Delicate Us

Chapter 12

Trace

Trace parked his car, hopped out, and jogged to Syler's front gate with anxiety harnessing a panic in his chest over watching Penelope's video about him being an abuser--over the possibility of Syler having seen it.

The stars were out and the cool summer breeze rustled the nearby trees. At one in the morning, no cars passed by on the street behind him, but he wondered if there were any paparazzi staked out, stalking her front gate and snapping shots of him. The black metal rods of the gate stood twice as tall as him, blocking off his entrance to her mansion. He pulled down his hood and looked at the button on the call box. After a deep breath, he pushed it, hoping for an answer.

"Hello?" a gruff voice said.

"Hi, this is Trace Kelton. I'm... I'm trying to get a hold of Syler."

As if she were in the background listening, he heard delicate voice say, "Let him in."

There was a loud thunk then a screech as Trace watched the center of the gate separate and open inward.

"We'll be there soon."

He stepped onto her property and was transported to something as enchanting as her. Trace walking up the driveway surrounded by trees that held a hue of silvery blue from the full moon. Lanterns cast patterns along the wide, cobblestone pathway. Fireflies buzzed in and out of a light mist that covered the grass. Trace listened to the crickets in the distance, stepped through moonbeams spreading through the branches of the trees, and sauntered his way to her cemented front porch. Her mansion was majestic with pillars supporting a dark wooden overhang and shingles that lined the entire home. Morning glories climbed up the walls where large ornate windows were.

The entire atmosphere calmed him every time he took a breath. Trace imagined she'd need something this calming and magical to counteract being in the public eye her entire life.

He sat on the steps of her porch, facing the driveway and waited patiently for fifteen minutes before he heard the sound of a car approaching, its headlights illuminating him. He squinted until the car turned off, the lights died, and the door opened.

Out came a large man who he recognized as her security team, carrying a limp Syler, and it felt like a nest of darkness broke open inside him. Her head fell heavily back, her arms flared outward, and her legs draped over the guard's arm. Blood stained her porcelain cheek.

Fear pierced through his body as he ran to her. "Syler!"

"Trace," she whispered.

He held his arms out, taking her against him, carrying her full weight. "What happened?"

She tucked her head against his chest and laid her arms in her lap. Long bloody lines traveled from her elbow to her wrist, redness surrounding each of the four wounds.

Trace pulled her tighter into him. "Are you okay?"

"Hello, sailor," she giggled, alcohol riding on her breath.

His brows knitted as his head whipped back up at the guards. That sinking feeling in his gut deepened. "Is she drunk?"

One said, "Yup. She won't have her doctor come." Another walked up her porch and unlocked the front door.

"What happened to her arm?"

The guard opening the door turned back to him, placed the key in Trace's pocket, and said, "We don't know. She came out of Midnights like this."

Anger simmered in his chest that he willed himself to remain tame. "Why weren't you with her?"

"She asked us not to."