Until We Fly
Page 37
I don’t bother with a glass. I simply take the bottle and start to walk outside, when my phone buzzes on the counter.
Dread fills me, instantly and completely.
Which will it be? My father or my uncle?
I force myself to look, only to find William’s name.
You f**ked up. So did your boyfriend.
Startled, I stare at the words. So did your boyfriend. What did Brand do?
I grab my phone and the bottle of wine, and head outside for some air. I walk down to the beach, dropping into the sand, not worried about the fact that I don’t have underwear on and sand will get into all of my business.
It doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters.
The words on my phone threaten to burn my hand, so I drop the wretched phone and take a swig of wine. Directly from the bottle. My mother would be so proud.
I take another.
Then another.
Then, when the liquid courage has begun circling through my veins, I pick the phone back up.
What do you mean?
I don’t even have time to put the phone back down before there’s an answer.
You should’ve known not to f**k with me.
Chills run down my spine. I didn’t f**k with him. I do know better.
I can’t breathe.
He’s threatening Brand.
I stare at the words again and they run together and I can’t breathe.
So instead, I drink because I don’t know what else to do. I won’t know what he intends to do until William actually does it, so all I can do is wait.
Wait for the other shoe to fall.
I sit in Brand’s shirt in the sand, smelling his scent on my skin and drinking wine as I stare at the stars.
Before long, after most of the bottle is gone, my nose goes numb and my fingertips get cold.
I take the last drink left in the bottle, then cast it aside.
I don’t know when I fall asleep.
All I know is that the sand feels ever so good against my cheek.
Chapter Eighteen
Brand
I wake up in the middle of the night alone, although it doesn’t take long to find Nora.
She’d left the front door wide open. Her car is still in the drive, so I wander down to the beach.
That’s where I find her passed out in the sand. She’s wearing my tuxedo shirt, and an empty bottle of wine is about a foot away from her, resting in the dirt.
She’s had a hard night.
Obviously.
I ignore the twinges in my leg and bend, scooping her up and carrying her back into the house. Each step is torturous with the added weight on my knee, but there’s no way I’m leaving her outside.
She nestled into my chest without waking, and I find that one side of her face is covered in sand. As are her arms and legs.
With a sigh, I carry her into the bathroom. I bend and lay her in the tub, and remove the hand-held sprayer before I turn the water on. I let it get warm in the sink, before I pick it back up and rinse off her legs, her feet, her arms.
She doesn’t stir until I’m wiping her face off with a washcloth.
She wakes with a start, her hands automatically flying up to shield her face.
“No!” she protests wildly, her eyes glazed, striking out at me, clenching her hands into fists, blows raining onto my chest.
“It’s just me,” I grab her hands, restraining her. “Shhh. It’s ok. It’s only me.”
She flails for just a moment longer before her eyes register who I am and she breathes my name. “Brand.”
She doesn’t question why she’s na**d in the bathtub or why I’m bathing her. She doesn’t say anything, actually. She just lets me wash the dirt away.
When I’m finished, I ask her to stand up and she does it obediently.
I towel her off. She’s so drunk, she’s only hovering on the edge of consciousness. I know that the second she’s in bed, she’ll pass out once again.
Her eyes are still closed as she stands.
But then, as I pull the towel away, she opens them.
“Why don’t you want me, Brand?”
I yank my hands away from her in surprise.
“What?”
Her eyes are bleary, her voice soft and slurred.
“You don’t want me anymore. Although I don’t know that you ever really did.” She raises her arms and I help her out of the tub. She wobbles, then clings to me to steady herself.
“Is it because I’m so used?”
My gut clenches at the vulnerable sound of her voice, at her words, at the soft and sad expression in her eyes. Even though she’s drunk, maybe especially because she’s drunk, she’s a wide-open book.
“You’re not used,” I tell her firmly, as I pick her up back up in my arms. My knee protests, but I ignore it as I limp down the hall to the bedroom. “You’re not used.”
She rests her head against me, her arms slung around my neck.
“I am,” she whispers. “But I never wanted to be.”
I don’t bother putting a nightgown on her, instead, I carry her to bed naked. I nestle her into the sheets and sit on the side of the bed, resting my throbbing knee.
I thought she was going to pass out right away, but she opens her eyes again.
“Will you stay with me?”
I nod. “I’ll be right here.”
Her eyes flutter closed, her lashes a black fringe against her pale cheeks.
She’s so vulnerable, so soft and fragile. I can’t imagine anyone hurting her. I can’t imagine anyone rejecting her for things that happened out of her control.
“I do want you,” I whisper to her, my hand on hers. “I do.”
But she’s sleeping now, passed out and oblivious to the world’s ugliness and troubles. Her breathing is light and steady.
But I know there’s no way I’m going back to sleep.
Instead, I grab my laptop and I sit in the chair by the window. I promised her I would stay and so I will.
I punch the name into the search engine and read the multitude of articles that are returned.
William Shepard Greene II.
The oldest son of William Shepard Greene I, older brother of Maxwell. Heir to half of the Greene fortune when their father passed. He’s lauded highly in the business world, known for his keen instinct and sharp dealings.
He’s older than Maxwell by ten years. He’s sixty-two.
The mere idea of his hands on Nora turn my stomach and I glance at her again. She sleeps softly, curled onto her side, her hands by her face. She sighs in her sleep and my gut tightens again.
Dread fills me, instantly and completely.
Which will it be? My father or my uncle?
I force myself to look, only to find William’s name.
You f**ked up. So did your boyfriend.
Startled, I stare at the words. So did your boyfriend. What did Brand do?
I grab my phone and the bottle of wine, and head outside for some air. I walk down to the beach, dropping into the sand, not worried about the fact that I don’t have underwear on and sand will get into all of my business.
It doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters.
The words on my phone threaten to burn my hand, so I drop the wretched phone and take a swig of wine. Directly from the bottle. My mother would be so proud.
I take another.
Then another.
Then, when the liquid courage has begun circling through my veins, I pick the phone back up.
What do you mean?
I don’t even have time to put the phone back down before there’s an answer.
You should’ve known not to f**k with me.
Chills run down my spine. I didn’t f**k with him. I do know better.
I can’t breathe.
He’s threatening Brand.
I stare at the words again and they run together and I can’t breathe.
So instead, I drink because I don’t know what else to do. I won’t know what he intends to do until William actually does it, so all I can do is wait.
Wait for the other shoe to fall.
I sit in Brand’s shirt in the sand, smelling his scent on my skin and drinking wine as I stare at the stars.
Before long, after most of the bottle is gone, my nose goes numb and my fingertips get cold.
I take the last drink left in the bottle, then cast it aside.
I don’t know when I fall asleep.
All I know is that the sand feels ever so good against my cheek.
Chapter Eighteen
Brand
I wake up in the middle of the night alone, although it doesn’t take long to find Nora.
She’d left the front door wide open. Her car is still in the drive, so I wander down to the beach.
That’s where I find her passed out in the sand. She’s wearing my tuxedo shirt, and an empty bottle of wine is about a foot away from her, resting in the dirt.
She’s had a hard night.
Obviously.
I ignore the twinges in my leg and bend, scooping her up and carrying her back into the house. Each step is torturous with the added weight on my knee, but there’s no way I’m leaving her outside.
She nestled into my chest without waking, and I find that one side of her face is covered in sand. As are her arms and legs.
With a sigh, I carry her into the bathroom. I bend and lay her in the tub, and remove the hand-held sprayer before I turn the water on. I let it get warm in the sink, before I pick it back up and rinse off her legs, her feet, her arms.
She doesn’t stir until I’m wiping her face off with a washcloth.
She wakes with a start, her hands automatically flying up to shield her face.
“No!” she protests wildly, her eyes glazed, striking out at me, clenching her hands into fists, blows raining onto my chest.
“It’s just me,” I grab her hands, restraining her. “Shhh. It’s ok. It’s only me.”
She flails for just a moment longer before her eyes register who I am and she breathes my name. “Brand.”
She doesn’t question why she’s na**d in the bathtub or why I’m bathing her. She doesn’t say anything, actually. She just lets me wash the dirt away.
When I’m finished, I ask her to stand up and she does it obediently.
I towel her off. She’s so drunk, she’s only hovering on the edge of consciousness. I know that the second she’s in bed, she’ll pass out once again.
Her eyes are still closed as she stands.
But then, as I pull the towel away, she opens them.
“Why don’t you want me, Brand?”
I yank my hands away from her in surprise.
“What?”
Her eyes are bleary, her voice soft and slurred.
“You don’t want me anymore. Although I don’t know that you ever really did.” She raises her arms and I help her out of the tub. She wobbles, then clings to me to steady herself.
“Is it because I’m so used?”
My gut clenches at the vulnerable sound of her voice, at her words, at the soft and sad expression in her eyes. Even though she’s drunk, maybe especially because she’s drunk, she’s a wide-open book.
“You’re not used,” I tell her firmly, as I pick her up back up in my arms. My knee protests, but I ignore it as I limp down the hall to the bedroom. “You’re not used.”
She rests her head against me, her arms slung around my neck.
“I am,” she whispers. “But I never wanted to be.”
I don’t bother putting a nightgown on her, instead, I carry her to bed naked. I nestle her into the sheets and sit on the side of the bed, resting my throbbing knee.
I thought she was going to pass out right away, but she opens her eyes again.
“Will you stay with me?”
I nod. “I’ll be right here.”
Her eyes flutter closed, her lashes a black fringe against her pale cheeks.
She’s so vulnerable, so soft and fragile. I can’t imagine anyone hurting her. I can’t imagine anyone rejecting her for things that happened out of her control.
“I do want you,” I whisper to her, my hand on hers. “I do.”
But she’s sleeping now, passed out and oblivious to the world’s ugliness and troubles. Her breathing is light and steady.
But I know there’s no way I’m going back to sleep.
Instead, I grab my laptop and I sit in the chair by the window. I promised her I would stay and so I will.
I punch the name into the search engine and read the multitude of articles that are returned.
William Shepard Greene II.
The oldest son of William Shepard Greene I, older brother of Maxwell. Heir to half of the Greene fortune when their father passed. He’s lauded highly in the business world, known for his keen instinct and sharp dealings.
He’s older than Maxwell by ten years. He’s sixty-two.
The mere idea of his hands on Nora turn my stomach and I glance at her again. She sleeps softly, curled onto her side, her hands by her face. She sighs in her sleep and my gut tightens again.
