She blows out a breath, and I close my eyes wanting to crawl inside myself. “It’s bad. Like Internet frenzy, social media everywhere, reporters will be at the gate for some time, type of bad.”

“Fuck.” One word says it all for me.

“That’s kind of what got you in this position so maybe we should choose a different word.”

I turn my head to look at her, not amused at all despite the exasperated smile turning up the corners of my mouth. “How about bullshit?”

“That’s a good one. You’ve definitely stepped in it.”

“Did you watch it?” I ask, because she is the one person who’s going to give me the truth and not sugarcoat things. She nods her head slowly, serious eyes holding mine. “And?”

“It’s definitely you and Colton, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says, cutting straight to the chase and causing my stomach to churn. I know she is holding back a flippant comment—“a damn, girl” or “a holy hotness”—and I appreciate her restraint.

“Did Colton tell you about the whole . . . everything yesterday?”

“Yes,” she states matter-of-factly and looks back toward the ocean beyond.

“Why? Why would someone do this to us, Had?”

“If I had one guess, I’d say money,” she muses, “but that’s what I don’t understand. If it was all about the money, wouldn’t the person sell the tape to make a bazillion dollars? The only thing that makes sense is someone seriously wants to fuck with you guys.”

I want to cry. I want to sob. To rage. However, I push the heels of my hands over my eyes and just press them there, hoping they miraculously hold back the tears. Because as screwed up as it is in my mind, I feel like if I cry—if one tear leaks over—then this is really real. This isn’t a nightmare I’m going to wake from.

“This can’t be happening,” I say to no one and everyone.

“Colton’s worried about you,” she says softly. “Wants to talk to you.”

“He should be,” I snip and then wince. “Look.” I sigh. “I know he is but I need to clear my head for a bit before I talk to him. I mean, I have my parents calling and Tanner, and God only knows who else is leaving one of the million messages on my phone. I don’t want to talk to anyone right now.”

“I get it,” she says, as I rest my head back on her shoulder. “But you’re going to need to talk to everyone at some point or else you’re going to explode.”

“I know,” I murmur, closing my eyes and wondering how I’m going to face anyone again. Exploding sounds like a more viable option.

But I can’t.

The baby. I have to focus on our little miracle and not let any of this affect my stress, my health, or my blood pressure because it’s still too early for him or her to come. I have to keep it together. Bury the emotion. Hide from the embarrassment. Push down the pain. Do what it takes.

I have this baby depending on me.

I’m a mom now. My needs come second.


“WHO THE FUCK IS IT, Kelly?” I pinch the bridge of my nose as I stare at my computer screen. Fucking Google and its far-reaching fingers. Pictures upon pictures of Rylee stare back at me. Stills taken from the video. Her body on display for the world to see, and all I can see is red. Rage in my blood, revenge on my mind. Finding the bastard who did this is my only thought so I can plow my fist into his face and then ask why if he’s still conscious.