Page 7 of When You're Gone
Fielding rolled his eyes, sunk his final two balls to win the game, and cocked his head toward the stairs. “Come on,” he urged. “Let’s give Dem some privacy and go see what that loudmouth wants.”
They emerged from the basement and found Anwar standing over the stove, shoveling food into his mouth. He had already changed out of his valet polo and khakis and looked freshly showered. His jet-black hair was still wet, and he smelled of expensive cologne.
“There you are!” he exclaimed when he spotted her. “What kind of magic did you put in these?” he demanded through a mouthful of food. He walked toward the living room—party central—and made a beeline for an empty couch.
He swallowed before speaking again. “Those were literally the best things I’ve put in my mouth in weeks.” He plopped down onto the couch cushion and pulled her down beside him, then turned his head and winked. He knew damn well the innuendo he had just thrown down. And they both knew Fielding wasn’t going to stand for it.
“Don’t be an asshat,” Fielding huffed, as expected, reaching behind her to shove Anwar’s head to the side. “You don’t get to make sex jokes about sandwiches. You know how fucking lucky we are that Tori cooks for us and puts up with your shit?”
They had both been drinking, so her reaction time was a little slower than normal, but Tori reached out and placed her hand on Fielding’s arm once she picked up on his agitation.
“Easy,” she whispered, running her fingertips up his forearm to grasp him by the elbow. “He’s just teasing. I know that.”
“Yeah, man,” Anwar defended. “The sandwiches were delicious. I meant it as a compliment.”
Fielding grumbled something unintelligible as he settled back against the couch.
She let herself sink into the cushion behind him and used his arm as a headrest. There was something so easy about party nights at the Valet House. Even though she knew she was probably a little too old for this scene, it felt like she was reclaiming a part of her youth that she’d never felt free enough to claim. Most of her teen years and her early twenties had been spent worrying, abstaining, trying to outrun a fate she knew was bound to catch her eventually. But she didn’t need to do that anymore. Of course, she didn’t want or need to drink in excess—especially given her husband’s struggles with alcohol over the last year—but there was no longer this nagging fear that made every decision feel like it could bethedecision that toppled her health over the edge and earned her an official cancer diagnosis.
She squeezed Fielding’s arm once before sitting up and looking around for the other guys. She smiled each and every time she spotted a valet boy. Dempsey hadn’t come upstairs yet, but she knew he’d be in the thick of it soon enough. Dem was often her confidant by the end of the night; he usually refrained from drinking, especially on nights after he worked at The Oak and was already exhausted. She didn’t have any siblings, but she had to assume this was what it was like to grow up with brothers.
A song by the Weeknd started up, loud enough that she could feel the vibrations of the bass through the hardwood floor below her feet. A group of girls who were glammed up like they were going to the club squealed and ran toward the other end of the room where Teddy was playing DJ with his laptop.
“Come on, Victoria Thompson. I’ve got moves you’ve never seen. Let’s dance.” Anwar was suddenly standing before her, reaching down to grasp her hands and pull her to her feet. He held her tightly around the wrists and jerked her up in one fluid pull.
Tori didn’t have time to react before her body was in motion. Either she was lighter than Anwar expected, she was drunker than she realized, or both. Instead of just standing up, she fell forward into him. He tried to stabilize her by bracing her against his torso.
The pain of her new boobs being pressed back into her chest cavity sent a shot of white fire through her nervous system. She saw bursts of light in her vision as she jerked away from the pain and cried out, stumbling backward like a caged animal, desperate to put distance between them. She retreated to the couch, taking a knee on the cushions as she tucked her arms gingerly across her chest.
The searing pain blossomed from a sharp, shooting sensation to a deep, throbbing ache. Everything hurt. And it just kept hurting. Her surgery had been more than ten weeks ago, and she’d had the drains out for a solid two months. That stumble probably wasn’t enough to cause any permanent damage or affect her healing, but her nerves were still lighting up like fireworks as she tried not to panic.
“You stupid fucker!” Fielding roared as he launched himself at Anwar. “You hurt her!”
The room had gone quiet. Had someone turned the music off, or was her hearing starting to waver? That wasn’t a good sign. Her hearing was usually the first thing to fade before she passed out. Her whole body was shaking. Tears pricked behind her eyes, the combination of pain and embarrassment colliding inside her and inspiring an audible cry. She tried to suck in a deep breath, but the inhalation turned into a gasp as another wave of pain jolted through her chest.
Fielding was by her side in an instant. “Where does it hurt?” he demanded.
“I don’t know. Everywhere. I—I don’t know…” She didn’t mean to sound so melodramatic—the words just tumbled out of her mouth as she tried to gasp for another breath of air.
She watched, helpless, as Fielding’s fury bubbled over. He lunged at Anwar in a fit of rage, then sucker punched him in the stomach before retreating back to her side and placing an impossibly gentle hand on her back.
“I’m not done with you!” he sneered at Anwar, pointing a finger for emphasis before turning back and gently cupping her face in his hand. The way he went from fierce predator to gentle caregiver was nothing less than shocking.
“Listen to me,” he crooned softly, his words only intended for her. “I’ve got to get you out of here. Can you walk?”
It should have been a silly question, but now that he mentioned it, she wasn’t sure. She rose up from the couch to test her balance. Her legs held steady, but her whole body was still quaking with adrenaline from the impact.
“Hey. It’s okay. You’re okay,” he whispered, reaching for her hand.
She let him guide her through the main level of the house. He kept their joined hands close to his side so she wouldn’t bump into anything or anyone else, murmuring little assurances back to her with each step. He led her to the main staircase, then tilted his chin, indicating she should go first.
She took the stairs slowly, methodically, the pain in her chest still present, but more of a deep ache now that the initial shock had subsided. She paused at the top of the landing. She’d only been upstairs in the Valet House a handful of times when the downstairs bathroom was occupied.
“On the right,” Fielding instructed, his hand finding the small of her back. With his other hand, he reached in front of her to open his bedroom door, then he gently grasped her by the shoulders and ushered her inside. He led her over to his bed and dropped his hold before sliding down onto the floor. He kneeled before her and stayed quiet as he searched her face.
She could feel the frenetic energy rolling off him in waves. He was so pissed right now—so upset on her behalf. But he was burying it. His expression was flat, his face serene. If she didn’t know him so well, she’d think he didn’t have a care in the world.
Perched on the edge of his king-size mattress, she resisted the urge to wrap her arms around her knees or bury her head to calm herself down. She so desperately wanted to curl up and banish all the pain, real and imagined, that was trying to take root inside her.
