Page 97 of Any Means Necessary

“Plane ticket?” His voice is confused, but there’s an undertone of trepidation in his question. “Where are you going? Tell me what’s happening.”

“I need to get back to Oregon.” Sifting through my makeup bags, crumpled receipts and packets of tissues. “Mia called, my sister is in the hospital. She was in an accident.” It’s not here. Why isn’t my wallet here? I take a step back to look around me.

“What’s her condition?” Callum’s question barely registers when my eyes catch on the pink leather peeking out from under the cabinet near the toe-kick.

“Here it is,” I hiss, grabbing the wallet. My fingers are trembling as I unsnap it. When I struggle to pull my credit card loose from its place in the card holder, a strong hand is covering mine to stop me.

“Hey, take a breath and talk to me.”

“Samantha’s car rolled, she’s going into surgery,” I stammer. “I have to get there.”

“You’ll get there.” Callum presses his phone to his ear, stealing my wallet from my hands as he waits for whoever he’s calling to pick up. “I need the plane fuelled and ready to go. How soon can it be ready?”

“What are you doing?”

“Good, get it done.” He ends the call to answer me. “My jet is the fastest way to get there. It’ll be ready in an hour.”

“Give me my wallet back, I need it.”

“No. I’ll give it back once I’m packed.”

“What?”

“I’m coming with you,” he announces.

“No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“It’s my sister, Callum. This is my family business.”

“I know,” he states firmly. “I’m coming with you.” Holding up my wallet tellingly, he backs out of the room to go pack. There’s no going anywhere without my ID and credit cards, he knows that. He’s effectively clipped my wings.

Son of a bitch.

My feet can’t stop moving, the anxiety making me restless. If I stop long enough to sit, then the what ifs start to take over. And I can’t bear the thought of what might be happening with Samantha on the operating table right now. She’s the only family I have, I can’t lose her.

I end up in my bathroom, standing in front of the sink. Looking in the mirror is a mistake, my reflection is pitiful. Disturbing. My face is puffy from crying under the crusty remnants of yesterday’s makeup. Looking at myself, it’s a wonder I didn’t feel as gross as I look.

Turning on the sink, I cup my hands to splash my face with water. The cold liquid feels refreshing against my skin. As each thought about what’s happening comes, both with my sister and with Callum, it’s forced out of my head. I focus solely on my task as I scrub the last twenty four hours from my skin.

“There you are.” Callum’s deep voice sounds as he steps into the doorway. “I thought you’d left for a minute there.”

“I can’t go anywhere, you made sure of that,” I reply flatly, my words heavy with meaning. Reaching for a towel, I pat the moisture from my face before letting it drop back on the counter. My hands are on autopilot carrying out the next few steps of my skincare regimen. Keeping my eyes averted, I turn around to leave the room. But he’s right there, standing in my way.

He’s alway right fucking there.

“You need to eat something.” Callum’s tone is firm. I try to step around him, refusing to meet his eyes. But he’s following my movements, his giant frame blocking my path. I can practically feel his eyes on me, burning a hole into the top of my head.

“Leave me alone. I’m not hungry.” Lifting my eyes, my gaze lands to focus on the top button of his dress shirt. I don’t have it in me to look at his face right now.

“You haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon,” he points out. Of course he knows that, leave it to Callum to track my eating habits even when I’m furious with him.

Control freak.

“I said I’m not hungry. You don’t get to control everything about me,” I snap, the frustration in my voice more than obvious. When I move to turn away, he catches me. One of his large hands clasps my shoulder, the other lifting my chin until I’m forced to look up and meet his eyes. Callum’s expression is one of unwavering determination.

“You’re angry at me, I get that. You’re allowed to be.” His gaze drills into me. “But what’s not allowed is for you to stop taking care of yourself because you’re upset.” The message hits home, landing heavily in my chest. It’s exactly what my therapist would say— “you can’t pour from an empty cup.” This tends to be a pattern when I’m emotional about something. Self isolation and restriction—it’s how I self sabotage.

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