CHAPTER 32
MAYA
“You’re finally here!” Ingrid shouts, squealing as she runs across my room in her five-inch stilettos, and throws her arms around me.
Weakly, I hug her back. “I’m back,” I say on a sigh.
She reels back, her brow creasing. “Why does it sound like you hate the idea?”
“I don’t hate the idea,” I lie.
My new room isn’t my room at all. It’s a room secured and found for me through Ingrid and Ezekiel while I was away, since, you know, my brother is out for my head.
“You’re definitely hating the idea,” she argues, frowning. “What’s going on? And stop lying. You know I hate lies, because it’s just delaying the truth from coming out, and procrastination is my biggest pet peeve.”
I huff out a small laugh, dropping to my chair, exhausted from all the crazy traveling to prevent anyone from back-tracking my pattern and figuring out where I’ve been.
First there was a chopper to the airport, then I boarded a private plane, then landed in Chicago. Then drove to an entirely too-small airport two states away, and boarded yet another private plane that dropped me off in Maine, then I was driven here.
It’s been a long day, obviously.
Now…Ingrid.
“Can we do this tomorrow?” I ask her.
“No. Again, that’s just procrastination,” she states immediately, arching her eyebrow in challenge.
Rolling my eyes, I tell her, “There was a guy. I wasn’t ready to leave, but here I am. Hence the attitude. I’ll be able to smile too well for you to see through it once I get some rest,” I assure her.
Unfortunately, that doesn’t appease her.
“A biker who’s part of a made-up MC?” she asks earnestly, not even realizing just how insulting that sounds. It’s a lot different when you see the struggle and the determination. Hell, it’s admirable.
“A biker. Yep. Can we leave it at that?”
“Hell no. You never mentioned you were dating one of them,” she says, her grin growing as she gets more comfortable. “So then what happened? All I know is that you said you were coming home, even though you’ve fought us on that for however long now.”
“They’re in their own war, as you’re aware. Axle decided—”
“His name is Axle? He couldn’t have been a little more original than that?” she interrupts, mouth twisted in disdain.
“His name holds sentimental value,” I explain calmly, leaving it at that, and trying not to get irritated. She has no clue she’s bugging me with her condescension toward him. How could she know?
This was mine. I didn’t share it with them.
“Fine. Proceed,” she says, gesturing toward me.
“Anyway, he decided it was unsafe for me and for his guys if I stayed there. Which is true. If their adversaries learned of my identity and my intentions, they could join with Phillip. They’d be eradicated, along with me.”
I say this as emotionlessly as possible, too drained to feel anything right now.
But when I stare at my tiny condiment bottles on a shelf, I’m reminded of the tiny condiment bottles I had to leave behind. The bottles we took from the hotel.
Together.
I reach over for the pretty—and not-so tiny—bottle of whiskey and pour a generous dose in a glass. Ingrid regards the whiskey like it’s syphilis, because she thinks alcohol is the most disgusting thing in the world.
“He knows who you are. Do you trust him to keep it quiet now that you’re gone?” she asks.
I snort derisively. “He threw himself on top of me when there was gunfire. He carried me out of a building that had exploded and washed away all the ashes when I couldn’t bring myself to barely move. He punched a friend because that friend got a little too pushy with me.” I give her a dry look. “I slept beside him every night—really slept beside him. He could have harmed me time after time, yet I was safe enough to actually sleep. How long has it been since you slept all night, Ingrid?”
She tenses, then I see her eyes glisten.
“You really cared about him,” she finally says quietly. “Then why the hell did you leave? Or why didn’t you bring him home with you?”
Smiling bitterly, I answer, “He’d never leave his friends when they’re at their lowest, most vulnerable right now. If one leaves, they could all fall. And he asked me to go home. I understand it. I really do.”
I drain the glass of whiskey and set it down. Ingrid stops me before I can pour more into it.
“Did you tell him how you felt?” she asks, genuinely concerned now.
“Yep,” I tell her flatly, struggling to remove the whiskey bottle from her grip when she takes it from me.
“Did you love him?” she asks.
I sigh and glare at the whiskey. “Yep.”
“And you told him you loved him?”
“For fuck’s sake, yes. I told him I loved him. Why?”
“And he sent you home to help keep you safe, and wants nothing in return?” she asks, as though the notion is preposterous.
“Yes,” I bite out.
“He’s protective of you, then?”
“Yes,” I groan.
“That means he cares,” she tells me like it’s a good thing.
“I never said he didn’t,” I grumble.
Her look softens, and she lets me take the bottle of whiskey. I pour the glass and drink it all down again.
“What’d he say when you told him you loved him?”
Sighing, I stare at the empty glass in my hand like it holds all the answers. “He didn’t say it back.”
I look up at her, seeing her eyes glisten more obviously now.
“Two days later, he decided I should go home,” I add in a strained whisper.
Ingrid reaches past me, lifting the whiskey, and this time, she pours me a glass. Then, to my utter surprise, she pours one for herself as well.
“Well, then. I’m wicked confused,” she says as she sips the drink, then makes a face. Then sips again.
I swear this is the first time I’ve seen her ever drink.
I hold my glass up, gently clanking it against hers. “Cheers to that,” I mutter.