“Did you? Did you get what you wanted?”
Her gaze snaps toward the bed. “Yep.”
“Are you still upset about your dad?”
She slinks her purse over her shoulder, head tilted as an incredulous half-smile paints her lips. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you care.” Folding her arms, she adds, “You made it perfectly clearly the other night that you don’t. And not that I expect you to. But at least do me the courtesy of not pretending.”
God damn it.
She’s right.
If she only knew how fucked up my thoughts were. How they can turn on a dime. How easily I can talk myself out of things. How badly I need to resist whatever the hell is brewing between us.
This was never meant to be anything—but there’s something stirring deep inside me. A sensation in the center of my chest every time she walks in the room. It’s equally exhilarating and terrifying, and that’s saying a lot because there isn’t much that scares me.
“I’m sorry.”
Her brows lift. “For what?”
“For kissing you like you meant something to me,” I say. “And for fucking you like you didn’t.”
Her jaw hangs. Think it’s safe to say she wasn’t expecting me to be so blunt.
“It was definitely a dick move,” she finally speaks. “But I’m over it. Maybe if I liked you, I’d be more upset.”
Burn.
“But why did you do that anyway?” Her gaze tightens. “It was weird. You were so sweet and then …”
The truth is between me, myself, and I.
And that’s how it’s going to stay.
“I could give you a million excuses,” I say. “But at the end of the day, I’m just as fucked up as everyone. Nobody’s perfect. Not me. Not your dad. Not even your mom. You’ve got to stop idealizing everyone. That’s how you get hurt.”
“You’re side-stepping my question.”
“I was caught up in the moment,” I say, which isn’t a complete lie. “You have to admit, it was really fucking hot.”
Clearing her throat, she straightens her shoulders and fights a grin. “Yeah. It was all right.”
I deserve that.
“You should stay though,” I say. “You had a couple shots of Fireball. I don’t think you should drive home yet. Give it a little more time to wear off.”
Her shoulders fall and her attention moves to the floor. A moment later, she lets her bag slide down her arm and takes a seat at the foot of my bed.
“Just for a little while,” she says, spoken like a true good girl.
“Now don’t go thinking that I care about you all of a sudden,” I tease, nudging her with my foot. “I’d just hate for you to get hurt on the way home. It’d ignite our family feud all over again.”
She turns back to me, smirking. “Was it ever extinguished?”
“Probably not.” I climb off the bed and slip into my boxers and jeans, and then I grab a couple of waters from the mini fridge. “What all do you know, anyway? About what happened? What kinds of things have your parents said about my family over the years?”
“You really want to know?”
I hand her a bottle and uncap mine. “I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
“Most of what I know comes from the articles printed in the paper,” she says. “Everything else … was kept pretty quiet. My parents never talked about the past much. They only ever said enough to make it clear that I was to stay away from your family at all costs.”
I sniff. “You make us sound like the mafia.”
“That’s basically what you are in this town,” she says. “Your family has connections everywhere you turn. And everyone’s afraid of your dad. There are rumors. I’m sure you’ve heard them all.”
I nod. “Every last one.”
And I never bothered to set a single record straight, though most of them were true.
It’s probably why no one so much as dared to fuck with me in high school. They were scared shitless, and their parents were scared shitless. Anyone in this town would be a damned fool to try to cross my father.
How Rich Rose got away with it not once, but twice, is a real life miracle.
I’d never tell Sheridan this, but as long as my dad has a fighting breath in him, her father’s living on borrowed time. I’m convinced he hasn’t offed him yet because he gets off on torturing him from afar. Making sure he can’t hold down a job. Tarnishing his name all over town. Sometimes it’s the little things that make the biggest impact, he always tells me.
“Why’s your room so generic?” She changes the subject. “You don’t have any pictures, any ribbons or trophies.”
“I don’t need reminders of things that have already happened.” They live in my head enough as it is … “And I don’t really get attached to things.”
Or people.
Especially not people.
“Let me guess, your room is filled with mementos. On your bed is the quilt your grandmother made. And you’ve got a small desk with a bulletin board covered with participation ribbons and awards that will be meaningless to you in five years. Maybe a handful of photographs in mismatched frames …”