Page 89 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
The silence after that is worse.
Sean’s eyes darken, flicking toward Wesley, then back to me. Huck’s jaw flexes, like he’s holding back words. They’re having a secret conversation I’m not privy to, and I don’t like it.
I shake my head hard, desperate, the memory of David rocking Eli to sleep, braiding Maeve’s hair on a movie set, telling me once he wanted to give them a childhood better than his or mine. I cling to those memories when things get bad with him. I always have.
“He didn’t push Eli,” I whisper, shaking. “Maeve’s confused. She’s angry, she just got her first period, her hormones are all over the place—she’s not a reliable witness.”
Wesley’s face twists, disbelief plain. “You really think she’d make that up?”
“She’s a child,” I argue. “She’s hurting, and she’s upset for Eli. She’s looking for someone to blame.”
Huck leans forward, voice steady but edged. “Bailey, you can’t ignore this.”
“I’m not ignoring anything…” I squeeze my eyes shut. My chest heaves like I’m drowning. I can’t reconcile it. I can’t make the man who read them bedtime stories into the same man who would shove his son down a staircase. It’s not possible. “I need space. I need to think.”
“Bailey,” Sean says, stepping toward me.
“No.” I shake my head, backing up fast, my pulse thundering. “I have an appointment. I need to go. Don’t follow me.”
Wesley curses under his breath. Huck mutters something sharp and low. Sean just stands there, his gaze burning into me.
“I mean it,” I tell them, and then I turn and walk out.
The walls feel like they’re closing in as I storm down the hall. My purse is on the hook by the door. I grab it, but the strap slips through my shaking hands twice before I manage to get it over my shoulder. My keys bite into my palm, sharp and cold.
Behind me, their voices follow.
“Bailey—” Wesley’s tone is sharp, pleading.
“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” Sean calls, steadier but heavy with command.
“Stay put,” Huck growls. “You’re not walking out like this.”
Panic urges me to obey. To let them handle things. Let them take over. Let them fuck me until the panic fades.
But this crosses a fucking line.
I spin around, clutching the keys tighter. “I said I need space. I can’t breathe with you all crowding me, arguing, planning a goddamned murder—” My throat burns. “I need to think.Alone.”
Sean steps out into the hall, closing the distance until he’s only a step away. His voice drops lower, calm but immovable. “Then let one of us drive you.”
“No.” I shake my head hard. “This meeting—it’s mine. You can’t come, and I can’t take you. I need to be alone, anyway. I’ll be fine.”
“You won’t,” Wesley snaps, moving up behind him, eyes blazing. “Not with him out there. Not with what’s happened.”
“Trust me to know what I can handle.”
The silence is suffocating. Sean studies me with eyes that never waver. Wesley looks like he’s about to combust. Huck leans against the doorway, massive and unmoving.
Finally, Sean exhales slow. “At least let me check the car. He hired a bomber, Bailey. Even with my people out there, it’s smart to let me check your car.”
I hesitate. The memory of Huck bleeding on the marble floor and my couch flashes through me. The bomb tucked under my stairs. My stomach churns.
“Fine,” I whisper.
The garage smells faintly of motor oil and lemon cleaner, the big space too bright under the fluorescents. My SUV waits in the corner, sleek and safe-looking, but my chest tightens anyway.
There could be a bomb. In my car. Or on it, I guess. Why is my life more dramatic than the roles I’m offered?
