Page 25 of Seein’ Red

Fuck it…

Enough sitting around on my hands. That’s not who I am. I am not the kind of guy who waits around on a chick to answer his booty call.

Turning the key in the ignition, I slip my truck into gear, then stop. Leaving isn’t the answer.

This is Willa. She might hate my fucking guts most days, but she also has no problem telling me that. Or telling me where to go. The only time she doesn’t respond is if she’s in a meeting. And on a Sunday afternoon, fresh off her best friend’s bachelorette party, I know for damn sure she’s not in a meeting.

I put my truck back in park, killing the engine and climbing out. I hit lock on the fob, letting the horn blare out, the obnoxious sound echoing off the old brick wall of the building. If anyone is around to hear it, I doubt they’ll think twice about where it’s coming from. At this time of day, the town busybodies are usually preoccupied with Sunday dinner, rather than snooping, and I’m mentally crossing my fingers today is no different as I scale the stairs two at a time up to Willa’s apartment.

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the heavy ring of keys, grab hold of the sparkly pink one that goes to Willa’s door, letting the rest of them jangle as they reshuffle. For the umpteenth time I think about reorganizing them, putting the keys in some kind of system that makes sense, rather than just a chronological order. Between my ranch house I share with Noel, our parents’ farmhouse, the nursery, keys to Willa’s, Dustin’s, Kenzie’s, Sylvie’s old cottage that Bronwyn now lives in, and the vet clinic, there has got to be a better way.

I don’t bother knocking as I unlock and open the door, stepping inside. I start to call out, but before I can say anything, an unmistakable sound greets me.

Vomiting.

What the fu…

I rush inside, letting the door slam behind me, almost tripping over Willa’s overnight bag in the process. The damn thing is sitting in the middle of the kitchen like she dropped it and ran as soon as she walked in the door—which given the retching sound filling the apartment, might be exactly what she did. I pick it up, carrying it over to her bedroom, chucking it inside, then turn to the bathroom.

A flush of the toilet rings out, and I stand there and watch as Willa rises to her feet. She's moving slowly, head hung in a way that even from behind I can tell means she’s not feeling one hundred percent. My stomach flips, worry seeping through me. I should say something. Let her know I’m here rather than stand here like a creeper. But the only thing I can do is watch.

Turning on the water, she starts to brush her teeth, much the same way she did the other night after sex. This time, though, that heavenly just fucked glow is gone, in its place something tense and heavy. Something I want to take away. Something I want to fix.

Need to fix.

Finishing up, she spins around, still not looking up as she shuffles into her room.

“Wills.”

Shrieking, Willa jumps backward, hand flying over her heart. I reach out to grab her, but she swats me away.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“You didn’t respond to my text.”

“So you just let yourself in?”

Pretty much…

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She spits out the word like it has a bad taste, her face contorting to match.

“Liar. I saw you.”

“I don’t know what you think you saw, Nash, but you’re wrong.”

I step close to her, trying to pull her into me, but she takes another step back. Yeah, something is very, very wrong.

“So you weren’t just hunched over the toilet, sharing the contents of your stomach?” She glares at me, but remains silent, her own concession to the facts. “Breakfast not sitting well?”

“I’m fine.”

“That doesn’t look like fine to me.”

“Fuck off!”

Storming past me, Willa growls, hastily picking up her overnight bag from the floor. The tension in the room grows as she starts to unpack, scurrying around me as if I wasn’t even in the room. I’ve seen Willa mad before—plenty, actually. It’s a regular state of being for her when it comes to me. But this is different.