Her eyes are pleading, begging, looking for reassurance, and I can’t deny her any longer. I want things back to normal just as much as she does.
Hell, I want more. But I don’t know how to cross that bridge, not yet at least, and definitely not now with how emotional she is.
Smoothing my hands up and down her sides, I say, “Everything is going to be okay, Mayhem.”
She sucks in a shaky breath and asks, “Really?”
I nod. “Really.”
And then she crashes into my arms. Her head to my shoulder, her arms wrapped around me. I grip her even tighter as she sobs into my arms.
“I’m sorry, Lincoln. I really am.”
“You don’t need to apologize, babe.”
“But I—”
“But nothing, Indie. It’s not as big a deal as I made it out to be. I was hurt and lashed out. Everything is going to be okay. I promise.”
We sit like that, in my Jeep, cookies uneaten, her holding on to me, curling into me, using me as a lifeline, while I soak in every second of it. If I know two things, it’s that my mom is a wise woman, and I care so much for this girl, that even if I tried, I wouldn’t be able to stay away for long.
Indie is no doubt in my mind long-term. Someone I’m always going to need in my life, even if it’s only friendship.
Indie: I’m going to throw up.
Lincoln: Why? Where are you?
Indie: In my car, in your driveway, contemplating throwing up in my passenger seat or driving away.
Lincoln: How about neither but instead, you come inside the house?
Indie: Your moms are going to hate me.
Lincoln: Or they will love you. Come knock on the door.
Indie: I can’t move.
Lincoln: You’re going to make me come get you, aren’t you?
Indie: I’m in a fragile state. My parents went to their respective lovers’ for “dessert.” Struggling here, Castle.
Lincoln: Be right there, babe.
I slip on my moccasins, the same present my moms get me every year. I don’t really like them, but I wear them anyway. I don’t have the heart to tell my moms that I’m not a slippers kind of guy. Pretty sure it would break their generous hearts with the number of pairs they’ve bought me. And don’t worry, I have a pair for when I’m home and a pair for when I’m at college. They’ve got me covered.
I open the front door and am blasted by a gust of fall wind, leaves from the ground kicking up and swirling around my feet as I jog toward Indie’s red Mazda. I spot her staring at the steering wheel, still looking a little different than I’m used to—more . . . reserved—and that’s when I see how hard it is for her to be home. And she’s told no one.
Her downcast appearance reminds me of when I first met her. Angry. Over life. But once she was back at school, away from the drama of her parents, she thrived. And I got to know the beautiful and cool girl that she is.
I’m hoping I can bring that girl back.
I open her car door and squat down to her eye level. I hold out my hand and smile at her. She takes it and gets out of the car, but before we walk back to the house, I pull her into a hug and she wraps her arms around me, her head falling to my chest. I cup the back of her head and press a kiss to her smooth hair, which is straight and styled over her shoulders.
When I pull away, I take in her outfit and smile to myself. She dressed up.
Black skinny jeans, a maroon sweater that clings to her tits in all the right ways, gold earrings and black ankle boots.
“You look good, Mayhem. And you smell good, too.” Jokingly I tip her chin. “You get all fancy for me?”
She rolls her eyes. “You wish. This is for your moms.” She leans back into her car, giving me a perfect view of her ass, and she pulls out a pie. “French silk, made it myself.”
“Dressed up and brings dessert. Damn, Mayhem, you might just kill me.”
“Stop it.” She playfully swats my stomach.
Chuckling, I grab her by the shoulders and walk her to my front door. Before we go in the house, I bend down and whisper, “Thanks for coming over.”
She looks up at me, her appreciative gaze heading straight to my heart. “No, Lincoln. Thank you for inviting me. It means more to me than you know.”
“You’re always invited to our home,” I say and press one more kiss to the top of her head because I need the contact. I need her to know that everything’s okay, that we’re working back toward our normal.
I open the door and instantly we’re greeted by moaning and skin slapping.
“Michelle, not on Thanksgiving.”
“I just thought of something and wanted to see if it works.”
“Indie will be here any minute. Turn off the porn.”
Jesus, fuck. Help me.
Through a clenched jaw, I call out through the house. “Indie’s here.”
“Oh my God, Michelle, turn it off.” The sounds grow louder and Indie buries her head in my chest, laughing.
“That’s not the off button. That’s the volume. Stop touching things, you’re making it worse.” The sounds cease, and I hear a collective sigh from both moms, who appear from the den, awkward smiles on their faces.
I turn to Indie and say, “My moms were hired to update a popular porn website. It’s not that they enjoy watching porn on Thanksgiving. It’s not a family tradition or anything like that.”
“Technically, it’s our second porn site,” Mama says, leaning in with her finger pointed to the sky, adding in her correction.
Mom pulls her back and says, “She doesn’t need to know the details.” Smiling brightly, Mom steps forward and takes Indie into a hug. “It’s great to see you again, Indie. You look lovely.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Castle.”
“Call me Laura, and this is my wife, Michelle.”
Mama holds her hand out for a shake, because she’s not much of a hugger, and Indie takes her hand, giving it a gentle shake. “Michelle, it’s very nice to meet you. Congrats on your second porn site job. Must be . . . thrilling.”
“Why, thank you. And yes, it keeps us on our toes, that’s for sure. And I’m pretty sure it’s ruined porn for Lincoln, which is great.”
“Can you not?” I ask, already considering this a bad idea. I hand Indie’s pie to Mom and say, “Indie made us a pie.”
“French silk. Michelle, do you remember the last time we had French silk pie. It was in Cancun . . .” She wiggles her brows and I die a slow death inside.
“Hey,” I snap, grabbing their attention. “What did we talk about? Don’t be perverted wretches with company over.”
Indie laughs next to me and when I look at her, she clamps her hand over her mouth, her eyes full of apology.
“Ah yes, I do recall Lincoln requesting that, but I guess I was too busy staring at your mom’s butt to remember,” Mama says, taking the pie from Mom and walking toward the kitchen. Mom follows her closely behind and I lean against the door, my head pressed to the wood.
“Whatever happens tonight, please don’t hold it against me.”
Indie pats my back. “I can’t make any promises.”
“Who the heck is Cain West?” Mama asks, tossing her cards on the table.