Page 17 of Bring Me Back
We pass a few men who seem to be walking theperimeter of the grounds, and I wonder what rabbit hole I fell down to land in this place. I knew Beckett was wealthy. He holds himself like a man of means, one who is restrained but commands attention. He’s the most intelligent man I know. Although I’m not sure what he actually does to have attained wealth like this, I’m not sure I really want to know now. Everything about this feels like something out of the mafia romance novels I love reading.
Somehow, in reality, it seems more intimidating than sexy. I know Beck would never hurt me. Nor would he ever do anything that purposely put me in harm’s way. Which is such a drastic difference compared to what I’m used to in a man. I can’t actually remember a time when Cooper was ever truly concerned with protecting me, or Jaxon for that matter. Beck pulls his Mustang into the garage to the left of the main house. It looks big enough to hold at least half a dozen cars. As the doors rolled up to let him in, I got my first look at his collection. I knew he was a vintage car guy. My dad was a grease monkey from the time he was a teenager, so I can spot a car guy from a mile away. There’s a maroon 69’ Chevelle on the far right, a 67’ Mercury Cougar in pieces next to it, a gorgeous deep purple 73’ Pontiac Firebird Trans Am next to that. Hell, there must be at least half a million dollars in vintage cars in here.
“Shut the fuck up,” Jaxon says, his voice excited but barely louder than a whisper.
“Jax, language.” I say, rolling my eyes as I park my shitty car outside of the garage.
“Mom, look! That’s a 69’ Camaro ZL1! That’s my fucking dream car!” He’s practically bouncing in the seat, his eyes wide, a mix of pure joy, anticipation, and wonder painted across his perfect face. He looks like a toddler on Christmas morning just staring in awe at the jet black beauty parked in Beckett’s garage.
“The last time one of those cars came up for auction, it sold for over a million dollars, Mom. Who the fuck is Beckett, and why have I never touched that car?” he says, shoving his backpack into the backseat and jumping out the passenger door.
“Do not touch that car, Jaxon Reid! I’m serious!” I shout after him, slamming my hand into the shifter to get my car to stay in park.
“Listen to your mother, Jax. You get your fingerprints on that car, I’ll have to kick your ass,” Beck smirks, watching my son fanboy over his cars.
“Where the hell are we, Beck?” I ask, finally unfolding my body from my car and slinging my backpack over my shoulder.
“Welcome to Blackthorn Estate. Don’t judge me over the name, it was already established when I bought the property,” he says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his dark jeans.
“You bought the property? This is where you live?” I ask, my voice edging on shrill.
“That’s usually what people do when they buy properties, they live there.” He says, shrugging slightly. Fucking smartass. I swear if I didn’t know better, I would believe he really was Jaxon’s dad.
“How…but if…when…” my mind struggles to catch up with my mouth. “You’re rich. Not just well-off or wealthy. You’rerichrich.”
“I live comfortably,” he replies, and I roll my eyes.
“Oh, shut the hell up. You’re loaded! How could you not have told me this? I mean…we’ve known each other for years, Beck! How did I not know you live in a fucking lakeside gothic mansion, with a garage full of cars worth over a million dollars, and security like you’re hiding Taylor Swift in there?!?” I’m sure I look like a total nutcase, yelling and waving my hands around like I’m trying to land a plane.
“Honestly, you didn’t ask. I would’ve told you anything you wanted to know,” his deep voice sweeps across my skin as he steps closer to me.
I jerk back, his words hurting more than if he’d slapped me across the face. He’s right. I’ve been friends with this man for years, and I don’t think I’ve ever asked him any personal questions on purpose. He’s shared pieces of himself with me out of necessity, or in response to my crisis. But I can’t remember a single instance where I actually showed interest in his life. I am a terrible fucking friend. How selfish can you possibly be to rely on someone so intensely to be there every timeyou need them, but never reciprocate? I don’t deserve a friend like Beckett. I was dealt a shitty hand, there’s no denying that. But that’s no excuse to ignore the fact that this man has given everything he could to me and to my son without being asked. And what have I given in return? Maybe Cooper was right about one thing. I’m a taker. But the selfish, needy part of me won’t let Beck go now. I need him too much. His calming energy, his steadfast protective nature. I’m not sure I would be able to even leave my house without knowing he’s always there.
“You’re right. I’m sorry, Beck. I might be the worst friend in the world, honestly. I don’t even really know what you do outside of keeping the books for the shop and occasionally flying a chopper. I’m so sorry,” I say, tears burning my eyes. I feel like day after day, my emotions continue to overwhelm me, stealing pieces of my sanity. At any moment, I know it’s gonna snap.
“Don’t be sorry. I’m a private man, Willow. Keeping shit to myself is what I’m comfortable with. I’ve never felt like you were selfish in this friendship. When we met, I knew exactly what I was getting into. I’m glad I’ve been able to give you at least some of the things you’ve needed over the years. I’ll take any part of you I can get. I know that may sound a little pathetic, but I really don’t care. You are exactly what I want. If I have to wait, then I’ll wait. If this friendship is all I can ever have with you, that’s more than enough for me.” He gives me hissignature crooked smirk, and the walls I’ve worked so hard to reinforce around my heart disintegrate.
He loves me. Not just as a friend, but in a deeply, madly, truly in love with me kind of way.
If I’m honest with myself, I know he’s loved me quietly for years. Beck is selfless, and so is his love. He is the hand that has reached for mine in some of my darkest moments, not to be noticed or praised for his willingness to help me, but simply to hold me steady.
I feel his unconditional devotion in the way he wants to see my happiness, even if it means never really having his own. I see it in the way he shows up over and over a hundred times with no need for recognition, just a desire to ease my burden. He shows me, not with grand romantic gestures like most men use, but in the way he always remembers my coffee order, in the way he never looks away when I speak, like whatever I’m saying is gospel and he’s just here to worship.
Since the day my parents died, I’ve built walls so high, layered with self-preservation and distance. I’ve buried myself in motherhood and put my own wants and needs as far on the back burner as possible. Somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that love was equivalent to loss and getting close to anyone only brought pain and suffering.
Suddenly, I realize I’ve been looking at him a little too long. His hazel eyes flare with desire, and I know he can hear every thought I’m trying to keep trapped insidemy mind. My voice catches in my throat, not from hesitation, but from the weight of what I’m finally ready to feel. It’s not dramatic, not some earth-shattering, planet aligning, drastic change in the tides. It’s not loud. It’s just honest.
“I’m so tired of pretending I don’t feel it,” I breathe, emotion gripping my heart and squeezing. And just like that, I surrender. It feels like the softest, most beautiful collapse. I step towards him, no longer feeling the need to guard myself. I want to let him see me, the real me.
His hand comes up, grazing across my jawline and threading into my hair as he pulls me closer, resting his forehead against mine. My breath comes in shallow pants. I’ve never been this close to him, at least not emotionally, but it’s completely intoxicating. His grip is commanding, but not in the forceful way I had always experienced before, but in the possessive way that says I am his and there’s no question about it. He kisses my forehead, breathing me in as I brace myself against his chest.
“You don’t have to be tired anymore, pretty girl.” His words hold so much weight. I do everything I can to push down the tears stinging my eyes.
“Ummm…not to interrupt this beautiful moment, but I’d really love to go back to bed,” Jaxon clears his throat, grabbing his bag from the car and walking towards the door I assume leads into the main house. “This way? Yeah, I’m sure it’s this way. I’ll find the couch. Carry on, folks. Watch where you put those hands, Beckett. That’s my mother you’re touching.”
I scoff, my smartass son, giving Beckett the fakest disapproving look he can manage before disappearing through the door.
“Excuse him, I must’ve dropped him on his head one too many times as a baby.” I roll my eyes, straightening up and putting some distance between us again.
