Page 53 of Hideaway Whirlwind
Russell’s been watching me all morning as if wary of what I might be planning. My brother stood stoically by my side during my trial and sentencing when I was one hundred percent guilty of murdering a man. And yet, not at any time did he look at me then as he does now when I take a seat on one of the two folding metal chairs in his office that reeks of coffee and diesel fumes. Russell’s office chair creaks when he sits behind his desk and drums his fingers on a stack of invoices.
We’re in a standoff, staring at each other while waiting for the other to speak first. I’ll win. I’ll always win, and by the set of his square jaw, he knows it too. That’s why he’s so relieved when the door that connects his office to the warehouse swings open and Davis, whom I’ve been studiously avoiding, strides in.
I lunge out of my seat.
“Sit the fudge down, Elliott,” Russell barks, pointing at my chair.
I do, but only because I owe my brother everything. He’s the one who paid for my lawyer and rallied on my behalf for years, pulling every string he could to get me released from prison early, then gave me a job when no one else would consider hiring an ex-con, let alone the County Sheriff’s Office.
“Tell him,” Russell says to Davis.
Feeling caged in between them, I roll my shoulders, hoping they’ll loosen up and cooperate if I need to deck Davis in the face for whatever he’s about to say. A blister along the webbing between my right thumb and index finger pops beneath abandage when I clench my fists.
“It’s about Goldie.” Davis moves stiffly when he takes the metal chair beside me, twisting it around to straddle it backward.
“So, you’re not about to rip me a new asshole?” I ask, not nearly as tense and ready for a fight when Davis takes his navy ball cap off and slides a hand through his floppy hair.
“No. Though you do owe me a new kitchen chair and hinges for the bathroom door.” Davis crosses his arms on top of the seat back, a hint of a grin tugging up the corner of his mouth. “I’d be just as fucked in the head over Goldie if I were in your shoes.” He gets me, even if he doesn’t like it, what with him and his wife stuck in the middle. “But, you’re stressing my woman out. Her sleep has gone to shit because she’s on edge all the time, worrying about you and Teagan, and with Rowan keeping us up at all hours of the night still, I can’t have that.”
Selfish, selfish, selfish. I hadn’t really considered how this would affect Davis’s family. While I don’t give a fuck about stressing the men out, considering they’ve all done the same when they were in the throes of their whirlwinds, the women are off limits.
Davis scratches his scruffy chin, leaving behind a streak of black grease. “So, no more creeping around our house, you hear me?”
“I already told Layla I’d stop,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck, though I haven’t quite figured out how I’ll accomplish that.
Russell gives a low grumble. He’s no doubt been given a play-by-play of our conversation when he came to pick Layla up at my place.
“Fuck you, Russell,” I snap impulsively, regretting theimmature lash-out the second it leaves my mouth.
“Me?” Russell points to himself. “What did I do?”
“Whatever the fuck you wanted,” I say, instead of apologizing like I probably should, leaning forward in my chair with my elbows on my knees. “No one gave you shit for stalking Layla, least of all me.”
“You’re forgetting one very important detail,” he says, though he gives me a nod in acknowledgment of all the ways I’ve helped him, legal and otherwise, my point made.
“And what’s that?” I ask.
“No one knew I was doing it. And when Layla did find out, she thanked me for it,” he says with a small smirk. “Teagan, on the other hand…”
Since I don’t need the men seeing the tears building behind my eyes at the reminder that Birdie hasn’tchosenme, I stand up fast, causing my chair to tip backward before it crashes forward on all four legs. “Break time’s over.”
“One last thing,” Russell says quickly when I swing open the side door. “The welcome party got pushed back to tonight.”
I perk up, turning to look over my shoulder.
Russell pulls the collar of his heather gray T-shirt away from his neck, clearly uncomfortable, and I brace for the pain he’s about to deliver when he says, “Everyone agrees it would be best if you weren’t there.”
“Stick a fucking knife in my back, brother. It’d hurt less,” I say, storming away from his office.
“Elliott!” Russell shouts from behind.
“I’m taking lunch!” I yell without stopping, passing several coworkers who are either gaping or trying to get my attention. I jump off the dock, and in less than two minutes, I’m in my Bronco and speeding out of the employee parking lot.
Since my body can’t take another grueling workout, I bring up my tattoo artist’s phone number. Christian picks up on the third ring, some kind of new country-rock mix playing in the background.
Instead of saying hello, I tell him, “I need to move up my appointment.” I’d scheduled it for a week out from yesterday, but there’s no way I can tolerate the buzzing under my skin for that long without wanting to peel it off with a dull knife. I need the soothing burn of the needle.
“How soon are we talking?” he asks in his deep baritone.
