I don’t want to see him at all. That’s why I’ve spent all day in my room. Since he walked out of here yesterday, I’ve wanted to stay as far away from him as possible.
“Especially like what?” I ask, ignoring his hand as he tries to help me off the curb.
I’m not ninety. I can step off a damn curb without help.
“He’s drunk off his ass, belligerent as hell, and a little violent right now.”
For a fleeting second, I worry it’s about me, but for some reason, I know it’s not. This is something much, much bigger than me. Especially considering he never really let me in enough to cause this sort of meltdown. He walked away, after all.
No. This is behind the barrier—the place Rye won’t let me see.
I thought I had learned all there was to know about him, which was foolish. You don’t learn a lifetime of things in a couple of months. But I didn’t know how little I actually knew about him. Yesterday, I realized I didn’t know him at all.
Ethan is standing in the living room when we barge in, and Rye is on the couch, blood pouring from his hand.
“Shit,” I growl, dropping to my knees beside the couch and examining his much-too-deep wound. “Grab a towel and keys. He needs stitches.”
“We can’t take him to the ER like this. I know a nurse,” Wren says with a grimace and heavy hesitation. “Maybe I can talk her into coming.”
He walks away, and Ethan rushes over to me with a towel. Rye groans and mutters something completely unintelligible, and I start applying pressure, doing all I can to limit the amount of blood he’s losing.
“Someone want to tell me what the hell is going on?” I ask, looking up at Ethan since Wren is still missing from the room.
Ethan frowns as Rye reaches over and tries to grab at me. He’s so drunk that he only misses and falls back to the couch.
“I’d tell you, but I’d rather not end up looking like his Porsche.”
Poor Porsche. That thing just needs to give up.
“Why is he beating up his Porsche?”
“Because he’s beating up everything right now. Trophies, baseballs, baseball cards... the list goes on and on. Then he went outside, and the next thing I know, he has a crowbar and he’s taking his frustration out on the pretty Porsche. But he sliced his hand on the glass.”
I start to speak, but Wren returns, putting his phone away as he frowns.
“She’s coming, but she won’t be very nice.”
“I don’t care if she’s nice. I care if he stops bleeding,” I grumble, but suddenly a hand is in my hair and pulling at me.
“Brin,” Rye whispers, and a piece of my heart melts.
I hate him, I remind myself.
He keeps pulling, to the point it’s almost painful, and I’m forced to rise up to go with him, keeping a strong grip on the towel and the wound.
“What?” I ask, hoping he’ll let me go, but he keeps pulling until I’m forced to fall on the sofa with him, my body resting on top of his.
“Someone want to help me?” I hiss. Rye’s lips find my cheek, and I curse as he keeps his uninjured hand tangled in my hair.
“I’m not messing with him while he’s like this. I took a shot to the face last year. He won’t hurt you,” Wren says, taking a step back.
“He’d hurt me if I tried pulling you away,” Ethan retorts, stifling a grin when Rye tries to bring up his wounded hand to hold me still.
I stop fighting him just so that he keeps his arm still. Great. This is not how I envisioned our next encounter. I wanted to be inflicting pain—not healing it.
For twenty minutes, Rye cups my ass with his good hand, kissing my neck the whole time, and I fight a battle of misery while keeping his wounded hand elevated and still.
“You’re back,” he says, trailing his lips down to my chest.