Beside

38 - lawless

"Why does everything have to change, Jellybean?"

"I don't know. I wish it didn't."

"I don't like it. I didn't get to say goodbye."

"I'm sorry, Fox."

"Do you think it's okay to cry?"

"Yeah, sometimes. It helps."

"But I don't want to cry."

"You don't have to if you don't want to."

"I don't feel like playing today."

"Okay, Fox. Maybe tomorrow."

ᖴO᙭

I'm one more hit to the head away from needing a cane, but today, I have to talk to Faro.

My eye's throbbing, right down to my jaw, each pulse of blood like a goddamn hammer. Everything's off-kilter—my left side aches worse than my pride, and my right is stiff as a board as I sit on this stupid-ass white couch.

But then I hear a knock on the door. Finally.

I push off the couch and open it. Whitney's bundled in a mountain of flowy flowery sweaters. I mean, fuck, she's layered to the point she looks like she'd float right out of the apartment if the wind blew hard enough. Her eyes are wide, and there's this pinch in her expression.

"Chris is fine," I mutter, stepping aside. "Temp's coming down. She had Tylenol four hours ago."

Whitney shuffles in. Her gaze darts past me, like she can see through to Chris's room down the hall.

"I have to go to work in a few hours," she says, wringing her hands in the way she does.

Whitney's probably lost sleep too, worrying. But I can't leave Chris alone. With Cam and Noah gone, and fuck knows where Jed is. There's no one else.

"I'll be back," I tell Whitney, struggling with my runners by the door. Each bend and twist is another punch to my bruised ribs. I should be in bed, flat on my back, letting every ache run its course.

I can feel Whitney's stare boring into me. "Fox, are you okay? Is that from your fight?" She gestures to my face.

"Yeah, I'll live." I force my shoe on with what's left of my dignity and straighten up, rolling a shoulder. "Extra blankets are in the closet just outside her room if she needs them. Tea bags are on the second shelf above the microwave—no sugar. I left lemon and mint in the fridge. Meds are in her room with a few bottles of water. If she wakes up, just crush a few—"

"Fox," Whitney cuts in. "I know what she needs."

I hate it. I don't know why, but it's not how she says it, but what she's saying. She does know. Whitney knows more about what Chris likes, and what she needs to feel okay than I ever will.

My hand hovers near the door handle as I nod tightly. "Thanks for coming."

No goodbyes.

I trust Whitney, so I leave.

The sun's at that high noon. Baking, cooking, sizzling. I turn down 5th and Warren, my pulse hammering in all the swollen spots as I walk.

We had a plan going in with The Hunter, but either Cam's intel was so wrong (doubtful) or he knew what the plan would be. I barely won by getting him into an arm bar, a move Cam drilled me on, but only the night before. It was a miracle I pulled it off, but not one that will look good, that's for sure. Not one that made me feel like any kind of winner. It was an ugly, brutal clusterfuck.