring some money for you to use for living expenses and stuff until you can get your first paycheck.”
“Oh, how magnanimous of him,” I mutter as I pour another cup of coffee.
“He’s coming back, Maggie,” Woolf says confidently. “And then it will be time to figure out shit between you two.”
I snort in disbelief because I’m still ruled by anger and betrayal.
He’s coming back.
But when?
And is there even anything left between us that makes me want to try to figure shit out?
I don’t know the answer to that, but I have some decisions to make.