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“Your mom promised me half of that money. And I’ll be damned if I don’t get what I’ve earned.”
Earned? He’s in on it? There’s actual money? But she said it was supposed to be a surprise, so how does Jett know—
Everything goes black. There’s only pain. Searing pain.
10
“Iappreciate it,” I tell Blake as we drive to New Orleans.
“Yep.” She’s pissed. Pissed that Jett was gone by the time she found me on the floor. Pissed that I made her promise not to call the cops. Pissed that I wouldn't go to the hospital. And probably pissed that she’s too loyal of a friend to not honor my request. But I've lived this sscenario out before. I witnessed it multiple times growing up. Getting knocked out means nothing other than a potential concussion. And even for that, the doctors won't do anything but ask questions. Questions I don't want to answer. Because again, nobody can do anything to actually stop it.
It's ridiculous the amount of proof you have to have and hoops you have to jump through in order to get a restraining order. And that's what it would take to ensure it never happened again. Because pressing charges aren't enough. It only pisses the other party off more and you're left being at more of a risk because of it. So instead, I'm choosing to move on. Hope that Jett got his frustration out and that it's the last I see of him. Blake may not like it or agree with it, but she loves me enough to go along with it.
She even helped me get ready for tonight, gently caking makeup onto my blue cheekbone. I know she doesn’t understand why I didn’t call the cops, but she never will. She didn’t grow up knowing that the cops only make things worse. They only make your abuser more mad. And rarely do they actually do anything about it other than write down what happened and file it away.
As we pull up to the restaurant, the excitement I’ve been having during the drive heightens. It’s barely been over a week since I saw Colt, and there is no guarantee I’ll be seeing him tonight, but the chance still has my heart pounding out of my chest. I’m just hoping the bruise on my cheek is well hidden.
When we get inside, the hostess looks us over like we don’t belong. We definitely don’t, but she should still have better manners. She’s unfortunately feeding the stereotype that pretty girls are mean girls. Her long honey locks and perfectly plump lips aren’t exactly hard to look at. With a tiny waist and long legs, I feel a little self conscious of our contradicting body types. That doesn’t excuse her attitude, though. Money is going to get spent, regardless.
Sitting down at the table, my eyes roam around the room. My nerves are on fire as I wait to see if Colt shows up or not.
“I know who you’re looking for.” Blake’s face is smug.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. This place is gorgeous. I’m just taking it in,” I say while looking down at my napkin to keep my gaze steady.
“Sure,” she says, drawing out the word. I know she knows, but I'll be damned if I admit it.
I am drawn to the front of the restaurant as Tyson enters with his tall frame and demanding presence. All eyes are on him and his knowing smile oozes confidence. Blake moans. She can’t stand her brother being the center of attention, or maybe it’s his cocky attitude from all the attention she doesn’t like. Though it’s probably both. After absorbing all the praise, Tyson strides towards our table.
“Holy hot-pants,” Blake whispers to me, but I don’t respond. All words have left my brain and I’m nothing but mush. Stalking towards me in well-fitted jeans, square-toed boots, and an open green flannel, is Colt Gibson.
His hair is disheveled in the most delicious way, and the smirk gracing his lips sends molten lava down my spine. Heads turn as he walks my way, but he doesn’t notice. His eyes are on me and me alone.
“Hey Little Bird.” Tyson flashes his million-dollar smile as he takes his seat. “You're looking extra beautiful tonight.”
“Hey Ty.” I’m still having a tough time finding my thoughts.
“Hey shithead,” he shoots at Blake, who rolls her eyes. They really do love each other, even though their actions rarely show it.
My eyes falter, looking up at Colt when he makes it to the table. “Libby,” is all he says. Him saying my name in his sultry voice has my insides stirring, and I can’t look away. Colt doesn’t either. His focus shifts from my eyes to my cheek and back again. He sees the bruise. His jaw clenches and he looks like he’s about to say something, but Blake interrupts the moment.
“There’s no way you two goliaths are going to fit next to each other in a booth.” She slides out of her seat and swivels around the table to sit next to her brother. I sat down first when we got here, wanting to be next to the wall — being tucked away helps keep my anxiety quiet. Blake sat next to me to avoid sitting next to her brother, but she seems too eager to give up her spot now.
Colt slides in next to me, his thigh brushing mine and sending electricity through my body. With him this close, I can smell his familiar scent. Mint, vanilla, tobacco. My mouth waters and I take a sip of my drink to regain my thoughts.
“So, how are my two of my favorite girls on this fine evening?” Tyson’s upbeat personality commands the table.
“Do not loop me in with all your flavors of the week,” Blake snaps at him. Something is clearly irritating her tonight.
“What the fuck? Who said I was? That’s disgusting, B.” Tyson’s face twists.
“Two of your favorite girls? Who else is your favorite? Tramp one through seven?” Colt stifles a laugh and my cheeks warm at her bluntness that isn't even geared towards me.
Tyson plants his palm on the table and straightens his arms as if he’s bracing against the blow. “Shit, Blake. What is your problem tonight?”
“Nothing.” About that time, her phone lights up with a call from Mom. Blake silences the notification and folds her arms, looking away from all of us.
“Alright, killjoy. I’m so glad you drove all the way out here just to give me attitude.” He genuinely looks irritated, which isn’t a common occurrence for him. “How about you, Libby? Are you in a better mood than Debbie over here?”
