Madison interrupts us when she calls out, “Nash, Zeke has hurt himself and Velvet wants your help.”
“Shit,” Nash mutters. “That kid is gonna break all his bones one day.”
He leaves me alone with my thoughts. Thoughts of a woman I don’t want anywhere in my head.
I have to get out of here, and I’ve almost achieved that goal when I near the kitchen and hear Zara’s raised voice. Slowing down, I make out Lily’s raised voice also. They’re arguing over an abortion. I have no interest in other people’s business, so I keep on walking. I’m only a couple of steps past the office when Zara flies out, pushes past me in a rush of wild energy and runs down the hallway towards the front door.
Lily runs out after her, coming to a halt when she spots me. Her eyes meet mine, full of panic. “Oh God.” Tears stream down her face. “Can you please go after her, Fury? Make sure she doesn’t get in her car. I don’t want her driving in this state.”
Going after Zara is the last thing I want to do. Not because I don’t care about her getting behind the wheel or about her being upset, but because I don’t want to put myself at risk of doing something stupid. However, I can’t find it in me to say no to Lily, so I nod and do as she’s asked.
A couple of minutes later, I find Zara sitting in her car sobbing. Her head jerks up when I open the passenger door and get in. She doesn’t say anything, though. She just stares at me while her tears keep falling.
Black mascara streaks down her face.
Her nose has turned red.
Her eyes are puffy.
And she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
“Pass me the keys,” I say, holding out my hand.
She frowns. “Why?”
“Because you’re not driving anywhere while you’re like this.”
“And who made you the boss of me?”
“Your mother.”
I expect another snappy reply, but instead, she drops her head to the steering wheel and cries harder.
Fuck.
I’m out of my depth here, but Lily has always been good to me, so the least I can do is help her when she needs it. And by the looks of Zara, she really fucking needs it now.
Resting my head back against the seat, I settle in for the long haul. In my experience, when a woman is crying like Zara is, she needs some time to get herself together.
Not even thirty seconds has passed when she lifts her head and looks at me. “You heard our argument?”
I meet her gaze. “Some of it.”
“How much?”
“Not a lot.”
She wipes her face, but it doesn’t achieve much because her tears haven’t dried up. “Are you always so fucking evasive? Tell me what you heard.”
I don’t let her eyes go. “It doesn’t matter what I heard. That shit stays with me, and it has nothing to do with me.”
Reaching for her bag that’s sitting in the console between us, she madly rummages through it for something while muttering words that don’t make much sense to me due to how fast she utters them. Pulling out a tissue, she blows her nose. It reminds me of the way my grandfather used to blow his. Loud as fuck. The noise fills the car, snotty as hell.
Halfway through, she stops and says, “So what you’re saying is you heard us arguing over my abortion?” She blows her nose some more before stopping again and demanding, “Yes?”
There’s something really fucking wrong here. I’m sitting in a car I don’t want to be sitting in with a woman balling her eyes out, blowing the shit out of her nose, and questioning the fuck out of
me over shit I don’t care about. I should be itching to get out of here, but I’m not.