It’s probably best he doesn’t hear me.
Chapter seventeen
Lance
“Hazel, I know you’re fucking in there.”
The booming voice startles me from sleep. We arrived back at Katie’s late last night, wanting to delay our return to reality as long as possible. My brain is clouded from the late drive home, but that bellow cuts clean through the peace. For a second, I think I’m dreaming—who the hell is Hazel? The mind can play funny tricks on you when you’re half-conscious.
“Fucking hell, Hazel! Open the bloody door before I break it down. You owe me bitch!”
No dream. That voice is real. Someone is actually outside.
I reach for Katie. She’s not there. Shit.
Yanking myself out of bed, I wrap a towel around my waist and follow the shouting. The irate man hurls expletives like grenades. My adrenaline surges. Fists tensing, prepared for battle. Whoever he is, he’s not stopping.
A glance at the clock tells me it’s 3 a.m. Of course, this asshole picks the middle of the night for his vendetta. A vendetta against a woman who doesn’t bloody live here.
Katie is nowhere to be seen, so I sprint downstairs, heart in my throat.
I find her crumpled against the front door, knees drawn up, head in her hands, sobbing. Shaking like a gazelle under a lion’s gaze.
Then the man roars again.
“Hazel, if you don’t open this fucking door. I’m going to break it down! I’ll fucking kill you this time!”
My blood runs cold. I’ve heard men like that before.
Too many times, they’ve proven they mean it.
I drop beside her. “Katie, what’s going on? Do you know that nutcase?”
She nods, once. Every part I love about her, her joy, her exuberance, gone in a beat. She’s no more than a quivering rabbit in car headlights, bracing themselves for impact.
“Who’s Hazel?” I whisper, confused.
Her face lifts; eyes wrecked with tears.
“Me. I’m Hazel. And that’s my ex-husband. He’s back to collect what’s his. I’ll never be rid of him.”
She breaks down completely. Her body shakes in my grasp. My arms tighten, a vain attempt to hold the shattered pieces together. To protect her from not only the horror outside, but the memories it triggers.
I move to get up. “I’m opening the door.”
“No, Lance,” she screams in a whisper, grabbing my hand. “Don’t go out there. He’s unhinged. I can’t live with myself if he hurts you.”
Her fear makes me pause, but my anger’s more powerful. With a hard exhale, I move to peek out of the living room window.
A man stands on the path. His eyes locked on the front door. His expensive business suit and fancy sports car parked out on the drive look as if he’s just walked out of a boardroom. All the traits of a corporate psychopath. The most dangerous kind.
“Don’t let him see you,” she hisses.
“Katie, he’s just a man. I’m double his size.” My voice comes out cool, distant. A lot colder than I intend. But right now, all I can think of is what else has she lied about? Her name. Her history.
Is she even divorced?
“I’ll go and get rid of him. Then we have to talk, properly,” I mutter.