“Milo––”
“Not the time, Reese. If you don’t want me to kick the shit out of your boyfriend, then I suggest you back up.”
“Milo, I’m sorry––”
“Too late for apologies.” He digs into the back pocket of his jeans, then tosses 4x6 pieces of paper along the floor. As they scatter across the ground, I recognize them and cover my mouth in shock.
“W-where did you get these?”
“You lied to me,” he seethes.
“Answer the question, Milo. Where did you get these? Were you in my room?”
Scoffing, he shakes his head in disgust. “Why the hell would I go into your room? I trusted you, remember?”
“Then where did they come from?”
His lips pull into a thin line as he debates whether or not he should deem my question worthy of a response. After a few seconds, he grits out, “Someone dropped them off at work.”
“Who?” I plead. “Who dropped them off?”
“I don’t know.” Sensing my anxiety, his shoulders deflate, and he releases his hold on River’s collar while the blood continues to soak his shirt. “They left them with the new receptionist.”
Gibson flanks my side, staring at the pictures littered along the floor before muttering, “Were these in your room last night, Reese?”
“Y-yeah,” I stutter, my fear choking me.
“What’s going on?” Milo demands. Apparently, my panic is enough to distract him from the fact that I’ve been sleeping with one of his friends. For now, anyway. Ripping off his stained shirt, River presses it to his face to mop up a bit of the blood flowing freely from his broken nose. He looks terrible, and I close the distance between us to take a closer look.
“A-are you okay?” My guilt battles my fear until I can’t focus on anything at all.
“Answer the question, Reese,” Milo orders, his patience close to snapping a second time.
I squeeze my eyes shut and force out, “Someone broke into my room last night, stole those pictures, and delivered them to you.”
“Ian,” he surmises. It doesn’t take long for him to come to the same conclusion I did.
“Yeah.”
“How does he know where you live?”
“It’s complicated,” I tell him.
“Explain it to me.”
“His friend, Rocky, moved out here a few months ago and happened to be my Uber driver. Small world, right?” I add sarcastically. My laugh is almost a sob.
“Too fuckin’ small.” Rubbing his hand across his face, Milo releases a deep breath but doesn’t say anything. He’s still reeling like the rest of us. But at least for the moment, he’s not trying to kill River.
Jake clears his throat from the entrance of River’s room, silently witnessing the entire blow-up and aftermath. Gritting his teeth, he looks around the room before his gaze lands on his best friend. “We need to go to the cops.”
“Milo hates cops,” I return. “You know that.”
“Yeah, well, do you have any better ideas? This guy is stalking you, Reese. He’s officially broken into your room. What if you’d been home? What if––”
“Stop,” Milo growls, lifting his swollen hand to shut him up. “Jake’s right. We gotta go to the cops.”
“And what are they going to do?” I whisper, hating the way my voice trembles with fear. Growing up, the cops were called on more than one occasion to stop by our house for domestic disturbances. And even though they could see we weren’t being taken care of, they left us there. With shitty parents and no food and all of the responsibility on a little boy’s shoulders to take care of his baby sister and put up with a couple of abusive drunks.
But I guess I should be grateful. I’ve heard the horror stories about foster care. At least I got to stay with my brother. Still, it doesn’t help our trust issues with law enforcement, and now, we’re expected to report a stalker?
That sounds promising.
“They’re gonna help us keep you safe. Come on. Let’s get going. You”––Milo points at River with a deathly glare––“Stay here. We don’t need you.”
“What?” I interject. “Milo, you’re being––”
“What am I being, Reese? Huh? Ridiculous? Petty? Callous?”
“Milo––”
“I’m trying to protect you from getting hurt again by another selfish asshole who’s using you,” he sneers. “But you sure as hell aren’t making it easy on me.”
My heart cracks at the look in his eyes. The disappointment. Disgust. And lack of trust. Folding my arms, I make myself small and let the tears flow freely from my eyes.
“I’m sorry,” I mouth, my voice unable to make it past the lump of regret in my throat.
Without a word, Milo storms out of the room, and I’m left staring at his back before he disappears from view.
“What are we supposed to do?” I whisper to no one in particular. I’ve ruined everything.
“He’s allowed to be pissed,” Gibson mutters. “But we have more important things to deal with right now. Come on. Let’s get in the car.”
With a deep sigh, Jake rubs his face roughly. “I’ll talk to him, but Sonny’s right. One shitstorm at a time. Let’s go.”
39
Reese
After three hours at the police station, we walk away with a little piece of paper and the promise that they’ll call me as soon as they locate Ian and notify him of the restraining order.
Good luck with that.
But at least it’s done, and I can focus on the next giant mess that needs to be cleaned up. River. Milo. And me.
I release a shuddered breath and fold my arms.
“How you doin’?” River asks as we walk through the parking lot. Gibson is texting on his phone, and Milo and Jake are hanging back a few feet, talking in low voices, though I have no idea what the subject is. And I don’t really care, either.
All I want is a few minutes with my boyfriend to make sure he’s okay. To make sure that I didn’t ruin everything. That I didn’t ruin us. The thought of losing him after the shitstorm this morning… It’s unbearable. And his silence hasn’t exactly been helping my nerves.
He’s been quiet since this morning. But the bruising around his eyes combined with the swollen bridge of his nose is a sharp reminder that things are a little rocky right now.
Little is a bit of an understatement.
“I’m okay.” I sigh and glance over at him. “How are you? You look like crap.”
He laughs before wincing in pain. “Gee. Thanks. Are you sure you still wanna date me when I look like this?”
“You could look like Cookie Monster, and I’d still want to date you,” I tease. “And you didn’t answer my question. How are you feeling?”
His fingers brush along the bridge of his nose before he cringes and drops his hand to his side. “I’m fine.”
“Liar.”
“I’m fine, Reese,” he repeats.
From the corner of my eye, I examine his injuries. Milo has quite the right hook. At least Gibson was able to set River’s broken nose before we left for the police station. I’m just surprised the cops didn’t question his swollen face when we came and told them about Ian breaking into our house.