“Seeing as you can’t remember a thing. Your therapist calling around looking for answers isn’t going to win hearts and minds. Thanks for that, by the way. My cousin got a kick out of it when he answered the phone. He took careful notes. You’re a stupid fuck, Ralls. And so is your whore of a girlfriend.”
They call it fight-or-flight for a reason.
I lunge at him.
Forty-One
Daphne
The next sixty seconds are the longest of my life. I've seen fights on TV. Men circling each other, building the drama before a punch is thrown.
This is not that. This is Rickie hurtling at Reardon, crashing him to the asphalt, fists flying. This is Reardon letting out a warlike shout and then going silent again when Rickie smashes a fist into his mouth.
His rage steals my breath. Thick, choking rage. Rickie is a blur. His fists land several times before Reardon can mount a defense, punching Rickie so hard that his head snaps back.
The fight only burns hotter. Rickie pushes Reardon to the pavement and punches once. Twice. The sound of his fist colliding with Reardon's face is terrifying. He hits him again and my fear is so sharp that I can feel bile climbing my throat. "Rickie!” I shriek.
Miraculously, he freezes.
I don’t breathe at all for the next few seconds, as Rickie staggers to his feet.
Then I see Reardon move. And for one awful moment I think I've made a horrible mistake, placing Rickie at a disadvantage.
But Reardon only rolls to his hands and knees, his head dropped. “You will fucking pay," he spits. And there’s blood dripping down his formerly perfect cheek.
On autopilot, I grab the keys to the Volvo out of the passenger door. "Get in," I snap at Rickie.
And Rickie does. There's blood on his lip, and a wild look in his eye. But I block out the image of that blood. And I don’t even look at Reardon. Stiffly, I walk around and open the driver's door, sliding in behind the wheel.
With shaking hands I start the car. My breath is coming fast. I feel as though I'm watching a movie of someone else's life as I look carefully over my shoulder to check for obstacles before I back out.
When I look back at Reardon before pulling away, he's covering his face with two hands. But I can still see his eyes. And the rage in them is on a plane I’ve never seen before in my life.
I’ve never been so scared. But I’m angry, too. And that anger fuels me as I press down on the accelerator and get the hell out of that parking lot.
An hour later we're cruising up 91. I’m still too angry to breathe. But I’m no longer driving.
First, I’d made a stop at the inn.
"I can't go inside with you," Rickie had said when I pulled in. His delivery had been flat and cold, which terrified me almost as much as watching him try to kill Reardon. "Get your things. Don't speak to anyone if you can avoid it. Leave the key in the room but don't check out at the desk."
I’d cut the engine and turned to look at him. His lip was bloody and already swelling, along with one eyebrow.
But the worst evidence of the fight was the look he held in those beautiful gray eyes. It was nothingness. Like someone had drained all the Rickie right out of him.
I'd been in shock myself. I'd gone upstairs and retrieved my things exactly as he'd suggested, leaving the key on the unused bed.
When I'd returned to the Volvo he was sitting in the driver's seat dry-swallowing a couple of aspirin. His mouth was no longer bleeding.
"Are you really okay to drive?" I’d asked, tossing my bag in the back. He hadn't even answered. He'd just started the engine.
Now we’re driving up the right lane at a startlingly cautious sixty-four miles per hour in absolute silence, Rickie's eyes never leaving the road.
And I'm practically climbing out of my skin. “What happened ?" I finally gasp. “Do you remember Reardon?”
“Yes,” he grunts.
"If you remembered him, you should have said something. You should have stayed home."
At first I think he won't respond. But after a long beat, he does. "I was never letting you tangle with him alone."
My anger notches up another couple of levels, and my voice goes high with hysteria. “Oh, so this is better? Watching you try to kill him? Everything is fucked. He'll tell the dean I broke into his office,