When Scarlet woke up the next morning, Hunter wasn’t there. She didn’t know when she fell asleep—or when she cried herself to sleep—but judging by the way her head was pounding and her eyes were burning, she didn’t sleep for long.
Once she got out of bed, she saw the clothes she had arrived in the day before, cleaned and placed on the chair.
Her body was aching everywhere as she tried to get dressed as slowly as possible. She didn’t know whether it was her workout with the punching bag or the workout she got from bashing Hunter’s face in.
What was he thinking? Provoking her like that? Holding his fucking face up high like he wanted more? And what the hell was she thinking, just letting go? Just letting all her emotions and all her fury possess her?
Yesterday it felt real fucking good punishing him, this morning it felt real fucking shitty.
It was obvious that Hunter wasn’t leaving until he fulfilled his promise to her by making sure she was safe. She just did not understand his motivation behind it. He owed her nothing. There was nothing keeping him there with her, so why did he have to be so damn stubborn? If he would just leave, she wouldn’t have to look into those emerald eyes of his and think about what could have been if his dead girlfriend wasn’t her sister, and if Scarlet wasn’t so fucked-up. Just thinking about it had her chest feeling like it would cave in at any second.
Was she falling in love with Hunter? Or…was she already in love with Hunter?
No. Abso-fucking-lutely not. No.
The sooner they sorted out this shit they were currently in, the sooner he could leave. There was no way Scarlet would want him to stick around a second longer than he really wanted to. So she’d need to do whatever the hell she could to get it done, and to let him go.
After she was finally dressed, she took the bandages off her hands. Her knuckles were bruised and cut, her hands stiff and achy. Hunter’s face probably felt worse.
What was done was done. No use in crying over spilled milk…or spilled blood in this case. There were clean bandages lying on the bedside cabinet, but Scarlet didn’t bother. All her wounds were open for everyone to see since yesterday anyway, so screw it all.
Scarlet made her way directly to James’s office, sure she’d find him there.
Of course she wasn’t surprised to hear Hunter had beaten her to it.
“I told you, man, she won’t go. There’s no way in hell she will go claim the inheritance and come face to face with him.”
Like hell she won’t.
Scarlet walked into the office, stopping in front of the desk, and stared directly at James. “I’ll do it.”
“What?” Hunter jumped up from the chair he was sitting in, and when she looked in his direction, she sucked in a breath.
His face was covered in cuts and bruises. Almost the entire left part of his face was decorated with different shades of black and blue.
“Jesus,” she muttered while she stared at him.
Hunter softly placed a finger on his cheek. “Yeah, feels like I got beaten up by a girl.”
James snorted, but Scarlet didn’t think it was funny. It wasn’t funny at all. Nothing about this was a goddamn joke. For a fleeting moment she wanted to wrap her arms around him and say “sorry” a thousand times, tell him that she didn’t want to hurt him the way she did
What had she done?
Hunter noticed her shocked expression. “Hey, Scar. It’s okay. Nothing a few painkillers and some good whiskey can’t cure.”
“Hunter, I’m…” She couldn’t find the right words. Sorry wasn’t good enough. Not even a thousand of them would be good enough. “I don’t know…”
“It’s okay. I was asking for it.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Stop defending everything I do.”
He moved closer, and she closed her eyes as his wild spice scent wafted over her. God, that scent had a direct line to her soul, making her want things a woman like her should never want. Happily ever afters and white picket fences.
“I get it, Scar. I do. We both needed it.”
Her gaze shot up to his.
He shrugged. “There’s no cage fighting club around. I already asked.” He smiled mischievously, a smile that had recently become her undoing.
“What I don’t get,” he continued, “is that you’re willing to face Brent. What are you thinking?”
She looked down, and moved back. It was impossible for her to think straight with him so close to her. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Are you sure about that? Because from where I’m standing, coming face to face with Brent isn’t something you need to do right now.”
“The sooner I do this, the sooner everyone can go back to living their lives.”
He got it. He got what she was saying loud and clear. The way his eyes narrowed and the way his stare pierced through her—she knew he got it.
She squared her shoulders. “I want to do it. I want this nightmare to end once and for all, Ace.”
“Scar, do you really think that with you claiming the inheritance this son of a bitch will stop?”
She shrugged. “Probably not. But at least he won’t be able to ruin any other girl’s life by using my grandmother’s money to fund his sick, twisted endeavors.”
She turned to James. “Set it up. I’ll do it.”
He just nodded, his expression pained. Funny—everyone standing in that office at that moment had some or other form of guilt and their own damn torments.
What a fucked-up bunch they made.
When she spun around and walked out of the office, Hunter followed and grabbed her hand, swinging her back to him.
“Scar, think about this.”
“I have been thinking about this, Ace. I’ve been thinking about this for the last seven years. Don’t you think I knew this day would come, that I would have to face him again?”
He just shook his head and looked down at her hand in his, staring at the cuts on her knuckles. The feel of his thumb gently stroking around the wounds, careful not to touch them, sent chills down her spine. Good chills. Chills that made her entire body feel alive. It felt good. Too good.
She pulled her hand out of his and leaned back. “Even though I hoped I would never have to look into his eyes again, I knew deep down I would have to sooner or later. And that time is now.”
“I’m going with you.”
“No.”
“It’s not up discussion. I made you—”
“Fuck your promise, Ace. Seriously? This is the twenty-first fucking century. Have you not gotten the memo that promises have no merit these days? You don’t have to keep your promise.” Dammit, she didn’t want to cry. Not again—and certainly not in front of him. “Go, Ace. Just leave. You never should have stuck around in the first place.”
Hunter stepped closer, but Scarlet reared back and then stormed off in the other direction, hoping like hell he wouldn’t follow her. She just couldn’t handle it, being that close to him anymore. It was wreaking havoc inside her, making it feel like there was a giant wrecking ball smashing through her chest.
Desperate to get rid of the tears lingering in her eyes, she rubbed at them vigorously while rushing around the corner. Her mind felt like it was spinning out of control, to such an extent that she didn’t even notice Colton coming her way before she walked right into him.
“Whoa, in a hurry much?”
“Shit. Sorry.” If it wasn’t for him grabbing her arms and steadying her, she probably would have skidded across the laminated flooring on her ass. When she looked up, he was staring down at her, still not letting go of her elbows.
There they stood, chest to chest, his hands still on her arms, and he was making no attempt to move away.
When she gently pulled her arms free from his grasp, she gave a step back. “Sorry,” she muttered before walking past him.
“You look like you can use a drink,” he said behind her.
“Several, actually. But I just want to get some fresh air.”
“We’ve got whiskey.”
Scarlet froze. “What kind?”
“The best.”
She slowly turned around. “Which is?”
“Jack Daniel’s, of course.”
Dammit. That was exactly what she needed.
“Urgh, I’m so easy.”
“Who can resist Jack?” He smiled.
“Apparently, not me.”
“Come on, the bar is this way.”
“You have a bar?” Why was someone only telling her this now?
She followed him down the hall, and just below the stairs there was a door leading to a—what do you know?—fully stocked bar.
Scarlet stared at the room that looked almost exactly like a biker bar. The bar counter was right across from the room, with a clear-door fridge stocked with alcohol. A jukebox stood to the left of the bar, and some neon lights hung on the walls alongside signed posters of baseball teams and football players. It even had that real onion ring and pretzel smell to it as well.
“Wow. You have quite the man cave here, Riggs.”
“Yeah, well. With about twenty-odd men living together, we sure as hell need one.” He stepped behind the bar, grabbed the bottle of Jack and two glasses. “And please, call me Colton.”
“I dunno, Riggs has kinda grown on me.” She smiled when he handed her the tumbler filled with manna from heaven. Scarlet took a sip and moaned in appreciation as the alcohol flowed down her throat, giving her that familiar sting as it settled in her stomach.
“God, how I’ve missed Jack.”
Riggs—Colton—shook his head and placed his glass down on the bar. “I guess I should have brought you here earlier.”
“Damn right. You lost a few points, Colton. Boo-hoo for you.”
He held up the bottle of Jack. “I’ll make sure to take this wherever I go, then…you know, to make sure I keep my point score up. Besides, it’s what,” he glanced at the clock on the wall, “just after eleven in the morning. Your dad will probably kick my ass for giving you alcohol this early. Surely that fact alone should score me a shit load of points right there.”
Scarlet liked this guy already. “It sure does. Cheers, Colton Riggs.” She shot down the last bit of whiskey in her glass and placed it back in front of him. “Fill me up.”
He cocked a dark brow at her.
“Hey.” She pushed the glass another inch closer to him. “Do you want more points or not?”
He poured her another round.
“Good boy.”
After handing her a full glass, he took a gulp of his own. “Good workout?” He gestured toward her bruised hands.
“Oh. I guess you could say that.”
He took a seat on the barstool and placed his elbows on the table. “Did it help?”
The way he stared at her made her think he knew exactly what happened.
“Maybe,” she answered hesitantly, and tried to turn the spotlight on him. “What did you say to Hunter after your fight outside yesterday?”
Colton pulled his lips in a straight line after he tossed back the last bit of whiskey in his glass. It was a few seconds before he finally answered, “I told him that if he ever hurt you again…I’d kill him.”
Wow. Okay.
“That’s quite a heavy threat, trying to protect someone you hardly know.”
He just kept staring at her with those chocolaty eyes like he knew something she didn’t—which he probably did. Judging by everything that had gone down the last few weeks, it would be safe to assume there were a lot of secrets going around.
Clearly Colton wasn’t going to say anything, so Scarlet continued. “So, tell me your story.”
“My story?” He reached for the bottle of Jack and refilled both their glasses.
“Yeah. Everyone has a story. God knows you know mine after yesterday. So it’s only fair that I should know yours.”
“Who’s to say I have a story?”
Scarlet snorted. “Oh, come on. You’re, what, twenty-eight?”
“Thirty.”
“Thirty, then. And you’ve been doing this search and rescue gig with my dad for what?”
“Eight years.”
Scarlet lifted her eyebrows to her hairline. “Wow. So you were twenty-two when you started, huh?”
“Wow, you can do math?” He shot her a smug grin.
“Smart-assery isn’t sexy, you know that, right?”
He snickered. “Yes, I was twenty-two when I asked your father for a job.”
“Why?” Scarlet started to turn her glass around and around on the table, happy to be thinking of something else other than her shit-fest of a life.
He shrugged. “I had nothing better to do.”
“Now that’s a bullshit answer.”
Colton got up from his seat and walked over to the jukebox. Throwing in a coin, Scarlet watched as he flipped through the music cards, waiting patiently for him to answer her question. He stretched out his arm, placing his hand on the top of the jukebox, and Scarlet saw the tattoo on his forearm. Hope.
Midnight Oil’s “Beds Are Burning” started to play, and Colton walked back over to the bar.
Scarlet eyed him curiously.
After downing his entire glass, he cringed before turning his attention to her. “So I’m guessing your dad hasn’t told you yet?”
“Told me what?”
“Who I am.”
“Should he have?”
Colton’s brown-eyed gaze remained locked on hers, and it almost felt like he was staring right through her. “When your father gave me a job, you were my first job.”
Scarlet balked. “Me?”
He nodded. “Yup. I had to keep an eye on you. You were sixteen at the time.”
Scarlet placed her glass back down on the bar, afraid she might drop it. “Continue.”
“I was there the day Willow died.”
And then like the fucking big bang, it all came together. “You’re the one who saw it happen? The one my dad talked about yesterday?”
“Yup.” He poured some more whiskey in his glass, filling it to the brim, before looking back at her. “I’m the guy who was supposed to keep an eye on you, yet I never figured out what that scumbag was doing to you.”
Holy shit.
“Are you serious?” Again there was that feeling of having a rope tied around her neck, like she was hanging ten feet from the ground.
Colton nodded. “I am.”
“How long?”
“A few years. But after Willow died, I asked your dad to take me off the job, but he wouldn’t.”
This time, Scarlet reached for the bottle and filled her glass to the brim as well, a few drops spilling down the side. “How long after that?”
“Two more years. I watched you for two more years before I finally convinced your father that I was ready for the big ops.”
Scarlet placed her face in her palms. “Holy shit, Colton.” She looked back up at him. “That’s why you’ve been acting the way you have around me?”
“Yeah. It’s quite ironic that there are three men under one roof carrying a shit load of regret and guilt when it comes to you.”
“Guilt? Why would you feel guilt? Or anything toward me for that matter?”
He placed his finger in his whiskey and twirled it around in the auburn liquid. “Is it not obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“If I had done my job right, if I had kept a close eye on you like I was supposed to, I would have figured out what was happening. I would have been able to stop it.”
Fuck me.
The poor bastard. “It’s not your fault.”
“I know that. But I could have stopped it from going on for so long.”
Without hesitating, Scarlet reached out and placed her hand over his. “Listen. I hardly know you, and you hardly know me. Okay, well, maybe you know me. But the point is, no one is to blame here except Brent. What happened, happened.”
Colton glanced at her hand. “I get it. But still, I wish I could have done more.”
Scarlet removed her hand from his and leaned back. “Something tells me that’s not all there is to your story, is it?” It was written all over his face that this guilt he was supposedly feeling wasn’t all directed at her. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Tell me.”
Colton roughed his hand through his short, dark brown hair, but didn’t answer.
She slanted her head to the side. “Does she have a name?” Guilt and regret always had a name. Katherine. Brent. Willow.
Scarlet studied him closely, then glanced down at his arm. “Hope. Her name is Hope…isn’t it?”
He followed her gaze and looked down at his arm. “You’re very observant.”
She smiled smugly. “Being on the run for seven years, one has to be.”
“I suppose.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes, just sipping away on their whiskey. Even after all they just spoke about, him telling her that he had been watching and following her for years—which for some reason didn’t weird her out at all—the air around them didn’t feel heavy in the slightest. Funny enough, Scarlet felt a little at ease—just a little.
“Who is she to you?” Scarlet stared at the tattoo on his arm.
“My sister.”
“You lost her.” It wasn’t a question.
He bit his lower lip before saying, “And that’s why I’m here.” He threw back one large gulp of whiskey down his throat and got up from his chair. “I’m here to find her.”