Replay by K. Weikel

Author:K. Weikel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: romance, suspense, mafia, writer, musician, badgirl, badguy
Publisher: K. Weikel Publishing

Chapter 17

Peter is the first to move.

He slides the window shut as you stand before it, watching the spot Ronnie had just been walking.

“I suggest one of us stay awake with you until daylight. Ronnie is more often a liar.”

You shake your head, pulling your gaze from the tree line. “No, that’s okay.”

“Cora, I’m staying with you until morning,” Oliver pipes up, pulling your attention away from Peter. “You can’t argue with me.”

“Yes, I can,” you reply, rubbing your forehead. “You’re injured. You need all the rest you can get.”

Oliver shakes his head. “Four to eight weeks is enough time to sleep.”

“I’m with Cora on this one, Oliver,” Peter says, backing you up. “You’re in no shape to go up against Ronnie.”

Oliver makes a face. “I have a gun and good aim. And I don’t fire warning shots.”

You huff. “No one is staying in here with me. I’m fine. If he says he’s not coming back, I believe him.” A twinge of sadness pierces your heart. “Let’s just all go back to sleep. Crisis averted.”

You climb back into bed and pull the covers up over your legs, your skin prickling with the weight of their eyes. Glaring at the both of them, you point to the door. “Out. Both of you. It’s the middle of the night and we’re all exhausted.”

And I have some things to muddle through, you add silently, shifting, ready to lie down. Raising your eyebrows to give them the hint you want them to leave, Peter exhales and shakes his head.

“Call us if you need us. Oliver’s in the next room over and I’ll be downstairs, but I’m quite fast.”

You nod. “Thank you.”

Peter heads to the door, but Oliver doesn’t budge, his green eyes unfocused and distant. Finally, he turns to leave, using one crutch to get to the door.

You lay down, the blankets chilled from your absence, but it feels good. Relaxing.

You notice the door hasn’t closed yet.

Moving to see, Oliver is still stuck in the doorway. Before you can say something, he takes a step back and shuts the door in front of him, staring at the white-painted wood.

“Oliver?”

He inhales and exhales, your heart crescendoing in your chest.

Finally, he turns around, his gaze meeting yours. “I’m ready to talk.”

“Now?” you ask as he makes his way over to the bed. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Yeah, well, despite the pain medications, I’ve been having trouble sleeping because my mind won’t stop moving. I don’t have my guitar so I can’t distract myself, and my head won’t let me write, so…” he huffs. “I’m ready to talk.”

He sits just next to you on the bed, his cast hanging off the edge as you bring your legs up, sitting crisscross. You pick nervously at the covers, your pulse deafening now. Pursing your lips, you dodge the one thing you need to talk to him about.

“We didn’t go back for the animals,” you mumble, staring at the comforter.

Oliver sighs. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll see what I can do tomorrow, but right now there’s nothing.

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