Page 63 of Wanting Wentworth

I draw.

In an attempt to prove to myself that I’m not obsessed, I wake up before sunrise and make myself breakfast. After that, I throw my running shoes on and force myself to take three laps around the lake before I strip naked and jump into the warm belly of it. After that, I call Con for an update and send Delilah a text message, letting her know I’m okay. It’s only after I’ve gone through my see, I’m not obsessed with Kaitlyn Barrett checklist, do I finally allow myself to do what I really want to do.

I draw her.

And because no matter what I try to convince myself of, I am obsessed, I don’t make myself stop until I hear Damien’s truck pull up in front of the house in the early evening, for dinner.

“He told everyone after church on Sunday that he and Kait hit a deer on the way home from the Saddle, Friday night.” Standing at the grill on the back porch, Damien flips the steaks he brought over, angling them just right in order to get the perfect grill mark. He looks just like our father while he does it but I don’t tell him that. Instead, I lift one of the beers he brought over to my mouth and take a long drink. Setting it down, I shake my head.

“Why would he do that?” The morning after Damien and I took her home, I was sure Kait’s fiancé would show up. Come looking for whoever got the better of him in the woods that night or at least a clue as to who that someone might be. Truth be told, I was hoping he would. I’ve been hoping he’d show up looking for me so I’d get to finish what I started and break his goddamned neck. Hearing Damien tell me that Brock’s chosen to cover up what really happened with a made-up story about hitting a deer pisses me off and confuses me in equal measure.

“Knowing Brock, either to save face or because he’s biding his time.” Damien flicks me a quick scowl before he flips and angles the steaks again. “Probably both.”

“And Kait?” I’ve done my best not to ask about her, mostly because I don’t want to answer any of the questions I’ve seen on his face since Saturday morning when he found her sitting on the dock in nothing but one of my T-shirts. “She’s just going along with it?” I don’t know why, but the thought of it bothers me.

“She doesn’t have much choice.” Flicking me another look before he takes a pull from his own beer, Damien shrugs. “If she tells people what really happened, they’re going to want to know who you are and where you came from—and those are just the few people who might believe her. The rest will call her a flat-out liar.”

“So, she’s doing it for me?” I shake my head, the thought of it turning my stomach. “She’s keeping quiet about what he tried to do to her because—”

“No.” Damien shakes his head. Reaching for one of the plates stacked next to the grill, he slides one of the T-bones onto it because he’s learned over the last few weeks how I like my steaks. Leaving his on the grill for a little longer, he gives me a one-shoulder shrug. “Not entirely.” Looking up from the grill, he must see the scowl on my face because he sighs. “Things are different here, Went. The way people think. The way they handle things.” Offering me the plate with my steak on it, he practically shoves it into my hand. “She can’t just go down to the police station and file a police report.”

“Why not?” taking the plate from his hand, I practically throw it on the patio table where we usually eat.

“Because Brock’s uncle is the town constable.” He looks at me like I’m stupid. Like I don’t understand and never will. “Because his cousin is the deputy. Because she still has to marry him and live in this town after you leave.”

Now I want to pick up the plate and throw it across the back porch.

“Okay.” Jaw clenched, I give him a single, stiff nod. “I get it. We can just—”

“It’s official—Brock proposed to her yesterday at the church picnic.” Mouth set in a grim line, he stares at the grill and shakes his head. “So, no—I don’t think you do get it.” Plating his own steak, he turns the grill off. “You’re going to be gone, sooner rather than later, Went. You’ll be gone and whatever is going on between the two of you will be over but she’ll still be here. She’ll get left behind—so don’t judge her for how she chooses to survive.”

It's Monday.

My third Monday here.

I only have one more left.

It hits me hard—the idea that I’ll be gone in a few weeks and seeing Kait won’t even be an option. Won’t even be a maybe. I don’t like the way it makes me feel so I do what I do. I deny it.

“There’s nothing going on between us.” I shake my head, trying like hell to sell the lie. “Kait and I barely know each other.”

“You always draw women you barely know?” he asks me, letting me know that as careful as I’ve been, I haven’t been careful enough. When all I do is stare at him, Damien sighs. “I saw the two of you together. I was there, remember? I saw you kiss her while you were sitting on the dock.” When I open my mouth to deny it, he shakes his head. “It’s the one thing I asked you to do—stay away from her. Don’t use her as a distraction because you’re stuck up here and bored. Don’t start something you’re going to just walk away from as soon as something better comes along, but you did it anyway.” I’d have to be an idiot to miss the implications of what he’s saying because it’s exactly what our father did to his mother. Made her fall in love with him. Promised her forever and then left her, pregnant and alone, as soon as my mother, the wealthy, beautiful hotel heiress, crooked her finger.

“That’s not what I’m doing,” I tell him, trading one denial for another. “We’re friends. I already told you. Kait and I are just friends. There’s nothing going on between us—and I didn’t kiss her. I just—”

“Kissed her.” Instead of reassuring him, my denial only seems to disappoint him. “You kissed her—maybe you’ve more than kissed her. I don’t know…” Swiping a rough hand over his face, Damien shakes his head on a sigh. “But whatever’s happening, whatever’s going on with you two, I know Kait—it’s not nothing to her and if you don’t end it before it gets out of hand, she’s going to be the one who gets left behind to pick up the pieces.”

THIRTY-SIX

Wentworth

I wake up to a text from Conner:

Con: Brian Maxwell’s taken a turn for the worse. He’s in surgery right now. I’ll keep you posted.

Shit.

Me: Should I come back to LA?

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