Page 108 of Over the Line

“You drove on those roads?” Another wail that has me sighing, leaning back against the wall. “That’s so dangerous. My baby…”

I slowly sink down to the floor, head coming to my knees, and sigh as I let her ramble on about avalanches and dangerous tree limbs and downed powerlines and my well-being.

While not actually asking about my well-being.

Because that’s not her way.

She just keeps going and continues dropping the mantle of her emotions onto my shoulders, and I keep sitting there, accepting it, accepting the drama and hormones and her drawing on my emotional well until it’s empty.

Accepting that this is reality.

Knowing that what I told the guys about wanting to keep Nova was insanity. Or orgasms talking. Or gangrene from the tiny demon’s bite.

Yeah, I like Nova.

She’s a cool chick.

She’s a great lay.

But that’s all it’ll be.

That’s all it willeverbe.

Forty-One

Nova

The hall had grown silent,and I don’t know if I should stay in the bedroom, give Lake his privacy, or if I should go find him and make sure he’s okay.

Maybe make him a mule and present it as a peace offering? A balm for an otherwise shitty day?

Steve whines from the bathroom, but I don’t let him out, just pull on my clothes, quietly pad to the bedroom door, and peek out into the hall.

My gut clenches.

Lake is sitting there, head on his knees, phone a couple of inches away from his ear, not saying anything even though I can hear the faint din of the voice on the other end.

I move closer, settle at his side.

He stiffens, but doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge me.

This is my first clue—unfortunately, I don’t pay attention to it.

His voice startles me when it finally comes several minutes later, the shrill voice on the other end of the call showing no sign of calming. “I know you’re concerned—”

But he doesn’t get the full sentence out before the voice increases in volume.

I can’t make out much aside from noise—and maybe a“My baby!”—but Lake seems to be hearing just fine because he just sighs again, settling in, though this time it’s by lifting his head and plunking it back against the wall behind him.

His lids are closed.

His hair’s a mess.

His jaw is tense—along with his shoulders and torso, his legs, even his fingers have formed taut fists, and his toes are curled tightly in his socks.

I nibble at my bottom lip, debating.

But…he asked me to stay.

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