Page 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Maggie

" T hat cut on your lip looks nasty." Denise leans closer to Xavier from the driver's seat in the dim parking lot lighting. "Oof." She winces. "And the one above your eye… You might need stitches."

"I don't need stitches." Xavier jerks away from her touch, but Denise isn't having it.

She clicks on the overhead light and gently sweeps his hair back from his forehead to get a better look, her lips pursing at the sight of his injuries. "Xavier James Rockwell, if you think I'm going to let you—"

"I said I'm fine." His voice has that dangerous edge to it, but Denise just raises an eyebrow, completely unfazed.

"What about your ribs? Can you lift your shirt for me?" When Xavier doesn't move, she adds, "Now, please, Xavier."

From my spot in the back seat, I watch him grudgingly comply, peeling up his shirt to reveal a canvas of purple-blue bruising spread across his ribs. But beneath the angry marks, there's no hiding the sculpted muscles of his abs, the way they flex slightly as he breathes. The faint trail of golden-brown hair tracing down his stomach, following that V-line where his hips narrow, the twin paths of muscle disappearing beneath the dark waistband of his underwear sitting low on his hips.

Some guys have abs; Xavier has a goddamn geography lesson carved into his torso.

Heat creeps up my neck and I quickly look away and study the empty parking lot through the window like it's suddenly fascinating.

In my periphery, Denise probes carefully at the bruised area. "Does this hurt?"

Xavier's jaw clenches. "Nope."

"How about here?"

A sharp inhale, and then, "It's fine."

Every probe of Denise’s fingers is like a lie detector test, and Xavier’s failing spectacularly.

She presses slightly harder and Xavier jerks away. "Jesus, Denise. I said I'm fine."

"We should get x-rays to be sure nothing's cracked."

"I’ve had a cracked rib before." He drops his shirt and my gaze slides back to his battered face. “This isn't that." His eyebrows lift slightly, and he levels her with a serious look. “I play hockey, remember? I can handle bruises and a couple of cuts.”

Denise studies him for a long moment, her expression caught between concern and exasperation. Finally, she sits back with a defeated sigh. "Fine. But if you can't breathe properly or the pain gets worse—"

"I'll tell you," Xavier cuts in. "Now, can we go home?"

I catch Denise's eyes in the rearview mirror. The look we share speaks volumes about stubborn, self-destructive boys who think they're invincible.

"Seriously." Xavier sighs. "Let's all go home and get some sleep."

Denise starts the car. "You're icing those ribs as soon as we get home. And I'm checking them again in the morning."

The engine purrs to life and we pull out of the parking lot, leaving the harsh fluorescent lights behind. I catch myself stealing another glance at Xavier's profile in the rearview mirror and quickly look away again, annoyed at my own inability to stop watching him.

They've barely said anything about what transpired with the cops and lawyers, and I can't hold myself back from asking. "So… do you have to go to court or anything?"

Xavier's reflection in the side mirror shows him running a hand through his disheveled hair. "Nah. No charges. Everything's fine. "

The car swerves slightly as Denise whips around to face him. "Everything is certainly not fine, Xavier." Her usually composed voice carries an edge I've never heard before. "Phil's lawyer managed to keep this quiet and your father's lawyer convinced them to drop any charges, but that doesn't make any of this okay. You could have been seriously hurt. Or hurt someone else. And—"

"Convinced them to drop charges?" Xavier wipes his busted lip with the back of his hand. "Those assholes are lucky we didn't charge them. "

I silently agree with him on this one. Those jerks brought this on themselves. And while that guy maybe didn't deserve to end up in hospital, he knew Dylan's story. He knew he was playing with fire and was still intent on fueling the flames. You can't add gasoline to a bush fire and then be mad when you get consumed by the flames.

"You were in a public drunken bar fight, Xavier! That kind of behavior—"

"I'm not drunk. I was drinking sodas all night. And the Foundry isn't a bar. It's a coffee shop."

" Don't, Xavier… " Denise's eyes flit in his direction again. "Do not mess with me right now." She returns her attention to the road.

"I'm not messing with you. Those guys stirred up shit and we just—"

"I don't care who started it." Denise's knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. "You're seventeen, Xavier. One wrong move, one bad punch, and you could end up with assault charges that follow you for life." She shakes her head, teeth practically clenched. "Not to mention what your father is going to have to say about all of this."

Xavier's jaw tightens. He turns to stare out the window. "Fuck what my father says."

"Well, easy for you to say," Denise returns in an uncharacteristic emotionally charged tone.

His nostrils flare, but he keeps his gaze locked on the passing streetlights. The silence that follows feels heavier than any argument.

Soon, the Mercedes's headlights sweep across the iron gates of the Rockwell Estate as we turn into the long, winding driveway. Bare branches cast skeletal shadows across the snow-covered ground, the winter gardens silent and still in the darkness.

Denise eases off the gas, the car crawling almost to a stop. She releases a heavy breath. "Xavier, I'm sorry. That comment about your father was completely uncalled for. I didn't mean it."

"It's fine." Xavier's voice is flat, empty. The warmth and fight from earlier completely gone, replaced by that practiced indifference I've come to recognize as his armor. Only the indifference isn’t apathy; it’s a fortress he built brick by brick.

"No, it's not fine." Denise's hands flex on the steering wheel. "I'm stressed and I took it out on you. That's not fair."

Xavier shrugs, his face half-hidden in shadow. "Don't worry about it."

"Xavier—"

"Denise." His tone carries a warning edge. "We're good. Let it go."

I sink lower in my seat, feeling like I'm intruding on something private. The tension in the car is suffocating as we continue up the drive, the mansion's lights gradually coming into view through the trees.

"I'll make you some tea after we clean up those cuts." Denise tries one more time to make amends. "With honey, which will help your lip."

"It's fine. I'm just gonna crash." Xavier's response is automatic, practiced—the verbal equivalent of a door closing.

We continue along the rest of the driveway in silence, broken only by the soft crunch of gravel under the tires. I watch Xavier's reflection in the window, his expression unreadable, closed off in that way that makes him seem a million miles away.

The Mercedes glides to a stop in front of the palatial mansion's West Wing.

Denise kills the engine but doesn't move to get out. "Alright, let's just head inside and get you cleaned up then." She turns to face Xavier. "We're all exhausted. Everything else can wait until morning."

I bite my tongue to keep from asking what she means by 'everything else.' Whatever's going on with Xavier and his father isn't any of my business, even if curiosity is eating me alive .

Xavier's hand hovers over the door handle. "It's a couple of cuts. I can clean them fine. You should go home. Get back to bed."

"Not happening." She's already out of the car, her boots making crunching noises on the snow-packed cobblestones as she circles around to Xavier's door. "You can barely see out of that eye, and I know you have no clue where the antiseptic wipes are."

Xavier mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "mother hen" but doesn't argue further. He pushes his door open with a wince that he quickly masks.

I slide out of the backseat, hugging my arms against the bitter wind. The motion-sensor lights flood the driveway with harsh brightness, making Xavier's injuries look even worse. The cut above his eye has started bleeding again, a thin line of red trailing down his temple.

Denise notices too. Her lips press into a tight line. Above us, the mansion looms, extravagant and silent. The three of us climb the steps to the boys' entrance, our shadows stretching long across the stone. Xavier fumbles with his keys, hands slightly shaky, though whether from cold or pain I can't tell.

Denise reaches over and takes them from him, unlocking the door herself. The foyer lights flicker on automatically as we enter, harsh against my tired eyes. I hang back awkwardly, not sure if I should head up to my room or…

"Come on." Denise gestures for us both to follow her. "Kitchen first. I want proper light to look at those cuts. You can help, Maggie."

Looks like I’ve been promoted to field medic in the Xavier Rockwell Survival Squad.

Xavier shoots me a look I can't quite read before trailing after her, his movements stiff and careful. I hesitate for a moment, then follow. Once we're inside, I lean against the marble counter, watching Denise guide Xavier to one of the hideous gold shell stools.

"Sit still," she orders, tilting his chin up. She clicks her tongue at the split lip, the darkening mark along his jaw. "Lord, what were you thinking?"

Xavier leans away from her touch. "I was thinking Dylan needed help. "

"I'll go grab the first aid kit," I announce, glad to do something besides hover awkwardly.

"Thanks, Maggie," Denise says without looking up.

I take my time making my way to the pantry, and when I return, Denise is removing an ice pack from the freezer. The harsh lighting accentuates the dark circles under her eyes. She looks exhausted.

"I can clean the cuts," I tell her as she hands the ice pack to Xavier. "Go get some sleep. There's no reason for you to stick around when I can easily do this."

"Gosh, no. I'll just—"

"Seriously. I've got this."

She hesitates, eyeing the antiseptic wipes I'm still holding. "I don't think—"

"It's just cleaning a few cuts… and I'm first-aid trained."

"Okay…" She nods. "Alright." Then she adds, "The couch would be better, Xavier." She's clearly struggling to shift out of management mode. "You need to apply ice to those ribs for at least fifteen minutes before you head up to bed."

Xavier pushes off the stool. "Sure. Whatever gets everyone to stop hovering."

"I'll have my phone on," Denise tells him as he makes his way to the sitting area. "Call me if—"

"If the pain gets worse, yeah, got it." He drops onto the couch.

"I mean it, Xavier. Any problems at all."

"Yup." He tugs his T-shirt over his head, and I nearly drop the antiseptic wipes. The bruising along his ribs looks worse than it did even fifteen minutes ago in the car, but that's not what catches me off guard. It's those stupid abs and the stupid smooth planes of his chest, and the casual way he reclines against the cushions like he doesn't even notice the effect he has.

He presses the ice pack against his side and Denise gives him one last concerned look before heading reluctantly toward the door. "Thank you, Maggie. Good night, both of you."

I stand frozen, box of wipes clutched to my chest now like a shield. Suddenly volunteering to play nurse doesn't seem like such a brilliant idea.