Page 35 of On the Wild Side

With his jaw set grimly, he urges me into my seat and speaks into the radio at his shoulder, calling for more help.

“He didn’t leave?” he asks me.

“Not that I saw.”

“You hang tight here.” He hurries away, pulling out his phone, and I give into the tears. The fear.

The memories.

CHAPTER SEVEN

BRADY

“You need a new suit for the party,” Millie says, leaning against the counter at her coffee shop, her arms crossed over her chest as she looks me up and down, as if she’s examining me. “You’ve worn the hell out of the one you have. It’s time for something new and fashionable.”

“It’s a black fucking suit.” I scowl at her. “I can buy a new tie. Maybe a new hat.”

“No.” She shakes her head, reminding me why my baby sister drives me bananas. “Newsuit.I’m serious, this party is important, and you have a date. Abbi deserves to have her date look extra hot.”

“Who areyougoing with?” I counter, and she scowls.

“I don’t need a date,” she replies, lifting her chin. “I complete myself.”

“You should write a book about that.” I shake my head when she scowls at me. “Donotthrow something at me. Anyway, this party is in four days. I can’t buy a custom suit in four fucking days.”

“It doesn’t have to be custom, fancy pants. Go across the street and buy something off the rack.”

“You know, this would have been good to know a couple of days ago.”

“You know,” she counters, “you’re a complainer.”

“I amnot.” My phone rings, and I answer when I see Chase’s name. “Yo.”

“Get up to the resort,” he says, his voice hard and brisk. “Abbi needs younow.Condos, near the restaurant.”

“Is she hurt?”

“Get here,” he says and hangs up, and I stare at Millie for two seconds before running out of the coffee shop and to my 4Runner, my heart pounding, as I drive a couple of miles up a winding road to the resort near the chairlifts.

I can’t get there fast enough. Did she get hurt on the job? I know she’s working more in the field this week. God, did she fall?

I come around a corner and spot Abbi’s SUV, so I park next to it and see that she’s in the driver’s seat, crying.

“Fuck.” Within seconds, I open her door and am squatting next to her, brushing her hair off of her cheek. “Hey, sweetheart. Deep breath.”

She’s not just crying. She’s having a panic attack. Her eyes are round and bright, her hands clenched on the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles are stark white. She hasn’t even acknowledged that I’m here. I don’t think she realizes that I’m right next to her.

“Come on, beautiful. Breathe with me.”

She finally glances my way, and her face crumples.

And I see the huge bruise across her cheekbone and her eye. Rage fills me, spreading through me like fucking wildfire, but my hand is gentle as I brush my thumb over her chin.

“Hold…your…”—she gulps—“fingers…up.”

I frown, but I do as she asks, spreading my fingers and holding my hand up, like a child telling someone their age.

And she systematically blows on each finger, then reaches up and tucks it down to my palm.

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