Seth doesn’t know what to expect when he sees her. It terrifies him. Because what if she’s hurt bad? Really bad.
Christ.
He ain’t so sure he can handle that. Not because he doesn’t want to deal, but because when Lacey hurts, he hurts for her.
He damn near called her a hundred times to say thank you for that night, but he always chickened out, he always told himself next time. And now regret washes over him at a missed chance.
Seth takes a sharp corner, finds the room and enters.
The air rushes out of him.
“Fuck.”
The sight of Lacey in the hospital bed hits him like a crowbar to the chest. All he can do is stare at the tubes and wires curling around her arm. Her eyes are closed, her typically sun-kissed face pale and bruised. Her long blond hair lays lank and tangled around her shoulders. She looks so helpless, her defenses down, and suddenly Seth wishes for the sight of the girl he knows. Lacey, haughty, nostrils flaring, her mouth on a tear, ready to rip him a new one.
The only other time he had seen her look this fragile, this vulnerable, was when Sal went missing.
It was the first time they slept together. But not the last.
Seth braces a hand on the wall, bracing himself against the memory.
Bursts of images cycle through his brain. The motel room in Florida. Red wine at the bar. A lot of goddamn red wine. Lacey coming to him later, half-dressed, a little buzzed, a lot crying. I need you, Seth, she whispered. The first time she had ever said it that way. A plaintive plea. A desperate entreaty. He should have said no. She was Sal’s sister for Christsakes. But she looked so helpless, so distraught that he couldn’t. And then she opened her mouth, spread her legs and Seth turned into one weak son of a bitch. The moment her lips hit his, he couldn’t stop her. Didn’t try.
The next morning, Lacey was on a plane back to Los Angeles. Four months later, she was calling him, demanding he tell Luke to declare Sal dead. He didn’t understand her then. But he does now. He gets Lacey. Too much.
It scares the fuck out of him.
Clearing his mind, Seth takes a step inside the room and slings his duffel bag on a corner chair. He hisses a breath as it bangs against the wall.
Smooth move, dumbass.
Slowly, Lacey stirs. Her green eyes flutter open, land on him.
His chest expands.
He gives her a grin. “Hey, princess.”
Her voice comes soft, confused. “Seth?” Then, eyes clearing, as if she remembers where she is and what’s happened and why the hell is Seth Kincaid in Los Angeles, she jolts upright, cords yanking, tangling around her as she thrashes. “What—what are you doing here?”
Before Seth can react, she tears the IV from her hand with a sickening slurp.
He rushes across the room. “Jesus, easy,” he says, grabbing her trembling hand and cupping it between his to stop the bleeding. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.”
“Too late,” she shoots back, still on her best banter game, even with drugs and sleep coursing through her system.
That’s when it hits him. He scared her. Of fucking course he did. He’s a man who came tiptoeing into her room after she was mugged. Goddamn idiot.
“Hold still,” he says softly, taking her hand. Gently, he works at untangling the cords wrapped around her wrist.
Her gaze skims over him, a frown on her face. “What are you doing here, Seth? Don’t you have a hay bale to go roll?”
He lets the comment slide.
“I’m here because Sal asked me to come,” he says, helping her settle back against the pillows. Resisting the urge to keep her hand in his. “To make sure you’re okay.”
Even as he says it, he feels like a fucking fraud. Hell, he’s here because he wants to be here, not because Sal asked him. Because he cares. Because he can’t stand the thought of her alone for even a damn second.
Still, the lie’s well practiced, well lived in after all this time. A reminder. He doesn’t care. He can’t. She’s Sal’s sister.