Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 90315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90315 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 452(@200wpm)___ 361(@250wpm)___ 301(@300wpm)
“Gid—”
“You know, I love you,” I tell her, pulling away from her. I’m so frustrated with her. What the fuck does she think she just proved? “And you’ve been with me through a lot of shit. I don’t know where you ever got it in that head of yours that what happened to my leg was Lena’s fault. I never said or implied that.”
“You were protecting her, and—”
“Yeah. I was protecting her. She didn’t fire that gun. She didn’t do anything except have the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But the thing that disappoints me the most is, I’ve never heard you speak like that to anyone. Never. You invited us over here so you could put her in her place and bully the fuck out of her, but all you did was piss me off.”
“Gid—”
Shaking my head, I ignore Ryker and run back to the house. The ATV is sitting by the back door, and I expect to find Lena upset in her bedroom.
Instead, I find her vacuuming the living room.
And she’s singing at the top of her lungs.
Badly.
Chapter Seven
Lena
As I sing a Shakira song, I wiggle my own hips and push the vacuum out and then back to me, belting out the lyrics with all my might. When I’m frustrated, I either sketch or play the piano or clean.
And I’m a whole lot of frustrated right now. But all I can do is clean.
Did Gideon know that I’d be walking into that mess? No. He immediately tensed up, the way he does when he senses a threat, and stood in front of me. He told her to stop.
He didn’t know.
What a lovely welcome to the ranch.
I guess I’ll be staying close to home and keeping to myself while I’m here. Aiden seemed nice enough, but if everyone here hates me, I’ll hide away.
It doesn’t bother me.
I’ve done it before.
“I won’t deny . . .” I turn and then come up short and let out a little squeal when I see Gideon standing at the edge of the living room, his arms crossed, showing off bulging biceps that I’m quite sure are illegal in all fifty states.
And if they’re not, I’m sure my mom could sign an executive order if I asked her.
Gideon says something, but I can’t hear him over the vacuum, so I shut it off and lift an eyebrow.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
“I asked if you’re okay.”
Shrugging a shoulder, I grab the feather duster I found in the closet with the vacuum and start wiggling it over surfaces.
“I’m fine, Gideon. A whole lot of people don’t like me. If I cried every time they threw it in my face, I’d have some sort of eye disorder. But if it’s all the same to you, I’ll remove myself from that situation and make myself something different for breakfast.”
Willow doesn’t just dislike me. She hates me. She was breathing fire at me, and if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under.
“But did you tell them that it was my fault?” I can’t help the question that falls out of my mouth, and then I instantly regret it. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
“I didn’t tell them anything,” he replies. “Because it’s all classified. So no, Blackbird, I didn’t tell them that it was your fault. Besides, it wasn’t your fault.”
Except, it was.
It absolutely was my fault, and it’s my biggest regret. My worst nightmare, one that I relive over and over again.
“It really doesn’t matter. It’s over. You’re fine. It was a long time ago.” I swallow hard because now the tears want to come.
“Gideon!”
“Go with Richie! Get the fuck out of here, Lena!”
Christ, I’ll never forget the helplessness, the despair. The panic. The fear. And how the rain fell so hard, in sheets, soaking us all to the bone and making Gideon’s blood run faster.
I whimper and then slap my hand over my mouth and play it off as a cough.
“Something in my throat.”
“Lena . . .”
“You should have stayed for the food. It smelled good.” Do not cry. Do not cry. “I’m just going to clean a bit, if that’s okay? Maybe later I’ll take a nap.”
That’s a lie. I won’t nap because I’ll dream, and that can’t happen today.
“You don’t have to clean my house.”
“I know.” My voice sounds so cheerfully fake that Gideon’s eyes narrow. “It’s all good—I like it. I can’t sketch, and I can’t play the piano, and I can’t listen to music because I don’t have access to any electronics—”
“Fuck.”
“—so I’ll clean. I can’t cook, though. Never got the hang of it, and the chef at the White House always chased me off. I’d order in, but I don’t think DoorDash is a thing in the boonies, and we swing back to the no-electronics thing. Otherwise, I’d put a pot roast in the oven or something, but it would burn and then your house would stink, and no one wants that.”