Until We Crash - Michele G Miller Page 0,29

of the collision. My stomach endures the next, a sucker punch that robs the air from my lungs. A lamp—lying on the floor, sans shade—illuminates the disaster spread before me.

I scream. A banshee screech wild and full of bitterness and fucking loud enough that I hope Mom, wherever she is, hears my cry and longs to plunge a knife in her chest rather than face up to the shit she left behind.

She wouldn't, though. She would never prefer her own death over witnessing the pain her only child endures. That would imply she loves us, loves me. Her abandonment taught me otherwise.

The back door slams against the house.

"Jess!" Carter rushes through the kitchen, his boots heavy against the tile. He spins me around, jerks me into his chest, and, as my cheek registers the fury of his heartbeat, pushes me to arm's length—his tight grip allowing him control over my movements like a marionette.

"You screamed," he says between pants. "I thought—"

His eyes double in size. "Holy, fuck." He shoves me around his side like he anticipates an attack. "Is someone in the house? What happened? Where's your Dad?"

I peer around his body. Everything is upended: the couch and chairs, the end tables, lamps, pictures. One might assume thieves ransacked the room, but everyone in Rossview is aware there's nothing to gain by breaking into Paul Womick's house. His wife took the valuables. Hell, the television went with her.

I hate her.

Sliding my hand down his arm, I slip my fingers through his and rest my forehead against his spine. After how I spoke outside, his support is undeserved, but I need it. I need one ounce of his strength as I share the truth this house has witnessed. "This was my Dad, Carter."

He pumps my hand and twists around, enveloping me. His large hands touch and skim all over my bare skin since I'm wearing nothing but shorts and my sports bra. The warmth of his skin against mine threatens my logical thinking, and I shove against his chest, pushing for freedom from his grasp, for peace of mind, not because I desire it.

Carter harrumphs, his fingers delving under my braid and latching onto the base of my neck until I surrender my feeble fight.

"Where is he?" he asks, his lips brushing the top of my head.

"I…" My head shakes. I need to ensure he's okay. "I need to look." I brace against his chest, and this time Carter loosens up.

"Where's his bedroom?"

"I'll check."

With a growl, Carter slows me, grabbing at the hem of my shorts. "I'm going with you."

"I don't know what condition he's in. I can't—"

Bending, Carter lowers his face with mine. "Hey." His callused palm cups my cheek. "You're not walking around this house by yourself. Who knows for sure what happened?"

I melt into his touch. Damn, I'm weak. Did I not say I had no time for this, for him, only minutes ago?

I do know what happened because this has happened before—Dad's drunken rage. I was nine the first time. He exploded when Mom didn't return from a girls' night out on time. She was clueless since I cleaned up his mess and took the blame for the broken items.

"Don't try arguing with me." Carter drags his thumb over my skin and presses the tip against my parted lips. "As your friend, I can't abandon you. Trust me, nothing can be worse than what I've seen in a locker room. Or with the twins," he says with a raised brow, and I'd smile at his jest, but everything seems desolate these days.

Dropping his hands, he straightens, and my gaze wanders the room, catching on the bottom of a bottle peeking out from under a couch cushion. Squatting, I flip the cushion and grab the empty whiskey bottle.

"You don't have to do this," I say, my fingers choking the bottle's neck.

His jaw sets. "Bedroom?"

Leaving the bottle, I lead the way down the short hallway. Or, semi-lead, since Carter is glued to my back, his arm around my waist, and his palm flat against my stomach. With the whiskey as proof of what went on this afternoon, the weight in my stomach dissolves. Dad got drunk, got pissed, and got vengeance—or he assumes he did by trashing the living room. Is his anger geared toward me? Her? Or life in general?

Glass crunches beneath our shoes with each step, and the cause offers a hint to his intended target. The family photos which lined these walls now litter the floor.