Aced

“Ry . . .” The resigned sadness in Teddy’s voice is like pinpricks in an already gaping wound.

“No. It’s okay. It’s fine. I’m just . . . it’s okay,” I reiterate, unsure whether I’m trying to assure him or myself. I know neither of us believes it.

“Quit telling me it’s okay, Rylee, because it’s not. This is bullshit,” he swears into the phone, and I can hear how he feels in the single word that keeps coming up over and over.

“But you’re handcuffed. The boys come first,” I say, immediately hearing Colton’s earlier words said in such a different way. “They always come first, Teddy.”

“Thank you for understanding the situation I’m in.”

I nod my head, unable to speak, and then I realize he can’t see me. The problem is that I don’t understand. I want to rage and scream, tell him this is a railroad because the video does not prevent me from doing my job whatsoever and yet, the die is cast. The video is viral. My job is not mine anymore.

Holy shit. The one constant in my life for as long as I can remember is gone. Talk about going from having a sense of purpose to feeling completely lost in a matter of moments.

How can one video—a single moment in our lives—cause this gigantic ripple effect?

“I need to see the boys one last time.” It’s the only thought I can process.

“I’m sorry, Rylee, but that’s probably not a good idea right now with . . . with everything.”

“Oh.” My plans for them before I took maternity leave are now obsolete; the bond I was building with Auggie will be non-existent when I return.

If I get to return.

The thought hits me harder than anything else. With Teddy still on the line, I drop the phone and run to the bathroom where I empty the contents of my stomach into the toilet.

Within moments I feel Colton’s hands on me: one holding my hair back and the other rubbing up and down the length of my spine in silent reassurance as dry heaves hit me with violent shudders.

“I’m so sorry, Rylee. I know your job and the boys mean the world to you,” he murmurs, as I sit there with my forehead resting on the back of my hand atop the toilet seat.

The first tear slips out; the only show of emotion I allow. I can feel it slide ever so slowly down my cheek. With my eyes closed and the man I love behind me, I allow myself to consider the endless uncertainty.

Is this all about me? And if so, whoever did this just got exactly what they wanted. To devastate me. To take my heart and soul—my boys—away from me. To hand me a punishment capable of breaking me.

Taking Colton or the baby away from me would be the only thing worse they could do. And that sure as hell isn’t going to happen.

I may be down, but I’m not out.

“LET’S HOPE WE NEVER NEED it.”

“It’s strictly a precaution,” I say about the restraining order Rylee just signed at the police station against Eddie Kimball. I flip on my blinker, eyes scanning the rearview mirror to make sure we are still paparazzi-free, as I turn onto the unfamiliar street.

“I still disagree though. You should have one too.”

Nope. Not me. I hope the fucker comes face-to-face with me. Welcome the thought, actually. I’m jonesing for a chance to beat the truth out of him.

“I can more than handle myself,” I state calmly.

Her huff of disapproval is noted and ignored. I drive slowly through the tree-lined streets occasionally leaning over the console toward the passenger seat so I can read the house numbers on her side of the car. And in doing so, I’ve drawn her attention to figure out where we’re going and provided the perfect distraction to get her to drop the topic. For now, at least. I’m sure she’ll bring it up again but for now she’s diverted.

“Last stop,” I say as I pull up when I’ve found the correct house.

“Where are we?” she asks, curiosity in her tone as she cranes her neck to look around us.

“Proving one of us right,” I tell her. “Sit tight.”

I open the door and get out, shutting it on her questions, and walk around the car to the sidewalk. She opens her door and I glance over to her before she can get out. “Don’t.” A single word warning her to stay in the car. Our eyes lock, her temper flashing in hers, but my bite’s bigger and she knows it. So after a moment she mutters something under her breath but shuts the door without getting out.

Fuck if I’m not being an asshole. Like that’s something new. But at the same time, if I’m laying all my cards on the table, it has to be face-to-face. I can’t have the catfight bullshit I’m sure Ry would initiate if she were at my side: a distraction when I’m trying to call Tawny’s bluff.

I check the address once more as I walk up the concrete path, the daggers from Rylee’s glare burning holes into the back of my shoulders. The house is nothing special—a little run-down, flowers in the planters, a red wagon on the porch—and I can’t help but think it’s a long-ass way from the high-rise condo she had the last time I visited her.

I knock on the door. A dog barks nearby. I shift my feet. Take my sunglasses off because I want there to be no mistaking what I’m saying and how I mean it. Let’s get this done and fucking over with. Problem is when all’s said and done, I have a feeling I might be eating a little crow for Rylee, and I’ve heard it tastes like shit.

I should know better by now. Ry’s usually right when it comes to this kind of thing. Only one way to find out.

I knock again. Look over my shoulder to where Rylee sits in the car, window down, head tilted to the side as she tries to figure out what in the fuck I’m doing.