"She sounds like a great mom."
"She's the best. Weezer was one of her favorite bands. I know all their songs."
I picture an unruly five-year-old Baz jumping around his room with his mother.
"I never knew my mother," I randomly share. "Or my father. The only thing I have from either of them is this ring." I hold up my index finger.
"I was wondering why you always wore it." He takes my hand and twists the gold band gently. The same way I do sometimes.
"Why didn't you ever ask?"
Baz shrugs. "I figured you'd tell me when you were ready."
My lip quirks. "You're way too good to me." I lace our fingers together and rest our joined hands on the arm rest.
"You're sort of an angel."
I snort. "Of death maybe."
"An angels an angel," Baz testifies.
"If you say so." I'm not sure I buy it.
"I do." He settles into his seat assuredly, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.
I glance over at him, squeezing his hand in adoration. His big paw engulfs my small palm.
Baz's fingers have explored the inside and roamed the outside of every inch of my body, but these simple connections are the most profound. They forge an alliance, prove an affinity exists between us, and affirms our relationship is real.
I've come to thrive on real. Revel in it.
Relish it.
Real is not something I'm willing to let go of.
Or surrender easily.
Or even give up at all.
ALMOST EIGHT HOURS later, we pull up to a security gate enclosing an estate in Southampton. My pulse flutters so hard it feels like I'm on speed as we stop at the guard station.
A built man in a dark suit appears out of the gray-shingled, little, house-like structure.
"Business?" he asks dauntingly as I roll down the window. I look him in the eyes, showing no fear, guilt, or intimidation. Eye contact always reduces suspicion.
I open my mouth to speak, but Baz beats me to it.
"Open the fucking gates, Maverick." The guard inspects the passenger seat promptly, and when he realizes who Baz is, he smiles.
"What the fuck happened, man? You look like you're going through puberty."
Baz chuckles as he rubs his stubbly chin. He looks so much younger without his thick beard. Almost like a completely different person. "Fuck you, joker."
The guard grins, but it's barely noticeable. He's maintaining his professionalism. Or at least trying. "Is he home?" Baz asks.
"On his way. Business in the city," Maverick informs him, then slides a suspicious glance at me.
"She's good. She's with me," Baz nearly snarls.
Maverick nods without another word, any humor wiped from his face. It makes me feel fractionally better that Baz has some weight to throw around when it comes to his uncle's employees. But not nearly enough to calm my thumping pulse. It's pounding so loudly in my ears I worry if anyone else can hear it.
A moment later, the massive gates swing open, and I roll onto the gravel drive, heading straight for the front door of the lion's den.
Minutes pass before the breathtaking residence majestically rises like the morning sun over the manicured parking quarter.
Wow. Words escape me. I've only been to the Hamptons a handful of times. It's an elite part of New York the rich and famous frequent. Especially during the summer. I've seen some impressive homes, but none like this. This estate screams power and stature. It screams importance, and even a bit of intimidation.
Actually, a lotta intimidation. I feel like I shrink when I step out of the truck.
"Ready?" Baz takes my hand and inhales a sharp breath. The wound is clearly hurting him. I worry incessantly. About him and myself. And the precious cargo I carry around everywhere.
Am I ready? Is anyone ever ready to walk the green mile?
I place my hand over my stomach as Baz rings the bell. He has barely pulled his hand away from the button when the massive door swings open.
"Master Benjamin!" A tall, lean, gray-haired man in a butler get-up greets us.
"Frederick." Baz smiles as we enter the house.
"I wasn't informed you were coming." Frederick buzzes around Baz and me. He sounds like he's British.
"I didn't exactly call ahead." Baz puts his arm around me, and I notice blood seeping through his shirt.
"He needs to see a doctor," I blurt out.
Both men look down at me, and that's when they both notice the blood, too.
"Shit," Baz spits. My patch job has run its course.
Frederick extends Baz a worried look, but he doesn't ask any questions. He just ushers us into a sitting room off the foyer and orders us to stay put.
Baz takes a seat on one of the white, plush couches. He's most definitely going to leave a blood stain.
The whole house is decorated in white, walls, furniture, and trim. It's warm, bright, and airy. The black floor and matching built-in bookcases ground the ethereal decor. It's so regal. So high end, and very impressive.