51. Wes

Chapter fifty-one

Wes

T he chill from the fridge hits me as I pull out the containers holding my lunch. I peer over my shoulder at Layne who sits at the counter reading her book and sipping a cup of tea. She looks lost in her head, even though she stares at her Kindle. I haven’t seen her swipe to turn the page. This is killing me. I just want to fix whatever needs to be fixed. I just don’t know how.

“Alright, Ma Petite Mort . I’m heading out. Bring your sexy ass over here and give me a kiss.“ I tease, motioning with my outstretched finger for her to come here.

“Make me.” She says, glaring at me from behind her Kindle. I see Bratty Layne is coming out in full force this morning.

“Make you what, a mom, baby? Don’t fuck with me Layne, I’ll tie your ass up so fast and keep you so full of my cum that there would need to be divine intervention to keep you from getting pregnant again. Stop bratting and drop the attitude unless you want me to fix it for you.” I say, leaning over to peck her cheek. “I’ll be home early today because I’ll be doing stuff out in the field. How about I bring home dinner?”

The words hang in the air between us as Layne’s eyes narrow at me. I immediately regret my choice of words, realizing that I’ve crossed a line. She probably isn’t ready for me to bring up being pregnant again. A wave of guilt washes over me, battling with the frustration that has been building up inside me.

Stepping back, my voice softens. “Fuck, I’m sorry, Layne. I shouldn’t have said that.”

I reach out to her arm with a gentle touch, hoping that she will sense my sincerity. “I just... wasn’t thinking.”

Fuck. Nice job, Wes. Way to fuck up right before you leave her for a day of work.

Layne looks at me, her expression not changing. She puts her Kindle down and takes a deep breath. “I know you’re just trying to have things go back to normal, but I’m just not ready to joke about it. It still fucking hurts, Wes.”

Her words hit me like a knife to the heart. “I know, Baby. I know it still hurts. Let me hold you. Fuck, I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry, Layne.”

She lets me hug her, wrapping her arms loosely around my middle. “Just go to work, Wes. I’ll see you when you get home.” Layne pushes her stool back and tilts her face up so I can kiss her. Her hands grip the collar of my hoodie tightly as she kisses me. Layne’s kiss is ravenous, as if it’s the last time she’ll see me. Her tongue dances with mine. A kiss like this would typically lead to sex, but I am already behind schedule.

Reluctantly, I break away from Layne’s passionate kiss, my desire for her consuming me. But fucking work, and I can’t afford to be late. With a lingering touch on her cheek, I whisper, “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” I grab my lunch containers and head towards the door, feeling the weight of my mistake hanging heavy in the air.

As I step outside, the cool bay breeze brushes against my face, momentarily distracting me from the tension that still lingers between Layne and me. I take a deep breath, trying to clear my mind, knowing that I need to focus on my work for the day.

Driving to the address of my target, Kolya Ivanov, my thoughts drift back to Layne and the delicate balance we’re trying to maintain. We’ve been through so much together, and the loss is breaking us. I can’t help but feel a sense of guilt for triggering Layne’s pain with my ill-timed joke.

Parking nearby, I wait and watch for Ivanov. This guy is supposedly the contact for the Bratva in Russia. We’ve tapped their phones, and it’s only a matter of time now. Hours pass, and I only followed him back to the deli in Little Russia. Ivanov has stayed there the whole day, a barrage of Bratva members coming and going. Never any women or young girls.

Driving home, my mind races with thoughts of how to mend the rift between Layne and I. I know it won’t be easy, but Layne’s happiness is worth every effort. My phone pings like crazy as I hit the Market Street. Stopped at a red light, I unlock my phone and hit the new messages.

Layne: Loving me must be so fucking hard and I’m so fucking sorry, Wes. I’m sorry I couldn’t love myself the way you loved me.

Loved. What the fuck does she mean “loved?”

The second message is from Atlas.

Atlas: I think something’s wrong with Layne, Wes. I got a really weird message from her. Overly sappy and her telling me she’s sorry for everything. Are you close by to check on her or should I go?

FUCK!

The light turns green and I hit the gas. Fuck the speed limit. Nothing else matters right now. I call Layne’s phone, praying she picks up.

The phone rings and rings, going directly to voicemail.

“It’s Layne. You know what to do.” *Beep*

“Baby, please pick up the phone. I love you so much, Ma Petite Mort . Please, whatever the fuck you’re thinking, don’t. I’m almost home.“ I weave in and out of traffic, going well above the speed limit to get home. “Please baby, please don’t hurt yourself.”

I’m five minutes away and another text message comes through.

Layne: I’ll come back to haunt you. I love you to death.

My heart pounds in my chest, my palms sweaty and trembling as fear courses through my veins. The weight of Layne’s words hangs heavily around in the air, suffocating me with the feeling of desperation. The road blurs before me, tears welling up in my eyes, threatening to spill over.

I can’t fucking lose her.

Each passing second feels like an eternity as I navigate the streets, my mind consumed by a whirlwind of thoughts. How did it come to this? How did Layne reach such a dark place? Guilt gnaws at my conscience, questioning if I could have done more, loved harder, to prevent this anguish from taking hold.

I reach the familiar intersection before the property, the red light mocking my urgency. Impatience bubbles up within me, begging me to run the light, to ignore the consequences in favor of reaching Layne’s side. My foot taps anxiously on the gas pedal, my breathing shallow and rapid.

My phone buzzes again, jolting me from my thoughts. Another text from Atlas, the desperation in his words palpable. The realization that I may not make it in time to ensure Layne’s safety grips me like a vice. Panic courses through my body, intensifying the adrenaline coursing through my veins.

I press harder on the accelerator, my car darting through traffic like a desperate soul seeking redemption. The world outside becomes a blur of lights and colors, my focus solely fixated on reaching Layne before it’s too late.

As the minutes tick by, I can’t shake off the haunting words of Layne’s message. The thought of losing her, of her becoming nothing more than a ghostly presence in my life, chills me to the core. I clutch the steering wheel tighter, my knuckles turning white as I shift gears, the weight of the situation bears down on me.

Finally, my driveway comes into view, the familiarity of the surroundings offering a glimmer of hope. But the tension remains, the uncertainty of what awaits me behind closed doors. I dial Layne’s number once more, my voice trembling with desperation as I plead for her to answer.

Silence greets me, her voicemail message echoing in my ears like a haunting reminder of what could be lost. The lump in my throat grows, threatening to choke me as I pour every ounce of love and desperation into my message.

The car screeches to a halt in front of our house, my heart pounding in my ears as I rush out, barely registering the speed limit sign I’ve ignored. The front door swings open, and I race inside, calling out Layne’s name with a mix of fear and hope.

The air hangs heavy with uncertainty, the echoes of Layne’s haunting words lingering in my mind. I pray that I’m not too late, that I can find her, hold her, and convince her that the love we share is worth fighting for.