51. Rhett

Chapter 51

Rhett

" L ook, Fable. It's not what you think," I practice as I walk across the yard. "We're not drug lords. We're just drug traffickers. Big difference." I groan at my words. "No. That sounds fucking bad. I can't say that shit."

I run a hand through my hair in frustration. I don't know how to approach this situation, but it's better to be me tell the story rather than the others. Colt is likely to make things worse than he already has. Trent will gloss over too many details. And Gunnar, Gunnar doesn't know the whole story, not like I do. Because really, this is all my fault. We're here because of me, not because of anyone else. I was a stupid kid, a desperate one, and part of me thought I wouldn't live to see this day come where Circle Bee was sustaining itself without the drugs, but here we are.

And now there's no way out.

"You're a fucking idiot," I tell myself.

Not even just because of the drug stuff, but because of Fable. I thought I could just fuck her out of my system and walk away like I've always done, but there's something about the woman that threads its way through you when you spend time with her. I'd started these thirty days looking for fun and entertainment. Now, I don't care whether this is all fate or not. If it's not, I'll wrap my own red thread around her pinky and tie it so tight she ain't ever gonna escape it.

Part of me wants to whoop Colt's ass for doing this. But another part of me, a darker part of me, wants to thank him. Because if I can find a way to keep Fable here, I'm going to. I may have a hard time saying it out loud, but I've decided she belongs here. Apparently, we all have, but this may have been the wrong way to go about it. Surely, we could have just asked her to stay.

But. . .

There's no way she wouldn't have found out eventually. She's a smart woman, and she was already suspicious. We barely kept it a secret as long as we have.

I growl and leap up onto the cabin porch. I make quick work of the padlock Trent had slapped on the outside and go to grab the knob, but I hesitate. Wincing, I reach up and knock on the door instead, figuring that's probably a better approach than just barging in. Plus, she may be prepared with something heavy. I really don't want to get brained by a sewing machine.

When she doesn't answer, I frown and knock again. "Fable? Can we talk?"

Nothing.

"I'm coming in," I say. "Please don't hit me over the head with a frying pan or something."

I turn the knob and slowly ease the door open. Nothing comes flying through the air to hit me, so I push it open the rest of the way. My eyes immediately go to the center of the room. Fable is lying in the fetal position on the floor, Jethro whining beside her. She's shaking, damn near convulsing, her breathing so erratic, I wonder how she's getting any air.

"Fuck," I groan, rushing inside. "Hey, Fable. Look at me. Shh, I've got you."

She doesn't respond, too lost to her panic attack, and I curse myself for letting her get thrown in here. Of course she'd panic. Of course she'd think we were about to fucking kill her or something. My chest tightens as I drop to my ass and pull her into my lap. She doesn't react to me, but she starts to gasp out words between her breaths.

"All. Your. Fault. Should. Be. Here. Jinx. Jinx."

Her eyes focus unseeing across the room. My fingers curl into her hair and stroke.

"It's me. Rhett. Fable, it's Rhett," I try.

But she just keeps talking to Jinx as if she's in the room with us.

When I was younger, I used to have panic attacks. My mom used to sing to me, and then when she was gone, Gunnar tried his best to do the same. Every single one of them has sung to me at some point, Trent's badly out of tune songs and Colt's ability to only sing one song have always helped even when it pissed me off that they had to do it. My chest squeezes. Despite all the shit we've been in, I really do have the best of friends. Right now, I can do the same for Fable.

I start to sing, softly at first but growing in volume when her shaking starts to ease. I sing a simple country song at first and when that one ends, I start singing another, a love song I used to hear my dad sing to my mom. Her breathing starts to slow, until she's able to calm her racing heart. I keep singing for long after she starts to uncurl, long after she's able to look up at me, her eyes red and puffy, her face pale. When color barely starts to grace her cheeks, I look down and slowly trail off.

I run my hand along her cheek, stroke my thumb over it. "Let me explain," I whisper. "Before you condemn us. Before you call the cops." I swallow. "Please."