Too Hard: Chapter 12

MUFFLED YELLS SEEP INTO my otherwise peaceful condo while I spread out on the couch, watching the Singapore Grand Prix practice session, my hair damp as I text back and forth with Mia.

Her favorite driver hit the wall at the third turn… she’s not pleased with my comments.

I sit up, eyeing my door as if that’ll let me hear better, but I can’t make out any more sounds.

Bug: That was unfair! Your guy pushed him off the track. If this was the race, he’d get a five-second penalty.

Me: He left him enough room.

Another sound reaches my ears, and I sit up again. It’s hard to make out, but someone’s definitely shouting. A man judging by the baritone. The words are muffled, nothing but gibberish hitting my ears. It’s clear where they’re coming from, though—Blair’s condo.

I mute the TV, trying to hear better.

“Get out! Get out now!” Blair wails loud enough to carry through the walls.

And bang! Something heavy hits the ground. Glass shatters. Then again, and again, and my heartrate soars.

I dash to the entryway as the noises intensify. Through the peephole, I spot a man in a suit standing in Blair’s doorway.

“Enough!” he barks, the word laced with brutal disdain. “You’re acting like a fucking child, and that won’t fly with me. You should know better by now. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight. Wear what I gave you, and fucking behave. Tonight was unacceptable.” He slams the door, marching down the hallway, shoulders squared, fists clenched.

Without thinking, I yank my door open. The guy turns, his eyebrows furrowing.

“What the hell’s going on?” I ask.

He shoots me a scowl, his lips meshed into a hard line until his eyes spark with recognition. He reins in his temper, face turning neutral faster than I can blink. “This doesn’t concern you, Mr. Hayes.”

So he knows who I am. Of course he does. Fucking perfect. It’d be great if I knew who he is. He looks young. Thirty, maybe thirty-five, and vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.

“I think it does concern me, considering I live next door.”

“My apologies for disturbing your night,” he drawls, weighing every word like a British aristocrat but without the accent. “It was a genuine misunderstanding. Please give my best to your brother.”

Which brother? dances on the tip of my tongue. I have six, and they each have about six million friends. It’s not easy to guess who he means, but a quick appraisal of his bespoke suit hints that this guy has more money than common sense, which suggests he’s friends with Nico. That would explain why he looks familiar. I must’ve seen him with my brother somewhere.

Not waiting for anything else on my part, he bobs his head once in a respectful gesture and stalks away, disappearing behind the corner.

I stand there, wondering whether I should check on Blair. There was something in her voice… a sense of despair that’s hard to ignore no matter how much I want not to give a shit.

Seems I’ll always give a shit if a woman’s hurting.

You’ll regret this, I think as I take four steps and stop before her door, quietly knocking three times.

Nothing.

Complete, utter stillness. Not one sound from inside, even though I know she’s there. Gritting my teeth, I knock again, my knuckles barely tapping the wood.

Nothing.

She probably doesn’t want to talk, but at least I fucking tried not to be an asshole. With a clear conscience, I turn back toward my condo when her door creeps open.

Anger simmers in my chest as I take her in. The tears streaming down her cheeks are like an invisible hand gripping my throat.

She’s bleeding. Crying. Choking. A helpless, barefoot mess dressed in red. She’s not wearing a bra. The almost see-through fabric of her dress is so thin I can make out the exact shape of her areolas. She covers herself up as best she can using both arms, but all it does is add to her vulnerability.

Her complexion matches that hooker-styled dress, cheeks glowing either from anger or the effort it took to smash half her glassware. A used-to-be-white, now soaked, crimson rag is wrapped around her left hand. Blood marks her cheek, neck, forehead…

More seeps from two small cuts on her knee, oozing onto the marble floor littered with shards of glass.

She’s barefoot, for fuck’s sake. One false move and she’ll slash her small foot wide open.

“This isn’t a good time.” She swats her tears away, lifting her chin a little higher to come across composed.

It’s not working. She looks so fragile I think she’ll crumble to that deadly floor if I look the other way.

I’ve never seen her like this. Bitchy attitude and superior aura stripped away to reveal her raw form. I’ve known this girl for almost twenty years, yet I’ve never seen her so human.

So fucking real.

She cries. She bleeds. She’s sad.

Not a trace of the confidence she usually projects. Instead, she’s like a porcelain doll tipping over the edge of the shelf.

She needs someone to catch her before she shatters alongside all that glass.

For the first time, I see her, not the spoilt, arrogant side she meticulously nurtures around people. The one she blatantly showcased at the graduation party.

Faint freckles pepper her small nose, not a trace of them across her rosy cheeks. I didn’t know she had freckles. She hid them under a heap of concealer for years. And why?

They’re fucking beautiful.

My heart pounds like a jackhammer. I want to wipe away her tears, hold her close and make everything okay. The anger that burned my stomach earlier is replaced with what feels dangerously close to protectiveness.

Fresh tears brim in those deep, dark blue eyes staring at me, a whole angry ocean of truths and secrets begging to be uncovered behind them. She’s mindlessly chewing her swollen, raspberry-pink lip, and I’m glued to the spot, my racing thoughts like F1 cars when the lights blink out.

Blair swats another tear away.

A Sisyphean task… more spill, trailing down her chin.

“Can you go?” she pleads, wrestling to keep it together, as she wipes her nose with the back of her injured hand.

Her voice cracks, hitting me in the chest like a battering ram, shattering my resolve to leave her here alone.

I should. This is none of my business. Whatever upset her, whatever happened, whoever that asshole was… not my business.

If anything, I should be elated she’s a snotty, hurt mess, getting a taste of what she did to Mia.

But elation is nowhere in sight. I’m filled with unease, my insides tying in knots because… I can’t stand seeing a woman hurting this way.

“I’m watching the Spanish GP practice,” I blurt out, giving her a seemingly innocent reason to come with me. Let’s watch TV, my hurt, sworn enemy. I could ask if she wants to Netflix and chill and it’d be just as fucking bad. “You like F1?”

Who the hell am I?

A tense, silent moment passes. She scrutinizes my face, waiting. I don’t know what she’s waiting for. Laughter? Some trickery on my part?

Maybe. Probably…

“I like Spain,” she whispers, inhaling a shaky breath.

“That’ll do.”

I should head straight back to my condo alone, but—knowing damn well it’s a bad idea—I step forward, cuff my fingers around her arm, and take her with me.

I don’t know what’s happening, but touching her now feels different. It’s charged with a different kind of energy.

The rag wrapped around her hand is soaked with blood, little red dots splashing against my tiles, carpet, and hardwood floor as I drag her behind me without a word.

She needs a proper dressing. I have no idea where her first aid kit is, so it’s easier to take her back to my place.

Rationalizing won’t help you, man.

I’m aware. Hyperaware that I’ve been rationalizing around her since day one, but so far, I’m failing miserably at hate.

“Sit,” I say, pointing at the couch once I’ve closed the door behind us. I grab a hoodie from my wardrobe, handing it over, knowing damn well it’s the second one I’ve given her within two weeks. “You want a drink? I’ve got wine, beer—”

“I could do with something stronger,” she admits quietly, pushing her arms into the sleeves.

The only stronger alcohol I have is half a bottle of gin Vivienne left here after our post-unpacking impromptu housewarming party.

I whip up a gin and tonic and grab the first aid box.

“You don’t have to do this,” Blair says when I hand her the glass, taking a seat beside her.

“I know.” I wish I didn’t feel the compelling need to help, but there’s no stopping as I perch a cushion on my knees, place her hand on it and carefully unwrap the rag, dropping it onto the coffee table. “You’ve not cleaned it,” I say, spotting a few shards glistening in the long cuts. “Drink.”

She does. As she takes the first sip, I grab tweezers and pluck the glass, my stomach churning every time she hisses.

I hate her. I know I do, but I’m not the kind to get a kick out of knowing she’s in pain.

“Crystal glass?” I ask, dabbing the excess blood so I can see what I’m doing.

“Among other things.”

I pull out the last piece, the longest of the four spread on the coffee table, then grab a washcloth, cleaning around the cuts as best I can. It doesn’t look like she needs stitches, so the wound-closing strips I have should work fine, as long as we stop the bleeding, otherwise they won’t stick.

“Bottoms up, B,” I order, fetching a wooden spoon.

“Why?”

“You’ll need all the anesthetic you can get. Drink.”

Once she downs the last of her gin and tonic, cringing and shaking off the alcohol kick, I give her the spoon.

“I need to put pressure on the cuts to stop the bleeding. It’ll hurt like a motherfucker for a moment, so bite down hard.”

She sticks the handle in her mouth, sinking her white teeth into the wood, and nods once, her eyes closing.

A quiet whimper is the only sound she makes, but it’s enough to chill the blood in my veins as I press a fresh gauze to the cuts, not daring to look up in case more tears stream down her cheeks.

I count down from one hundred before peeking under the gauze to check. “That should do it.”

She spits out the spoon, placing it on the coffee table, the handle bearing her toothmarks and my mind goes straight to imagining those marks on my shoulders.

“How do you know this?” she asks.

“What? First aid? Six brothers, four nephews, and…” I push a long breath down my nose. “Mia. She has a clotting deficiency, so stopping the bleeding is a priority whenever she cuts herself. You learn a lot when you’ve got no other choice.”

Tucking a few loose strands of hair over her ear, she gently touches her hand to mine as it wipes the dried blood from her other one. “Thank you.”

“I’m not done yet. I’ll get you another drink and you need a proper dressing.”

Something in her eyes tells me she’ll argue, but it dissipates with a resigned nod. I grab a bottle of Corona from the fridge, then make her a double gin and tonic.

“Who’s your favorite?” Blair asks, eyes on the TV after she accepts the glass.

“Ferrari, of course.” I unmute it, listening to the reporter say the first session has just resumed after a half-hour break thanks to Mia’s driver hitting the wall. “You know anything about the races?”

“I’ve watched a few with Brandon. He got into it when he found out Mia’s dad is a team principal.”

“Don’t,” I warn. Fierce protectiveness detonates my every cell, forcing my mind into high-alert mode. “Don’t talk about her.”

Blair immediately shrinks in on herself, her hand shaking in mine as I close the longest cuts. “I’m sorry.”

The atmosphere shifts to uncomfortable. I want her gone as soon as physically possible. She shouldn’t fucking be here.

I grab a bandage, wrap her hand, secure it in place, then clear the table, strutting over to the sink.

The reporter on TV mentions another red flag, and this time my favorite driver’s name falls from his lips. I turn to watch the replay, chuckling when my phone pings on the breakfast bar, a message from Mia.

Bug: Karma. Works fast today, don’t you think?

Me: It would be a ten-second penalty in race conditions.

Bug: Why? He left him PLENTY of room.

I flick to the Hayes group chat. It’s no longer strictly for me and my brothers. Rose joined, and after complaining about the sausage fest, we added the girls, too, and then Colt created another chat titled exactly what Rose complained about—Sausage Fest—so we could give each other shit without the girls knowing.

Me: Who’s at fault?

Colt: Your guy.

Nico: Your guy or I’m not getting any tonight.

Mia: See? Told you.

Rose: I don’t know what this is about, but Mia’s right.

Me: You little traitor. Wait till you need a place to crash.

Rose: Shit. Fine, I’m Switzerland. Sorry, Mia.

Conor: Your guy, bro. He cut in and paid the price.

Me: Fine. Gangbang me, why don’t you?

A sea of laughing emojis follows, making me smirk, tossing the phone aside before shoving the first aid box back in the cupboard. Blair hasn’t said a word for five minutes. In fact, she’s made no sound at all, so I know she’s still here. I would’ve heard her leave however stealthy she was.

“You want another—” I start out of sheer stupid politeness, then cut myself off when I look over my shoulder.

She’s asleep, her head resting where the back of the couch meets in the corner, hair obscuring half of her face, the empty glass about ready to slip from her grasp to the floor.

No fucking way.

No way she’s staying here.

I lean out to touch her, shake her by the shoulder to wake her, but I stop short of her soft skin. She’s exhausted. Dark circles under her eyes, ashen cheeks, and a pained expression betray she’s battling nightmares.

The lone lock of hair on her cheek dares me to brush it away. My fingers linger in the air, and just as I’m about to pull back, I change my mind. My heart batters my ribs when I gently guide the thick, silky tangle behind her ear, my thumb grazing her soft, clammy skin.

I yank my hand back like she’s a live wire. The tips of my fingers tingle as I blink at her sleeping face.

It’s nothing. I’m just not used to seeing her so… helpless.

Life would be easier if I were born a self-centered dick. It would be a handy quality tonight. Instead of fighting an internal battle over waking her, I’d just throw her out.

She probably wouldn’t be here because I wouldn’t have cared enough to check who was shouting earlier.

But I’m not a self-centered asshole, and I don’t shake her awake. No, I shoot myself in the foot, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and draping it over her small frame. It’s just for a few minutes. She can sleep while I cross the hall and open all the doors so I can easily carry her to bed.

Her doorhandle gives way, letting me into the kitchen where the lights are on. Glass litters the floor, stained by drops of blood marking the route to the sink. I can walk around it to get Blair into her bedroom, but… what if she wakes up, tiptoes over for a glass of water, and steps on the broken glass?

“I should’ve been an asshole,” I mutter as I grab the broom, sweeping the floor. “I bet it’s so much easier not to give a shit,” I add when I’m on my fucking knees with a wet rag, wiping the blood, then cleaning around the sink before triple-checking I’ve not missed anything. I open the door to her bedroom and go back to my place, ready to scoop Blair off the couch, but…

I halt again.

She changed positions, no longer half-sitting. She’s curled right into the corner of the sofa, her head resting on the cushion, the blanket covering everything south of her nose.

For a moment, I stare at her, weighing my options, my temper flaring again. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t look so fucking vulnerable, chipping away the hatred I’ve felt for years.

With a long, defeated huff, I head back to her place, lock up, and then lock myself inside my condo with a girl who’s so toxic she’d put arsenic to shame.

I stand in the living room, my feet refusing to move because… I can’t go in my bedroom and leave her sleeping so close to the door.

If anyone breaks in, she’s alone.

I know she lives by herself, and I definitely know she can handle shit, but I physically can’t leave her sleeping on the couch unattended. It goes against my every instinct. No matter how insane she drives me, she’s under my roof and under my care.

“You stupid prick,” I whisper, squeezing my neck.

I strip my mattress off the bed, drag it to the living room, then move the coffee table to push the mattress flush with the couch, quiet as I can.

You’re going to heaven, for fucking sure.

I better be, or I’m going to be pissed.

For another ten minutes, I get ready for bed, silently walking back and forth between my bedroom, the living room, and the bathroom. I doubt I’ll get one minute of sleep with Blair under my roof, but it’s not like I have better things to do.

With nothing left to keep me stalling, I crawl under the comforter, crossing my hands under my head, and stare at the ceiling, mentally calling myself every name under the sun.

How did I get into this situation? Why was I born with this fucked-up moral compass? Why can’t I just kick her out?

I’ve got no answers, but the questions keep coming until my mind finally drifts off.

It feels like five minutes later, my eyes pop open, a heavy weight settling in my gut. A sense of unease washes over me, but I don’t immediately realize why my insides roil like a stormy sky. The room is dark and seemingly silent until a stifled sob pierces my ears. Sniffling breaths follow quickly, each punctuated by a shake and the sound of a sleeve wiping tears.

Blair’s back is to me, her body curled in a ball, one hand pressed to her head, fingers tangling her long locks, digging into her scalp as if trying to hold herself together.

I’ve not shut the blinds earlier. The glow of the streetlamps pours inside, illuminating the living room enough to make out how she trembles under the dusty-blue blanket.

She draws in a long, shaky breath, her other hand shifting. Even though I can’t see her face, the soft sounds she makes paint a vivid picture: she’s biting her fist to muffle her cries.

The effort she puts into staying quiet is fucking palpable, her body taut with tension as she fights to hold back sobs that threaten to break free.

I don’t give my rational thoughts a moment. I don’t stop to remember who this girl crying on my couch is or what she’s done over the years to the girl I’ve considered family since the first day I spoke to her.

Regardless how much I hate Blair, I can’t lay here pretending I don’t hear how much she’s hurting.

I sit up, lean over her, and coil one arm around her middle. She jumps at my touch, her breathing hitching in surprise, cries temporarily halting while I slide her off the couch and onto the mattress beside me.

She’s flat on her back for a moment, staring at me with wide, tear-filled, fearful eyes, not one word out of her mouth.

I don’t speak, either. I doubt she’d tell me what nightmares plague her mind, and I know words won’t ease her pain. She doesn’t need me to listen.

Lifting the comforter, I pull her closer, slipping an arm around her before I tuck us in.

It’s not enough.

I guide her right hand over my chest, a surprisingly steady rhythm under her fingertips.

Slowly, almost like she expects to be pushed away, she curves into me, burrowing her face into my neck. She grasps a handful of my t-shirt before fresh tears leave a damp trail on my skin.

I don’t know how I know this. Whether it’s from her shudders changing tune from desperation to cautious relief, her muscles relaxing despite the tears, or if I have some sixth sense about me, but I know she was never held like this.

No one ever offered her comfort just for the sake of it. Just to help her cage her demons. No one gave her a shoulder to cry on without a hidden agenda, always expecting something in return.

It’s obvious in the way she clings to me, full of caution and surprise, like she can’t believe this is happening.

Me neither… for so many different reasons I don’t know which matters most. She shouldn’t fit this well pressed against me. She shouldn’t make my chest inflate as she relaxes, her body no longer wound up tight. She shouldn’t fucking be here.

The thought has my arms unconsciously tightening around her frail body. I don’t want her here. I can’t stand her ninety-nine percent of the time, but the thought of letting her go drops something heavy in my chest.

Minutes go by before I realize my fingers are brushing her soft hair up and down. The longer I do this, the more her body lets go of the tension it’s been holding.

Her breaths even out. Her frantic grasp on my shirt turns into a gentle hold as if she’s allowing herself to be vulnerable in my arms. Her tears slow while my mind repeats the same questions.

How long has she been hurting like this?

Who hurt her?

How many times has she cried herself to sleep?

I don’t know. I’ll never know, but for now, I hold her a little tighter, offering a safe haven from whatever plagues her mind, but it’s not until dawn that she finally falls asleep.