Page 53 of Because I Liked A Boy
The line goes dead.
The silence swallows me. My gaze skitters around the room, wild. The lamp in the corner—has that always been tilted? The window latch? My chestheaves, panic clawing higher with every corner I check.
My skin crawls. I’m shaking so hard I almost drop the phone.
My thumb hovers over another name—Fuckboy glaring back at me. I shouldn’t. He promised me space.
But I can’t breathe past my father’s voice in my ear.
Before I can stop myself, I hit call.
“Well, well,” Hunter drawls, cocky even through the static. “Didn’t think I’d be hearing from you this soon. Miss me already, princess?”
The laugh that tears out of me is shaky, broken. “Hunter—”
The banter vanishes. His voice sharpens. “What happened?”
“He called. My dad. He knows—about the mum’s, about Ruby, about everything. He’s watching me. I don’t know how—”
“Isabella. Breathe.” His voice slices through the panic. “Slow. In. Out. With me.”
I try, but my chest is still heaving. I yank the curtain shut with trembling fingers.
“Where are you?” he demands.
“Home.” My voice cracks. “I locked the door but—”
“Good. Keep me on the line. Don’t hang up. I’m already in the car.” A door slams, an engine roars. “Check everything. Windows. Back door. Tell me asyou go.”
I stumble from room to room, fumbling bolts, yanking curtains. Each click is too loud, each shadow too sharp.
“Hunter, what if he’s already been in here? What if—”
“Stop. He’s not in there. I’d know.”
“How?”
A beat, then low, certain: “Because you called me. And while you’re on this line, you’re mine to protect.”
My knees almost give out. “I’m scared.”
“I know.” His tone softens. “But nothing touches you while I’m breathing. You hear me? Nothing.”
“Two minutes out,” he adds, voice dropping lower.
Through the line I hear the engine snarl. A horn blares faintly, his muttered curse bleeding through the receiver. He’s driving too fast, but all I feel is relief.
“Hunter—”
“Keep talking. Don’t hang up.”
Headlights sweep across my front window.
“Open the door,” Hunter says. “It’s me.”
I creep to the peephole. And there he is. Not the cocky grin I’m used to, but Hunter Hayes—grease streaked, tattoos ink-dark, overalls slung loose over a clingy t-shirt. A mechanic’s mess, but somehow he looks like salvation.
My fingers tremble as I shove the bolt aside.
