Page 102 of Good Graces

My jaw locks. The words are right there, on the tip of my tongue. I’m not Daniel’s son, so maybe he should take that up with my mother—or, better yet, shut the hell up altogether.

But I don’t say it. Because Beckett’s the kind of guy who feeds off explanations and overreactions, who thrives on getting under your skin. And dragging my family into this? Not worth the energy.

So, I just turn and head straight for my car. I’m already gripping the door handle when I call back over my shoulder, “Oh, and Preston. One more thing—you might want to watch out for sharp objects. I heard some people were popping tires around here.”

His face twitches. Not much, but enough. And for now, that’s all I need.

I slam my door shut, crank the engine, and peel out of the lot, tension coiled tight in my chest.

I should’ve let it go. Should’ve ignored him. But I can still hear Quinn’s voice in my head, quiet and strained when she told me what happened that day. How Beckett crossed a line and then painted her as the one who couldn’t take rejection.

My grip tightens on the steering wheel.

I need to let it go. But the longer I drive, the harder it gets to shake the knot in my chest. That slimy smirk won’t leave my head. Those fighting words are still rattling around by the time I pull into my driveway.

Daniel will get things under control.

Like I’m some stray dog his influence can leash. Like I couldn’t possibly stand on my own two feet without someone else’s name to prop me up. And what’s worse is that, for a second, I almost wished it were true. Almost wished I was Daniel’s son. That I had that kind of buffer between me and the mess I’ve had to carry on my own.

It makes me think of the man I actually belong to. The one I haven’t seen in weeks. He’s been convinced there’s some larger conspiracy ever since he landed at Oakview. First, it was that the nurses were drugging him to keep him quiet. Now, it’s that they’re trying to steal his fifteen-dollar watch.

I need to visit again soon. Something that doesn’t feel like crisis control. Just being there, even if it changes nothing.

I kill the engine, sit, and stew, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping me anchored. My knuckles are white, my breathing still uneven. I tell myself to let it go, that Beckett’s not worth the headspace, but the knot in my chest isn’t budging.

I unlock my phone, half a mind to text Quinn. She’d calm me down or at least distract me long enough to forget. But before I can type out anything coherent, my phone buzzes with a text.

Quinn

boxing. late class. but I want to see you after?

My pulse kicks up, something tight easing in my chest. She’s communicating. She’s letting me in again, even if just a little.

I type out a quickyeah, of courseand lean back against the seat. Try to breathe. Try to settle.

But five minutes later, I’m still sitting there, staring at my screen, restless and strung out. The last thing I feel like doing is stewing in my own head for the next couple of hours. I need to see her—now.

I turn the key and drive toward her apartment. It’s easy to find the gym, just down the street, like she said. Emberline Boxing Co. A squat brick building with fogged-over windows and an old neon sign still buzzing overhead.

I park, kill the engine, and head inside.

The place smells like sweat and rubber mats, the air humid and thick. It’s late enough that the place isn’t packed, but the ring’s still occupied, and a few guys are working the bags along the far wall.

I spot Quinn near the back. She’s dressed in tiny black shorts and a sports bra, her dark hair piled into a slick ponytail. Her face is pink from exertion, her arms flexing with every jab.

She looks good—really fuckin’ good—but it’s the way she moves that gets me. Sharp and focused, like she’s siphoning off every last bit of frustration into her fists.

I didn’t realize she was this serious about it. She’s not just hitting the bag to blow off steam. She’s training. Every movement’s clean. Controlled. She already looks like a pro.

I hang back near the wall, just watching her for a minute. I guess I should’ve waited for her to text. Should’ve given her the space to finish up without me hovering.

But I couldn’t help myself.

I’m already moving toward her, full steam ahead, when I notice a man standing there, too. Probably the trainer she mentioned, though he doesn’t look the part. Dark curls, piercings, tattoos. He’s got that smug, try-hard look about him, like he spends more time posing in front of a mirror than actually hitting the bag.

And now he’s not just standing beside her. He has one hand on her hip, adjusting her stance, the other lightly tracing down her arm. His fingers flex just a little too long, his thumb grazing her waist.

“Keep your guard up,” he says roughly. “But relax your shoulders. You’re too tight.”

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