Page 172 of Beautifully Reckless

Tilting my face to the sky, I let the rain mix with my tears, the clash of hot and cold a strange kind of comfort.

Over the past five weeks, I’ve gotten to know the men Ringo left behind to watch over me and Jols. Brody is surprisingly kind-hearted, at least when he’s not thinking with his dick. Since being stuck here, he’s clearly on a brutal dry spell, and I can tell as each day passes, it’s wearing him down. But still, he’s kept his distance, never once propositioning me or Jols.

Alana and Millie are a different story.

Not that they’ve taken him up on his suggestive offers, but I kinda think they enjoy the attention.

Stoner takes his security role very seriously since Jared and Dee managed to get past the measures he had in place. He sleeps less than anyone here, always out patrolling, and when he’s on a break, he rarely relaxes.

Mule is a different kind of guy. He’s ex-army apparently. Just like JD. Or so Jols tells me. He keeps to himself, but he’s become my constant shadow.

He sleeps outside my door at night. He’s always lingering just off to the side when I leave my room. And when I go for a walk through the bushland on the property, he follows. Silent. Steady. A shadow that never breaks formation.

Mule doesn’t say much, but a couple of times, when I’ve broken down during my walks, he’s handed me a tissue, always saying the same quiet words.

“It won’t be for much longer.”

I often wonder if he knows something I don’t.

Tucker is an older guy. Not very fast on his feet, and takes a lot of naps, but, every day at four in the afternoon, without fail, he picks a handful of flowers and carries them to the porch. His smile is always big as he waves through the window to Doreen, before he lays them gently on the decking, only to retreat back to the barn.

Another loud rumble of thunder rolls through the angry clouds above, and a sudden flash tears across the sky, lighting up the Jacaranda tree before me.

“Your daddy is a good man,” I tell the gravestone, my voice barely a whisper as I wonder what colour eyes Hope would’ve had. “He’s fiercely protective. I wish he’d gotten to hold you whenyou cried… fed you, rocked you to sleep in his arms. I know he would have loved that,” I say to a little girl that isn’t here, more tears spilling down my cheeks.

“I’m sorry you didn’t get to enjoy him. But I promise to love him the way he deserves.” A sob escapes me and I crumple forward, begging the gravestone as if it has the ability to grant wishes. “Please, just bring him back to me.”

Even though Ringo and I talk on the phone every night, over the last two weeks, a bad feeling has settled in my gut. It’s heavy and cold, like something is coming for me and I can’t stop it.

I fear Ringo won’t return to me, and not because of another woman or stupid jealousy, but because I fear he’s going to die. Orsomeone’sgoing to die.

I don’t know how to explain it, and no matter how hard I try to brush it off, the gnawing feeling digs in deeper, crippling me night after night the moment the sun dips below the horizon.

Another flash rips across the sky, followed by a loud clap that makes me jump, and I second guess my need to cry out in the rain like this.

Pushing up from the wet grass, I turn and hurry up the small hill, frowning at how long the thunder rumbles for. Until I realise, it’s not thunder at all.

It’s a motorcycle. Or two.

My heart flips, and my feet take over, carrying me up the hill in a frantic rush.

I can hear Mule somewhere behind me, his boots pounding the earth as he tries to catch up, but as the roar of the engine cuts off, a strangled sob escapes me.

Ringo.

I need to get to Ringo.

Hookingmy hands under my belly, desperately trying to lift it so I can run faster, I clear the top of the hill bursting through the mouth of the vines, my eyes catching on a familiar silhouette in the glare of the floodlights.

“Ringo!” I scream a little too dramatically, but I don’t give a damn right now, because he’s here. He’s finally here!

His looming shadow stiffens, his head snapping in my direction, and a second later, he tosses his helmet down in the mud, his boots already pounding towards me.

“Angel!” he roars over another clap of thunder. “What are you doing out here?”

I can’t answer, my sobs are too wild as I nearly slip on the soaked grass.

Mule catches me before I hit the ground, lifting me like I weigh nothing. Even in his arms, my legs don’t stop trying to race towards Ringo the whole time.

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