Page 49 of This Might Hurt

ANDREW

Colin always told me that I secretly loved to be hurt. No matter how many times they made a fool of me, I could never stop trying again. In a twisted way, he was right. Being hurt by shitty people made me feel like a martyr. I could tell myself I was doing something noble by letting them use me.

Today is different. No one put me up to this, and no one’s making me see it through. And yet I can’t make myself turn back. Maybe, despite everything I’ve told myself, they turned me into a person who needs to hurt. I don’t have anything else.

Jude sleeps off and on in the car to Carrick House.

I can’t blame him. It’s three and a half hours, and he didn’t get any rest on the plane.

I watch the reflection of his sun-drenched face in the window as it bobs with each bump in the road.

He likes to hurt too, I think. Almost as much as me.

Maybe that’s the very first thing we smelled on each other in that service station.

I’m scared of how he makes me feel today.

He said he’d ruin me, but he has no idea how far beyond that we’ve come.

He’s all I have. I’d tear someone’s throat out with my teeth for so much as thinking about taking him from me.

Once I’ve hurt enough, once I win this fight, I can have him.

Kneel for him and scold him and go grocery shopping and shoot at bottles.

Everything and nothing. I promise myself that, even though I have no way of making it true.

Jude grunts and jerks awake, blinking uneasily at the back of Grant’s head in the driver’s seat.

I’ve asked the man four times to turn the cold air up and it’s still much too warm back here.

Jude struggles to wet his dry mouth, then squints at his own reflection to fix the smushed-down spot in his hair. “You okay?”

Since it’s impossible to be honest with him and lie to myself at the same time, I don’t answer.

He slides a hand across the cream leather seat and laces strong, slightly sweaty fingers with mine.

I let it be for a second, then pull away and peer out the window.

Based on the sparkle of water in the distance, the thick clumps of grass bobbing gently in the late afternoon breeze, we’re getting close. “Tell me something helpful.”

“Hm.” He wipes his face with the neck of his sweater like it’s a cheap t-shirt, then catches himself and pulls an apologetic face that would normally make me laugh.

The sun catches in his tawny eyes as he looks over my shoulder at the river.

“Keep things simple,” he says finally, his voice still groggy.

“You can make a lot of plans, but when you’re in there holding a gun it gets kind of fuzzy.

So try to break it down: decide what you want and when you’re gonna walk away. ”

I’m starting to feel car sick, so I roll down my window halfway.

We’re not driving fast enough for the humid breeze to be unpleasant.

“I want to tell them about the marriage and watch them realize what I did. Maybe explain that I want Daxton gone. Then we’ll walk away before things get out of control.

We can go upstairs and let them rot in it until tomorrow. ”

He doesn’t touch me again, just unfastens his seatbelt and buckles himself into the middle, right next to me. “That’s good. Focus on that.”

“Okay.” I prop my head against the window frame and take in the smell of home in late spring, so verdant it’s almost sickening.

“Jude,” I say finally, fighting the sense that I’m making a mistake.

“I want you to keep quiet in there. Don’t do anything but introduce yourself and answer basic questions if you’re directly asked.

You don’t know how to handle them yet, and I do. ”

He very politely doesn’t point out that if I knew how to handle them, we wouldn’t be in this fucking mess. His warm, comforting breath stirs against the back of my neck as he watches the scenery. “If that’s what you want. But I’m gonna hold you to your plan.”

“Sure.” I look over my shoulder and watch the blue sky reflected in his eyes. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? I like to ride my horse along here.”

“You have a horse?”

I nod, reaching for a smile but not finding one. “Obsidian—Sid. Do you want to meet him?”

“Horses hate me.” Wincing, he touches a small dark spot on his left cheek. “This is from when a trail pony threw me face-first into a cactus when I was eleven.”

Somehow I burst out laughing, like it was stored up for him in between all the filth clogging up my chest. “Well, I can’t make Sid like you, but I promise we don’t have any cacti.”

His face relaxes a little, that small, lopsided grin.

“Five minutes, sir,” Grant calls from the front.

I expected a hustle and bustle about the house.

Not the delivery trucks and contract workers from the engagement party, but people paying respects, business associates coming to hash out the new lay of the land, maybe the press.

Instead, it’s completely dormant. The only vehicles pulled deep into the shade near the garage belong to family or—shit—Daxton’s fucking Batmobile.

I prayed he wouldn’t be here, but maybe if you pray without believing in anything your punishment is getting the opposite of what you wanted.

All the doors and windows are shut, even though it’s a nice evening, and the only sound is the crunch of gravel as we pull up near the staff quarters.

Once the engine silences, the song sparrows in the hedges slowly start chirping again, one by one.

When I glance at Jude, he’s staring wide-eyed at the house.

That monstrosity in Montana is what most people picture when they imagine a billionaire’s mansion, slick and crass and easy to digest. This place grew from the soul of a troubled, powerful man, with his ambition plain to see in every piece of the dusty stonework, the arched windows, the old-fashioned chimney pots silhouetted against the sky.

I startle when Grant opens my door, bringing me back to myself.

He’s radiating so much tension it’s hard to breathe.

I can’t imagine how stressful the past few days have been for someone as loyal and single-minded as him.

“Please take our things through the back and tell them to make up my room for two people. Then get some food and rest.”

His eyebrows pull together. “But sir—”

“This is my house and my family; I can take it from here. I’ll text you later.”

“Understood. Take care.” He squeezes my bicep lightly, even though he could probably snap my arm with his bare hands, and walks away to find the housekeeper.

“How many people live here?” Jude asks incredulously.

“At first it was just my grandfather, my mother, and I. My uncles have their own places in the city, but they live here most of the time except when one of them has a girlfriend. And visitors will come to stay during hunting season or Christmas or whatever.”

“Oh.” I’m pretty sure he’s counting the windows, trying to add up how many rooms in this place have no purpose.

Taking a step back, I give Jude a last, assessing once-over.

He managed to fix his hair, he’s wearing his ring, and his clothes look absurdly good.

His overwhelming natural charisma carries them off so well that anyone would believe he’s been dressing like this his whole life.

Satisfied, I turn toward the house. I keep expecting someone to open a door or call out of a window, anything to break the razor wire of tension across my skin, but nothing happens.

I climb the three low slate steps to the double front doors we rarely use and reach for the handle, still not sure if I’m knocking or pushing them open.

It doesn’t matter, because one of them swings wide while my hand is still hanging in midair.

I look up to greet the member of staff, hoping to god it’s Carla, and find myself looking into Colin’s face.

My uncle leans against the door and stares at me, his narrow features pinched with exhaustion and his dark hair a mess. He’s wearing a carelessly half-buttoned shirt with an unknotted tie hanging around his neck, like he was dressed up earlier and got sick of it.

Something flickers to life in his slate-gray eyes as he looks me slowly up and down, then glances at Jude. I have no idea what my husband is doing, how he’s standing, the look on his face—it’s probably all wrong, but I can’t focus on anything beyond myself now.

“How are you?” It’s not quite the stupidest thing I could have said right now, but it’s close.

One of his eyebrows quirks, his wandering gaze coming back to my face with a spark of interest. “Are you going to come in?” His normally silky voice sounds hoarse, like he’s been using it too much. “There are several people in here who would really love to talk to you.”

Just like that, my body starts slipping back into a still, wordless place, like it recognizes the scent of my own fear still lingering in the air. It wants my mind to follow, because it knows how to keep us safe. I fumble for something to say before Colin can realize I’m already shutting down.

“Is it him? Is he here?” At the dramatic wail from inside, Colin groans and rubs his forehead like he has a migraine.

He barely steps out of my mother’s way in time to avoid being trampled as she throws herself on me, her arms around my neck the only thing saving me from falling over backwards.

“My baby, I was so worried. Where were you?”

I stand there with my hands limp at my sides as she weeps into my shoulder. Her tears sound real, but then again, they always do. “Mom, it’s okay. I’m fine.” I look over her head at Colin, who is now propped on the door frame with his arms crossed, studying me intently. “Please stop crying.”