50. Chapter Forty Nine

Chapter Forty Nine

D aybreak blends into sunset beyond the closed curtains. Days and nights become irrelevant. There is only Huxley and his needs. Wash his wound, change his dressings, plump his cushions. We've watched so many seasons of multiple shows, they've all blended into each other. I can't keep up with the characters, and I can forget the plot lines. But Huxley is distracted. That's all that matters.

In the moments he drifts to sleep and I'm too restless, I turn to my mom's diary. I've read it front to back, back to front and twice more for good measure. It wasn't until I really looked, I realized why there's a sudden change in her mood. A tiny crease along the spine's edge, so close I missed it on first inspection. There are pages missing.

It was a guy she met by accident, an offered umbrella in the pouring rain. A meal at a diner when her car had broken down. Rich people don't carry wallets, shouldn't drive between shoots alone. But that was my mom, stubbornly independent. She wrote how she would manufacture pockets of time to herself, the car windows down as she belted songs and became lost from a demanding world.

He'd been so kind to her - this man who didn't recognize her face. Who didn't ask for a photo or autograph. She described how he looked at her, as if the world started and ended in her eyes. How Nixon hadn't looked at her in years. He opened the door, offering his hand to aid her over a muddy puddle. She left with his coat, his phone number and a notion that the man who called the recovery van somehow saw something in her that everyone else missed.

She called him that night. They spoke for hours. Their affair didn't start for months, in my mom's opinion. I would question whether weekly luncheons and dinners in the back of dim restaurants would constitute the start of an affair. Darkened movie theater rendezvous' turned to hotel rooms. The rush, the excitement. It was all so out of character for the woman I knew, but she was young. Everywhere my mom went, eyes were on her. Photos were taken, gossip was whispered. This was her escape. He was her escape .

I skim the upcoming descriptions of lustful nights. Mom wasn't shy, she detailed every sordid, incriminating detail. So why did she feel the need to remove those pages? A familiar prickle filters up the back of my spine. Maybe she didn't. Maybe someone else did.

A shadow appears at the edge of Huxley's door, a soft ‘psst' causing me to lift my head. Dax beckons me. I tuck the diary beneath the pillow and slip out without disturbing Huxley.

"What's up?" I whisper once in the hallway. Pale light streams in through the window at the end of the hallway, no longer blocked by the trees' foliage. Fall has stripped the branches of their leaves. Standing in sweatpants, sneakers and a hoodie, Dax is joined by Axel and Garrett.

"We're going for a morning run," he runs a hand over his short, blond afro. "And thought you might like to join us. Get some fresh air." My eyes slide back to the door. I tug on the long sleeve of my pajama top.

"He'll be fine, Little Swan," Axel takes my hand. "Wyatt is lurking nearby. If Huxley needs anything, Wyatt can take the brunt of his bad mood." I chew on my bottom lip, not fully convinced. It's true, Huxley's moods have been awful in the times I've stepped out and he's woken alone. Beginning to retract my hand, Axel holds it firmer. "Avery, sweetheart, come jog with us.

"Huxley needs me. It's my fault he was injured." I breathe harshly. Axel's hazel eyes are understanding yet firm .

"You didn't have your finger on the trigger, nor did you jump in front of a loaded gun. And you're not moping around with a healed wound, making sure everyone keeps tiptoeing around." Dax steps forward, his tanned features etched with concern.

"You need some space from him." I close my eyes briefly, nodding. They're right. I know they're right.

"Not to mention, you need exercise," Garrett leans against the opposite wall and picks at his nails. "All that takeout in bed is going to be a nightmare for your dance partner to lift in the showcase."

"Yeah, thanks Garrett. I get it." Tugging my hand from Axel's, I walk away and enter my bedroom. A wash and quick change later, I emerge in leggings and a sweater, my hair bundled into a high ponytail. The boys are waiting at the bottom of the stairs, where I steal the chocolate pastry from Garrett's hand and take an aggressive bite in his face. He grins and smacks my ass on the way out.

The boys let me set the pace, although they choose the route. I would suspect they've taken this same jog many times before, given the synchronized way they herd me from one road to the next. The cool morning air fills my lungs, a crisp burn I instantly welcome.

We're nearing the edge of campus, but my focus is on the unique presences surrounding me. Each of the guys have their long, athletic legs. Their arms pumping, their stamina well trained. Garrett's messy hair is damp from a pre-run shower, Axel wearing a hint of cologne. Dax tracks his steps on his smart watch, his lean frame flanking me protectively. A smile warms my cheeks. They were right; I really did need this. Not just the exercise, but the break from the frat house. From Huxley.

My mind is blank. Quiet even. There is only the thump of sneakers on tarmac. The heavy breaths clouding in front of our faces. Exertion revives my limbs. A long road, a peaceful backdrop. It's this false sense of serenity which delays my reaction to a flash of light in the corner of my eye. Then another, and another. Bodies bundle through alleyways, between houses and amongst the shrubs. A swarm of cameras and microphones are angled towards my face.

"There she is! Miss Hughes! Over here!"

They come from all angles, a van pulling up in front to block the road. A flurry of lights blinds me. The noise cracks like a whip through the serenity, alerting anyone in the vicinity to our presence. The demands, the shouting.

"Miss Hughes, look this way!"

"Let us get a picture with your jogging partners!"

I cover my ears but the questions continue to leak through.

"Is it true a group of masked men broke into your home to kidnap you?"

"Are you worried there will be another attempt on your life?"

"Mr. Vaughn took a bullet for you. Does that mean you're romantically involved?"

"Miss Hughes, why is Nixon refusing to help the police with their investigation?"

Hands grip my waist. At first, I jerk out but the arms band around me tighter, pulling me through the horde of bodies. I'm bundled into Axel's and Dax's side, whilst Garrett steps away to give the press something to report. I hear a whole load of cursing, followed by a crash and a further round of shouting. He's laughing when he catches up to us. Our jog back to the house isn't peaceful. It's a race, us against those who take chase. Tires skid against the tarmac. Within seconds, the van is rolling alongside us, filming and whistling for my attention. Dax strips out of his hoodie mid-stride and throws it over my head .

Wyatt appears in the doorway of the frat house, his brows furrowed. We rush inside, nudging him out of the way. I collapse in the lobby, hand on my chest as the door is slammed closed. But that doesn't stop the vultures. Camera's flash, shouted questions continue and that's when I realize - Wyatt is still outside. His outline is visible through the frosted glass, his commanding demeanor quieting the raucous. I crawl forward, despite the hands which grab for me. The Shadowed Souls mean well, but I won't hide away while Wyatt slates me to the press. Those are not headlines I'll allow. Pushing up onto my knees, I peer at the bodies flooding the front lawn.

"Mr. Hughes, is your sister safe under your protection?" a woman calls, bravely taking a step from the rest. Wyatt reaches out and snatches the microphone from her hand. Here it comes. The part where Wyatt tells the world how pathetic and weak I am.

"I believe Avery was safe under my protection, until you parasites just offered her to the kidnappers on a silver platter. Why don't you do us all a favor and fuck off? There's no story for you here." There's a moment of silence before the shouting kicks off again, cameras flashing as Wyatt throws the microphone into the crowd. He turns to the door and I scramble back, catching his attention through the glass. His pause seems to last an eternity, then the ghost of a smirk touches his mouth and he looks back over his shoulder .

"Oh, and she's not my fucking sister."

I don't wait around anymore. I'm shaking with anger. A ruined run. A public disowning. Which one am I more upset about? But none of it matters. Wyatt is right - if the men who broke into the manor didn't know where I was, they sure will now. I climb the stairs, leaving the rest of the curious glances behind.

Entering Huxley's room, I shed my clothes, eager to dive back beneath the sheets. Why did I think leaving was a good idea? Tearing at my socks, I pause, noticing the bedside light is on. He's propped up, his blond hair disheveled. Topless, broad, the sheet pooled at his waist. In his large hands is my mother's diary, his thumb nudged between the open pages.

"What are you doing?" I ask, slowing to a standstill. "That's…it's not yours."

"When are you going to tell Wyatt that Nixon might not be his father?" Huxley asks, his brown gaze steady. I swallow hard, then I'm rushing forward. For a man who's supposed to still be injured, he's swift, holding the diary out of reach. I dive over his legs, straddling him.

"Huxley! Give it to me!" I push his head aside. His arm around my hips is an iron band, rooting me in his lap. I'm careful to avoid his shoulder, soon succumbing to the hug he draws me into .

"You have to tell him," Huxley says against my hair. Slowly, he pushes the diary into my hand. I hug it between us, clinging onto my mom's words. Such simple words, belying actions which she couldn't have foreseen would cause so much pain, anguish and drama .

Do I wish I had been adopted by any other couple? Definitely not, but that doesn't change anything now. The only mom I ever had is gone. The only family member I have left is across the country, ignoring my calls, refusing to consult with the police. I sigh.

"You're wrong, Hux. I don't owe Wyatt anything."