Page 38 of Up in Smoke (The Bunkhouse #3)

“What! Who?” I spin, again searching the room for answers.

“Montgomery Davis and Truett Lathan were in the vehicle.”

“Truett? Do you mean Tripp Lathan? And Montgomery Davis is a name I have never heard before.”

“Let me confirm the name,” she says, letting the line go silent for a moment. My lips roll into my mouth, and I bite down on them with my eyes closed. “I’m told he goes by Tripp. I apologize for the confusion. I had recorded the names from their driver’s licenses.”

“What in the world happened?” I choke out.

“I’ll be happy to provide more information soon, ma’am.

I do believe the police will want statements from them after they are medically cleared, but again, no serious injuries are apparent at this time.

Both parties show signs of being under the influence, which is why I’m calling Tripp’s emergency contact. ”

“Emerg—” My breath hitches with panic, and a frigid chill clings to the surface of my skin. Where is Gage? Where are the rest of them? “Can I speak with Tripp? You’re sure he’s not injured?”

“I can try. One moment, and I’ll put you on speaker phone.”

I hear Tripp’s voice, but I don’t think he’s talking to me. It sounds like a paramedic is asking him how many fingers he’s holding up. Tripp answers with “Three.”

“Someone’s on the phone for you,” the EMS lady says.

The paramedic mumbles, and I barely make out his question. “Who is this on the phone, Tripp? Do you know her?”

There’s a pause like he’s looking at the caller ID on the phone. “Yeah. Mesa Riley. She’s just a friend.”

His last word is just a single syllable. But it lands like a punch to the gut.

“Hello, Mesa? Are you there?”

I hear one of the first responders addressing me over the line, but I can’t bring myself to reply because I’m choking on the word friend, and it’s hard to swallow.

“I’m getting a thumbs up right now from the man who performed the routine medical examination on him,” McKenzie cuts back in. “Take a deep breath, Miss Riley.”

As if mocking her calm request, a loud crash sounds from the side of my cottage. Muscle memory kicks in, and I duck my head. Glass shatters to the floor, and I stare wide-eyed at the bundle of wet green leaves attached to a thick branch hanging through the broken window right next to my bed.

My hand covers my mouth just before more terrifying sounds filter in from the backyard. I don’t know whether to rush to move my bed and temporarily handle the tree or find my keys.

With a sudden clarity and sense of urgency, I find my voice again.

“Can you please give me your location? He was supposed to be with his three friends tonight. Are they there?”

“Of course. I will text the exact location to you, so you don’t have to scribble it down or memorize it.”

The line goes silent for a minute, then a text comes through on my phone and she speaks again.

“I haven’t spoken with anyone else, and these two men are the only ones here who aren’t medical first responders or law enforcement.”

“Tripp is okay,” I state, begging her to confirm again.

“Yes, ma’am. He appears to be okay.”

“I have to make a call. Please tell Tripp to call me as soon as he can. Or you can contact me again when you know more?—”

“No problem, Miss Riley. I’ll encourage him to reach out once his statement has been recorded.”

“Thank you,” I rush out with no formal end to the call.

I look at the rain sneaking through and soaking my bed. My eyes blur with tears, but I ignore it for now to swipe through my contacts.

“ Shit ,” I shout. I never thought I’d need to save any of the guys’ numbers in my phone. Tripp’s always around. Why would I ever need them?

Except now I do, and I feel like slamming my phone face down on the kitchen counter in frustration. Before I do, an incoming call rings through. It’s an unsaved number with a familiar zip code, but I don’t take the time to think it over before answering.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Warren.”

“ Warren ,” I breathe out, relieved. “Did you know Tripp’s been in an accident? Where the hell are you and what—” I stop myself to choke down a sob. “What happened tonight? He was supposed to be with you!”

His voice is inaudible as he spits curse words and speaks to someone else. When he finally pulls the phone close enough to his mouth for me to understand him clearly, his voice has lowered and is stern and stone-cold. “Do you know where?”

“Yes. Hold on.” I quickly forward him the location and wait for the delivered label underneath. “Did you get it?”

“Got it.” He speaks to someone else again, more demanding this time, before returning his attention to me. “We’ve been trying to find them, but they had too much of a head start.”

“I should leave,” I say, picturing Tripp in a state of shock. Is that why he introduced me as his friend? God, I’m pathetic. He’s been in an accident, and here I am, heartbroken over formalities. I can’t stand it. “I’m leaving.”

“There. Turn there.” Heston’s deep voice filters through from the background of the call.

“Do not leave,” Warren firmly orders me. “I can see the lights. We’re a minute out at the most.”

I want to press for more answers and find out who he was with, why he was with them, and how this all happened in the first place.

“Mesa? Stay. Home.”

“I heard you,” I whisper.

The line clicks, and I slowly lower the phone to my side. There’s no brief moment to collect my thoughts after speaking with Warren, because something slams against my back door.

I run to look out the window and see a lawn chair flipping its way across my yard and eventually landing in the middle of an already-crumpled bush of Azaleas. I wince as the wind somehow finds new strength and snaps another branch in half.

My jaw drops open, and I flatten my hands on the window. “No,” I whisper.

It’s stupid, yanking the door open and running for the tree. The torrential downpour douses me instantly. My body flinches with every thunder boom as I run.

I sink to my knees when I finally reach the tree and its broken branch. The patch of delicate irises is completely flattened, and my fairy garden is nothing but a mauled mess of broken blooms and mud.

An enraged outburst threatens to slip through my lips. I tilt my head toward the sky, ready to scream. With one last bitch-slap to my life this week, an evil blast of wind rips the chimes from their mount. They crash to the ground in a tangle of string and bent metal.

I fall forward on my hands and try to reach them. They slip farther away, carried by the ruthless storm. I crawl faster. My hand slaps against the edge of a wind chime, and I pull it to my chest with force.

Flashes of light expose the destroyed oasis around me. Moving to the house is the smartest thing to do now. But first I try to catch my breath, close my eyes, and hope every broken thing can be saved—including myself.