Page 10 of Memories of Us

Rebeka

THE MOMENT I SHOVEDopen the heavy wooden front door, the midafternoon heat smacked my face and stole the breath from my lungs. The stomp of my boot heels vibrated down the stone porch steps as I continued my hasty retreat. At the bottom, I swiped away the traitorous tears rolling down my cheeks.

Remembered me? He couldn't be serious. Did that mean he'd forgotten me at some point?

Wish I'd been lucky enough to forget him these past few years.

I was almost to the makeshift parking lot the event company had sectioned off when someone yelled my name from the direction of the house. I paused to look back, only to turn and pick up the pace.

Hell.

Another glance over my shoulder showed Brenton gaining ground quickly, with Ryder hot on his heels and Kyle steps behind her.

The tips of my fingers grasped the truck door handle, but a set of large hands gripped my shoulders and swiveled me, pushing my back against the scorching metal. The brisk walk and proximity to him had my heart thundering against my ribs and my chest heaving with each labored breath.

“Where in the hell are you going? I told you to stop,” he said, not even breathing hard after his chase.

“Home.” I shifted to turn, but his grip only tightened. “Let go, B. You did it once before. I'm sure it'll be even easier the second time around.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” he gritted out. “What did I do? Who did I leave?”

Mouth gaping, I relaxed a fraction, only to tense again when Kyle shoved Brenton so hard that the tight grip on my shoulders released.

“Get the fuck off her,” Kyle yelled, taking a step toward Brenton with his fists raised.

“Listen, I'm just trying to—”

“What do you mean, 'What did I do'?” I asked, taking a step toward the two fuming men.

Brenton's green eyes cut to mine. “I—fuck! Get the hell off me.” He shoved Kyle, sending him stumbling back several steps.

Attention back on me, Brenton moved closer, eyes searching mine. “It means I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. I don't understand why you're so pissed. Hell, I don't even know why I'm out here right now. All I know is—” He shot an annoyed look at Ryder and Kyle. “Can we have two seconds here?”

The two turned their scowling faces from Brenton to me.

Eyes narrowed, brows furrowed, I scanned Brenton's face, searching for... who the hell knew what I was looking for.

With a resigned sigh, I turned to my best friends. “It's fine. Give us a minute.”

Ryder opened her mouth, but I stopped her with a raised hand. “You pushed me to find closure. I'll get it and come say bye before I leave.” Still neither moved. “I'm serious, guys. I'm fine with him. But if you hear someone scream”—I glanced back to the stone-faced Brenton with a smirk before looking back to Ryder—“then you two have to promise you'll help hide the body.”

Their features relaxed a fraction, and Kyle even huffed a small laugh. Hand in hand, they strolled back toward the main house. Ryder glanced back once to mouth something about shooting him.

“Friends of yours?” His even tone was saturated with sarcasm. He slid his dark blue suit jacket off and tossed it on top of the truck hood. “Damn this heat.”

Well, at least we agreed on one thing.

“Come on.” With a wave, I turned toward Daddy and Bradley's house. As the ranch foreman, Daddy had the largest house of all the live-in help, and it happened to be a short walk from where we stood. It might be awkward, but at least we’d be in the air conditioning while we caught up.

Hell. Caught up. With Brenton fucking Graves.

I'd dreamed of this moment. Fantasized about it. And now that it was here, I had zero ideas on what to say or do.

Neither of us spoke during the short walk, but I watched him take in the expansive property from the corner of my eye. “It’s been a while,” I said as we climbed the rickety wooden steps to the porch. “Does it look the same?”

The screen door screeched and the wooden door jarred open from the shoulder I shoved against it. Once inside, I toed off my boots, leaving them beside the door. The entire time, I felt his eyes on me, even as I tiptoed in socks to the worn leather armchair and relaxed into it.

“You grew up here?” he said, a mix between a question and a statement as he looked around the small, rustic room. After Mom died, Daddy didn't put much effort into decorating. Who was I kidding—he didn't put effort into anything except seeing how fast he could reach the bottom of a bottle. “I remember this place. Well, pieces of it. Why?”

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