Page 67 of Eight Second Hearts

“Like hell I am,” I grunt. “I’m not letting you get murdered.”

He grins at me in the dark. “Aww, you don’t want me to get murdered alone. How sweet.”

At some point, we’d both stumbled into his bedroom, exhausted, and fell fast asleep. Beau’s bed is comfortable, his room set up in a way that reminds me of childhood pleasures. The comforter is a King size, clearly handmade quilt, covered with childhood cartoon squares from our childhood. It’s soft and well-loved, but very well taken care of. The walls are covered with posters of different bands, some of them signed by the bands themselves. The shelves are covered in knickknacks, everything from pretty rocks and crystals to action figures to Funko pops. It’s like Beau Rogers surrounds himself with anything that once made him happy. It’d only taken me a few minutes of being in this room to realize that he’d surrounded himself with things he’d never truly gotten to enjoy as a child.

It's part of his healing.

Beau leans over and reaches into the side table, his hand disappearing for a moment before he pulls a massive revolver from inside.

“Holy shit,” I croak.

He grins. “You know what they say about the size of a man’s gun,” he teases with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“No. What do they say?” I ask, forgetting for a moment there’s some serious shit going down.

He blinks. “Oh, just that he’s probably more insane, I guess.” He springs from the bed and lands on the hardwood floor without a sound. He checks the gun quickly, his fingers moving over it expertly to make sure it’s loaded. Apparently, it is.

I climb from the bed and quickly pull on the pajama shorts and tank top I’d discarded on the floor at some point. I pad after Beau, wincing when my feet aren’t nearly as quiet at the rodeo clown. Clearly, his parkour stunts translate to more than just stunts.

We slip down the hall quietly, both listening to the sound of rattling plates and pans coming from the kitchen. I grab a broom leaning against the wall and hold it in front of me like a weapon, mostly because I don’t want to be empty handed. I’m pretty sure a broom won’t do shit against a burglar. The sudden realization that it might not be a person at all but something worse, like a fucking bear, hits me. Oh fuck. We’re in the mountains. There are all kinds of scary shit out here. Did someone lock the door?

Beau glances at my broom in amusement, leading the way with his gun at the ready.

I follow behind him as we close in on the kitchen. Ram’s door is closed tight. I assume he’s a heavy sleeper if he hasn’t woken up yet. Tripp’s door is also closed, and hell, I’d be surprised if he’s even awake after the amount of alcohol he consumed yesterday. We pass the clock, and I realize it’s barely two in the morning. Fuck, it’s super late for bears, right? Bears don’t just come inside and rattle around in the kitchen.

Beau turns to me as we reach the end of the wall and holds up his finger to his lips. I nod, understanding. Whatever is in the kitchen, it’s right behind this wall. He clicks back the hammer on his revolver slowly, the soft clicks echoing around us. Whatever is searching in the kitchen either doesn’t hear it or doesn’t care.

And then Beau steps around the corner, his gun raised, his shoulders tense. I step out after him, the broom stick held out in front of me at the ready, prepared for a bear, a mountain lion, some nefarious asshole?—

I frown and lower the broom. “Tripp?”

Beau sighs and sets the hammer on his revolver after lowering it. We both watch as Tripp opens the cabinets, searches through the contents, and slams it closed when he doesn’t find what he’s searching for. There’s broken glass all over the floor and I wince when I see that Tripp is barefoot as he clamors around. In fact, all he’s wearing is pajama pants. My eyes trace his back as he stands on his tiptoes and reaches into top shelf, running his hands along the plates, knocking them askew.

I’ve seen Tripp’s chest. I’ve seen the small roman numeral tattoo on his hand and the scars that pepper his skin, small scars that aren’t a reason to worry. But somehow, I’ve never seen his naked back like this. Not in all its glory and not for a prolonged amount of time.

I would have remembered the sheer number of scars littering his back. Long lines criss cross over each other, along his spine, his shoulder blades. These aren’t new scars. They’re definitely older, stretched across muscles and marring his pretty skin. They look like. . . surely they’re not from a whip, right? On the back of his left shoulder, a mottled scar draws my attention, the raised lines bubbled up around what looks like the Fairview Acres logo I’d seen on the gate.

What the?—

“Tripp,” Beau says, trying to get his attention. “It’s the middle of the night. What the hell you doin’, man?”

Tripp turns and looks at Beau over his shoulder. “I can’t find it,” he croaks, his voice cracking. “I can’t find it. I can’t. . . I can’t. . .”

“What can’t you find?” I ask, frowning around the room. Pots and pans are scattered across the floor and the counter. There are at least a few plates and glasses that have shattered, leaving little pieces glittering in the low light. Outside the sliding glass doors, the snow is starting to build up against the glass, the snow swirling as the wind howls. We won’t be going anywhere soon.Clearly. Among the glass are little spots of blood, letting me know that Tripp has stepped in the glass. I don’t know how bad his feet are, but we’ve gotta get him taken care of.

Unfortunately for us, he doesn’t seem aware enough to listen to reason.

Tripp climbs onto the counter on his knees and peers into the cabinets, running his hand along the shelf. “I can’t find it. I can’t find the ring. Where is it? Where is it? I left it right here!”

How many drinks had Tripp had? That bottle of whiskey should have worn off by now.

Beau sighs and points to the stack of bottles on the kitchen table. Three liquor bottles. One whiskey, one vodka, one rum. All empty.

“Fuck,” I groan out. “He’s trashed. How is he still standing?”

Beau shrugs. “He’s built up a tolerance over time. I have no doubt he sat at that table and drank for hours before he got to this point.”

“Any idea what he’s looking for?” I ask him.

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