Page 32 of Hideaway Whirlwind (Big Boys of Berenson Trucking #4)
Teagan
It takes longer than I’d like for my adrenaline to run its course and my brain to stop melding Elliott’s face with Guxxer and Quincy’s while I take a cold shower.
It’s comparing apples to oranges. Where Elliott had meant well, out of his mind with worry for me and the baby, the others most certainly had not when they had taken from me what I was not willing to give.
And yet my body had reacted the same when he wouldn’t stop touching me, my skin crawling with revulsion, every nerve ending pinched, my head flooded with white hot terror and the animalistic need to fight or run and hide from a predator, especially one as large as Elliott.
If only he had stopped to listen, given me space, or sat silently beside me while I calmed.
But he simply couldn’t in the moment, his past trauma with the woman he loved—because I do know he loves me, too, even if he hasn’t said it—having been hurt took control of him.
I know it as well as I know my own birthday.
And even if I shouldn’t, I care that he’s upset after what happened.
More than that. Bereaved for what he unintentionally did to me .
“He’s gone,” Goldie says when I exit the bathroom. She’s leaning against the opposite wall with her arms crossed, lips pinched with disdain. “You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”
“What’s that mean?”
Goldie eyes me as I twist my wet hair up into a towel. “Layla set him straight. He knows not to come near you again.”
“What? That’s not what I want,” I blurt, saying out loud for the first time what I can no longer stuff deep down inside. “And I barely know Layla. That wasn’t her conversation to have with him.”
Goldie straightens, dropping her arms. “He’s her brother-in-law.”
“And he’s my—” My what? My Elliott. Mine. “Crap.” I rub my eyes. Since my number one priority is my kids, sickened by the thought of what they might have heard, I tell Goldie, “I’ll talk to him later.”
“You can’t be serious.” Bewildered, she grabs my arm to stop me from walking away. “He attacked you and tried to force—”
I shake her hand off. “No, he didn’t. He was scared and wanted to make sure the baby and I weren’t hurt. He freaked out. We both did.”
“Teagan…You don’t have to make excuses for his abusive behavior.”
“You know Elliott. He’s intense, yes, but he would never purposefully hurt me.” Other than the biting, of course, which I more than welcome. My hand drifts to my neck, missing the scrape of my big, overprotective bear’s teeth.
Goldie’s shoulders slump, and she’s giving me a look—one that says she thinks I can’t or won’t face the truth. But she’s wrong. My eyes are wide open .
“He’s dangerous,” she says, as if pleading with me one last time to see things her way.
“Yeah, well, so am I,” I snap, leaving Goldie with her mouth hanging open.
Davis is walking circles around the living room and kitchen with Rowan while Russell is at the table, putting together another strange jigsaw puzzle with the older kids.
It should be Elliott sitting at the table, not Russell.
The table itself should be round instead of rectangular, fitting only four or five, not eight.
The kitchen should be paneled with dark wood instead of modernized with fresh paint and a massive island that would never fit inside the cabin’s kitchen. It’s all so wrong.
Dustin stands and sprints toward me, nearly knocking me off my feet with the strength of his hug. “I love you, Mommy.”
I grip his arms and pull him back so I can kneel. “I love you, too, baby.”
He cups my face, studying me as if looking for bruises, dried tear tracks streaking his cheeks.
“I’m okay,” I say, pulling him into a rib-crushing hug. “Elliott didn’t do anything to hurt me, I promise.”
Dustin nods, pushing his face into my neck. “I told Papa I’d kill him if he hurt you,” he whispers, trembling, afraid he’s going to get in trouble.
Before I can think of how to respond, Dustin follows up his confession with, “He said that’s alright.”
Oh fuck .
My eyes go straight to Russell, who stands and pushes in his chair.
“Papa said he loves us.” Dustin pulls back, wearing a tremulous smile. “I love him, too.”
Russell releases a heavy exhale with a mix of murder and grief in his eyes, clenching his ham fists, having heard everything. I know him even less than I do Layla, but I know Elliott, and I see much of his brother in him.
“I’ll talk to Elliott,” Russell says quietly.
“Don’t,” I say, pushing up from the floor and turning Dustin around, hugging my son from behind. “I’ll talk to him. No one else.”
Russell raises a dark gray brow, and he and Davis make brief eye contact.
I ask Dustin to sit and work on the puzzle for a few more minutes while I follow Russell and Davis to the front door.
Before Russell leaves, I put a hand on his arm to stop him.
That feels wrong, too, and I quickly snatch it back.
“Elliott didn’t hurt me. He wouldn’t ever hurt me,” I tell the men in an urgent voice.
Russell tightens his lips, pointedly flicking his gaze to the kids. He doesn’t believe me. Thinks I’m saying it—lying—for the kids’ benefit, just like Goldie.
“He didn’t hurt me,” I insist, keeping direct eye contact.
My irritation rises when Russell and Davis give each other another look , dismissing my comments, before Davis follows Russell outside.
As soon as the men are gone, I sit with the kids, asking seemingly innocent questions to parse out if they heard anything that happened in the bathroom. So far, it only seems to be Dustin who has had any inkling that something was wrong.
Afterward, when it’s time to get ready for bed, Goldie watches us pass from her bedroom’s doorway.
I stop to squeeze her hand, an apology of sorts for our argument.
She had my back and, without hesitation, put herself between me and the bear of a man she thought was attacking me.
She’s a good woman and a real friend—the very reason we were able to get out of Las Vegas, and has been incredibly generous to let us stay with them.
I’ll forever owe her a debt of gratitude.
But man, we need a place of our own where our every interaction and reaction won’t be watched, weighed.
Where assumptions won’t be made, whether right or wrong.
Where I can fall apart without people thinking the worst of the man who has done nothing but give and give and give some more. His home, his care, his love.
I’ll be the one to set him straight , just as soon as the kids are asleep.
* * *
“Elliott,” I whisper-yell when I step onto the front porch, the tips of my slippers hanging off the edge.
I won’t go any further, since it’ll trigger the floodlights’ motion sensors, and Davis or Goldie would more than likely come out to investigate.
A shadowy shape moves in the trees, and my heart leaps to see it.
Though I’d plugged Elliott’s phone number into my contacts list and I’ve tapped on it often enough, I finally send him my first text message.
Me: Goldie told me what Layla said to you. She shouldn’t have done that. Big Papa Bear: It’s what I needed to hear. I’m so sorry for everything I’ve done to you. I should have stopped when you told me to.
Three dots appear and disappear several times. The shadow lingers just at the edge of the treeline, not coming any closer, and I imagine my Elliott suffering alone with his broken heart full of shame and remorse as he taps out his next message.
Big Papa Bear: It kills me to say this, but I’ll leave you and the kids alone.
I begin to type out my next message, but it would be so much more effective and meaningful to say it face-to-face.
To wrap my arms around him and tell him that I don’t want him to leave us alone—just give us some time.
That I understand why he did what he did.
Tell him that no one should have compared him to my exes.
Fuck this . I step off the porch, saying screw you to the lights when they flick on. When Goldie steps out mere seconds later, the shadow darts away, twigs snapping as it blunders through the woods.
“Elliott! Wait!” I take off toward the trees, but my legs are too short to catch up to him when he has such a long head start.
An engine turns over, headlights disappearing down the road with the squeal of tires before I make it to the end of the driveway.
I bend over, one hand on my knee to catch my breath before I type out:
Me: Please come back. Big Papa Bear: I can’t. I have to stop being selfish and think about what you need instead of what I want.
I start typing again, but Goldie yells my name from behind.
She’s standing in the open doorway in only a long-sleeved T-shirt, her legs and feet bare.
As a mom to a toddler and an infant, I know first-hand how exhausted she must be, and she doesn’t need me and my drama disrupting what little sleep she gets.
“Sorry I woke you up,” I say when I come inside.
Goldie covers her yawn with the back of her hand, her thick hair thrown up in a huge, messy bun. “He was here again?” When I murmur a begrudging confirmation, she frowns at the house alarm pad above the narrow console where we keep our keys. “Damnit. I can’t believe I forgot to set it before bed.”
“I turned it off,” I guilty admit, having memorized the code after seeing her punch it in earlier.
Goldie clicks her tongue before she says, “I would appreciate it if you didn’t do that again. After what happened with Lily…”
I’m the one being selfish, and my guilt multiplies. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”