Page 60 of Claiming Ours (Anchor Bay #2)

Pushing off the side of the building, I followed her, Langston keeping up despite me not saying a word.

That brief glimpse of the woman’s face was all I needed.

It was one I recognized yet didn’t. Bethany used to be full of life and joy.

It showed on her round, cheerful face that always wore a smile.

The woman who’d just stepped out of the hotel exuded bitterness, her too-thin face marked with deep wrinkles and thin lips that were tugged into what looked to be a permanent frown.

But there was enough resemblance that I knew she was my high school best friend’s mom.

“Where is she going?” Langston asked beside me, his voice low. “The docks are in the opposite direction.”

“I don’t know,” I murmured.

We didn’t have to wait long. After rounding the corner of a restaurant, Bethany ducked into a shady-looking liquor store, coming out a few minutes later with a brown bag tucked under her arm.

Stepping into an alley between buildings, she twisted off the cap of whatever was inside and tipped it back.

Wiping her lips with the sleeve of her coat, she screwed the lid back on and turned.

I knew the moment she recognized me. It took a few seconds, brows pulled in tight as she studied my face as if trying to piece together how she knew me. But when it all came together, a sneer pulled at her thin lips and pure hate overtook her face as a single finger came out, pointing at me.

“You,” she hissed, taking a step toward me. It was only then that I noticed her staggering.

“She’s drunk,” I said under my breath to Langston. “We need to call the cops, or this will escalate, and we’ll be the ones going to jail.”

He nodded, pulling out his cell without taking his eyes off the approaching woman. “Not sure what I expected, but not this. She just looks… destroyed. Keep her occupied while I get the cops here.”

Right. Occupied. Like I fucking knew how to do that.

“Hey, Bethany,” I said, shoving both hands into the front pockets of my jeans, hoping that would make her feel less threatened.

“Don’t you fucking speak to me,” she screamed, drawing the attention of others hustling along the dirty downtown streets. “You don’t get to talk to me. I know what you and that whore are doing behind Dean’s back.”

I swallowed hard, hoping that would help me keep my cool, but hearing her say that about Baylee made it difficult to not lash out. Only reminding myself that she was just sick and needed help kept me from screaming in her face.

“Look at you,” she seethed, giving me a slow once-over in disgust. “You look like the fucking addict you are. Why are you here? Such a pathetic excuse for a son, who made your parents spend their whole life savings to pull you out of the gutter, fucking another man’s—a good man’s—future bitch of a wife. ”

Her frail hand came up, and I knew what would happen, but I still didn’t block the hit. Her palm connected with the side of my face, the sound echoing along the street and in my head. I slowly turned my face back to her, gritting my teeth and keeping both fisted hands tucked into my pockets.

“You two don’t deserve to live. He did. He was good, and all you are is a fucking pathetic addict who will end up right back on the streets.

Where you belong.” Spit speckled my hot cheek, but I still didn’t move, barely even breathed.

The stench of alcohol wafted over my face, up my nose, with every harsh breath she took. “And your whore?—”

“Stop,” I hissed, barely able to restrain my growing rage. “Say what you want about me, but not her.”

“She killed him. He never would’ve enlisted if she hadn’t been a selfish bitch and gone to school. She played him, used him for someone to come home to, and probably fucked half that damn college while he was missing her.”

“You need to stop now,” I demanded.

“Or what?” she screamed in my face, the toes of her shoes stepping on mine.

“Ma’am.” Langston’s deep voice filtered through the blood pounding in my ears.

“Fuck off,” she said over her shoulder. Her glassy gaze bored into mine, and a sinister grin overtook her lips.

Like with the slap, I knew what she planned to do but didn’t do anything to stop it.

As the brown bag rose, clearly intending to smash whatever was inside over my head, I held her glare.

If this was what she needed to get it all out, then I’d let her.

Maybe then she could let go.

Maybe then she’d go away and never think of Baylee again.

Maybe then I’d finally be rid of the last bit of guilt and sadness over Dean’s death.

But the smashing bottle never came. A shrill screech escaped her wide-open mouth as she thrashed in Langston’s hold, his hand wrapped around her wrist, keeping it in the air, while the other arm was snaked around her waist, gently hauling her away from me.

It was like watching someone try to wrestle a wild animal. Bethany screamed profanities and all kinds of horrible, disgusting things about me and Baylee, wishing we were dead instead of her perfect son, as Langston fought to restrain her.

Well, fought wasn’t the right word. Langston was twice her size, so it was more him trying to keep her contained without hurting her, or her hurting herself, than worrying that she’d do something to him.

At the sounds of sirens, I turned, putting my back to them to see a cop car hauling down the street.

A barked curse at my back and a shouted warning was all I had before something hard connected with the side of my head and everything went dark.

Muffled voices were the first thing to register as I slowly woke from a deep sleep.

Mouth bone-dry, head throbbing, and zero memory of what happened had icy panic shooting through my veins.

It was exactly how I felt after a multiday bender, which meant I’d fallen off the wagon.

Sorrow and guilt and pain all mixed together, making my already nauseous stomach revolt.

Leaning to the side, I puked up whatever was in my stomach, my eyes squeezed shut, too afraid to see where I was and what I’d done. Fuck, I hadn’t slipped since leaving rehab. Tremors shook my whole body, making me jostle whatever soft cushion I lay on.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” a familiar voice raged. “You said it was probably just a concussion.”

“Fuck, Lang, you brought the guy into my hospital room demanding the attending doctor see to him. Give the doctor a break. He’s about to piss his fucking scrubs,” a voice I didn’t know said, sounding both entertained and exasperated at the same time.

“Fix him,” Langston ordered.

My lids snapped open as the memories flooded in. Vision fuzzy, I scanned the room, finding Langston standing beside the couch I lay on, arms crossed over his chest, and a much, much smaller man standing beside him wearing a white lab coat.

“Fuck,” I rasped, throat and mouth so dry it felt like my tongue would crack.

The stiff cushion dipped beneath my hand as I pushed to sit up, but the room spun, keeping me in place.

“I’ll get someone to clean that up,” the doctor said and rushed out of the room.

“Lang, give him some space, for fuck’s sake.” I eyed the man in the hospital bed, who waved his good hand at me. “Not sure if you remember saving my life, but I’m West. Langston brought you in here after you got smacked over the head with a vodka bottle.”

“She was slippery as fuck,” Langston snapped, then looked at the ceiling. “She wormed her way out of my hold and cracked that bottle against your skull. Thank fuck it didn’t break.”

“Yeah, stitches are a bitch. I’d know.”

I nodded at West, agreeing with his statement.

“I thought I’d slipped, fallen back into my addiction,” I murmured, my voice sounding too loud in my pounding head. “I’d take a concussion or stitches over that failure.” With a groan, I finished sitting up and leaned back against the couch. “Did you call Liam, let him know?”

“I did,” Langston murmured.

“Is Baylee okay?” At his silence, I peeked one eye open, not realizing they had fallen shut to block out the blinding sun cutting through the blinds right into my brain. “Is she okay?”

“She doesn’t understand what’s going on. Liam respected you not wanting her to know about the crazy woman. So yeah, she’s okay, but he said she’s worried and freaked out.”

“I need to get back.” I started to push off the couch to stand, but my arms gave out at the agony that sliced through my head.

“You’re staying here overnight,” Langston commanded, “where that good-for-nothing doctor can keep an eye on you, and then we’ll get you home.”

“He’s a big softy,” West said, sending Langston a look that spoke to their relationship being way more intimate than just friends. “But he will kick your ass to keep you where he thinks you’re safe.”

“Damn straight,” Langston said with a curt nod.

Allowing my lids to close, I inhaled deeply and relaxed my tense muscles.

Tomorrow I’d go home, to the woman who made living and fighting my demons worth it all. And to a community that took me in without question and offered me hope of a better future, with a new family I never expected to want or need.

Home.

Yep, that was the exact word for what Anchor Bay had become for me.