Page 47 of Saving His Heart

Glancing between the two homes, I finally step out of the car and cross the sleepy street. I take the steps two at a time to the ranch-style home that has a fresh coat of paint and pansies hanging from planters on the porch. I knock twice, and the door swings open to reveal a younger version of Emory, but with darker features and black hair.

“Tilly?” I ask.

“Yes. Who are you?” she demands, closing the door a little farther.

“I’m Emory’s boy— I’m Emory’s friend. I brought her here; she’s across the street. She asked me to come check on you,” I tell her.

“What? That isn’t possible. I just spoke to her, and it’s at least a three-hour drive, so I’ll ask you again, who are you?” she insists.

“It would take three hours if we drove, but we didn’t. We flew here.” I watch her eyes grow three sizes. “My name is Preston,” I continue. “Are you okay?”

Sizing me up, Tilly finally decides I’m safe and takes a step out onto the porch. “I’m fine,” she says. “Why did you let Emory go into hell by herself?”

“Well, she didn’t give me a choice,” I admit, repeating her words from the other night.Jesus, that already feels like a lifetime ago.

“That sounds about right,” Tilly replies, watching the house.

“I said she didn’t give me a choice, but should I be worried? I’m fully prepared to stick my nose where it doesn’t belong if she is in trouble.”

Tilly gives me the side-eye. “How do you know Emory?”

“Ah, we’re, she is, I-I mean, we’re friends,” I say, feeling like a teenager being asked about a girlfriend.

“Okay, ‘friend’, I think she’s alright, she usually is anyway, but I think we should cross over to the porch so we can hear if anything goes wrong,” she tells me, already moving.

“What would go wrong?” I ask through gritted teeth before noticing she is rubbing her forearm, covered with a bandage. “Tilly, what the hell happened to your arm?” I’m suddenly livid that Ems might be in danger, and I’m sitting here pissing away time.

“I’m sure she’s fine,” Tilly repeats.

She reaches the porch and sits on the top step that I notice is slanting heavily to the right. Unsure of how to proceed, I pace the yard in front of her. Five minutes turns to twenty before I hear a crash. I run toward the door just as it flies open, and Emory walks out.

“Jesus, Tilly. I almost took you out with the door. Why are you sitting there like that?” Emory asks her sister, then hones in on the bandaged arm. “What the hell is this?”

“Calm down, Ems. Ouch, you don’t need to rip the bandage off like that.”

Taking a step closer, I grimace, seeing the cut. Staring at the two sisters deep in conversation, I remove the baseball cap Emory has placed on her head and watch the color drain from her face. The gash, similar to Tilly’s, has me taking the front steps two at a time.

“Preston! Stop. He’s passed out now. There’s nothing you can do,” Emory yells from her spot on the walkway.

I’m boiling over with a rage I haven’t experienced since I witnessed Lexi being manhandled by her prick of a boyfriend. “Take your sister and get the fuck into the car and wait for me. Do not even think about arguing with me, Ems. Get in the goddamn car, now.”

Not the least bit affected by my threatening tone, Emory marches straight for me, dragging Tilly behind her.

“Don’t you dare, for one second, think you can speak to me like that. I don’t care what kind of nightmarish scenes are playing through that protective, neanderthal brain of yours, but for the last time, this is not your fight.”

I step forward, menacingly close when we hear another crash from inside.

“Oh shit,” Tilly whispers.

“Get in the fucking car, Emory, and take care of your sister.” The rage in my voice finally overflows. They must hear it as well because Tilly is walking backward, taking Ems with her.

Without another thought, I enter the home, my feet crunching on glass with every step. I follow the sounds of grumbled, slurred ranting.

“Who the hell are you?” Emory’s father slurs.

“I’m the one who is going to clean up your mess and get you dried out. If you don’t like that option, I’ll have you sitting in jail for assault faster than you can suck down your last drink. Sit down, Mr. Camden.”

Whether it is the authority in my voice or the utter and complete acknowledgment of defeat that has him following orders, I can’t say. Pleased that he is listening, at least for now, I pull out my phone and call the driver.