Page 61 of The First Cut

I know that when women say they’re fine, it usually means something completely different. But I let it slide because I want to get her away from here. I help her into the truck and slam the door closed before walking around and climbing in the driver’s side. I start her up and swing the truck around, heading for the far back end of the compound where I know Havoc’s place is.

I flip the radio on so the silence doesn’t feel quite so weighted and let my thoughts drift for a minute. I have so much shit to figure out and hate not having the brothers that I trust at my back. Looking over your shoulder every two minutes will get old fast. I look over at Lola, who is looking out the passenger side window, and wonder if that’s how she feels every day.

When we pull up, I turn off the engine and sit for a moment before reaching for Lola’s hand. She turns to face me and I see the color has drained from her face.

“Jesus. You okay?”

She shakes her head before letting go of my hand and fumbling with the door. I jump out and run around to help her. I open the door, and she all but throws herself out, her legs giving way as she drops to her knees and starts heaving.

I grab a handful of her hair to hold it out of her way as she starts puking before bending down and rubbing my hand up and down her back in what I’m hoping is a soothing matter. Once she’s finished, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and looks up at me with flushed cheeks, clearly embarrassed.

“Sorry.”

I reach down and scoop her up into my arms. “Nothing to be sorry for, doll. Pregnancy can be unpredictable, and you’ve had a rough time of it lately.”

She doesn’t argue this. She wraps her arm around my neck and buries her head under my jaw.

I carry her up to the house before I curse. “I need to get the keys.”

“It’s open.”

“What do you mean, it’s open?”

She shrugs. “Driller wouldn’t let me lock it. Said it was safe on the compound and that if I was in danger, the locked door could make all the difference between being saved and being killed.”

In theory, he’s right. The house should be safe on the compound, but that doesn’t mean she shouldn’t take precautions.

“From now on, you lock it when I’m not here.”

“I don’t have a key. Driller took it off me. If the door was locked, I wasn’t allowed in.”

“What the fuck? This is your home.”

“It’s not, Hannibal. It’s just a house.”

She reaches out and twists the knob before pushing the door. It opens a crack, so I push it open farther with my foot. I take in the sparse surroundings and know what she means now about this place just being a house, not a home. There's nothing inviting about this space. The whole room is virtually bare.

Instead of putting her down, I carry her upstairs to the bedroom and sit her on the edge of the bed. Gazing around the room, I frown. The bed has been stripped, clothes are thrown around the floor, and a box near the foot of the bed is smashed to pieces.

I bend down and pick up a man’s T-shirt that’s been shredded. “What the fuck?”

“Driller.”

“What?”

“Driller must have come back after I left. Good thing I didn’t come back alone, huh?” she says quietly.

Standing up, she walks to the attached bathroom and closes the door. After a few seconds, I hear her brushing her teeth, so I leave her to it. I tug open the dresser drawer and find a bunch of men’s clothes. With a snarl, I yank them all out and drop them on the floor into a pile. I keep going until the dresser is empty. Ignoring the second dresser I figure holds Lola’s clothes, I head to the closet and pull out all of the men’s clothes from there too. When I’m done, I realize there’s nothing left.

I frown, glancing down at the pile to see if I’ve accidentally grabbed Lola’s stuff too, but I can’t find anything even remotely feminine. Walking to the untouched dresser, I open the drawers and indeed find Lola’s clothes. Or what little there is.

I stalk to the bathroom and don’t bother knocking. I push the door open and stare at Lola as she puts her toothbrush down and wipes her mouth.

“What’s wrong?”

“Where are your things?”

“What things?”