“I do. But I’m talking about you specifically. What do you keep buried deep?”
He quirked a brow at her. “You mean besides the fact that I was doing more than an ounce of heroin a day before I checked into rehab this last time?”
God, that was so much worse than she’d envisioned. An ounce a day? She’d read up on heroin addiction the first time Wyatt had gone to rehab, had learned more than she’d ever wanted to about the hell of getting clean. But she’d also learned a lot about what the human body could tolerate, and shooting up an ounce of the pure stuff was way more than most people could handle. The fact that he’d been doing that to himself, to his body…it made her want to pull him close, to hold on tight so he could never hurt himself that way again.
All she said, though, was, “I get that you tried to keep your addiction quiet as long as you could—your basic human right to privacy with that is absolute. Or it should be, no matter who you are.”
“That’s not really how it works, though, is it?”
“No, not really.” She sighed, rested her head against his shoulder. “Is that why there are all these
conflicting stories about you? Because you don’t want anyone to know any truths? So it’s easier to hide the painful stuff?”
He stiffened a little, but she pulled him closer, held him tighter, and eventually he relaxed when he realized she wasn’t going to push. “If there are ten stories out there instead of just one, and I don’t deny or confirm any of them, then no one actually knows what’s going on with me. Or, that’s the theory, anyway.”
“It’s a good theory.”
He shrugged. “Maybe. Sometimes.”
“It’s worked so far. I mean, I’m from the label and in charge of your social media message and even I don’t know what the truth is.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve been lying to myself and everyone else so long that sometimes I don’t think I do either.”
She didn’t like the sound of that, even though she knew admitting it—coming to grips with it—had probably been a big part of rehab for him. But she hated the way he implied that he was inherently untrustworthy, because she didn’t think that was true. Sure, the addiction had made him that way. But she had seen him with his boys, had seen the way he tried to protect them, the way he struggled to be good enough for the band and his friends. Those were not the acts of an untrustworthy guy.
It was as much a realization for her as it was for him, and she could feel her resolve crumbling a little bit more, could feel herself falling even harder for him despite all the warnings and assurances she’d been giving herself. Because in a lot of ways that mattered, Wyatt was trustworthy and that…that was her own personal kryptonite.
The knowledge freaked her out more than she wanted to admit, even to herself, and she went back to poking at him because it was easier. And because she wanted to know. “So, tell me the truth, then.”
His gaze, wide and wary, flew to hers. “What do you mean?”
She forced a laugh as she set the computer down on the floor next to the bed and then rolled over so she was draped on top of him. “Don’t worry. I’m not asking for your deepest, darkest secrets. Just a few of the small ones. Like, were you really born in Texas? Or were you born in Missouri? Or Alaska?” she asked, remembering she’d seen an interview where he’d claimed to be from Anchorage.
She’d thought where he was born would be an easy question to start with—what did it matter, after all? But he stiffened underneath her and for long seconds, she was certain he wasn’t going to answer.
In the end, though, he did. Grudgingly. “I was born in Springfield, Missouri.”
She’d already known that from the birth certificate, but the fact that he was honest with her…it meant something. She could feel herself melting just a little bit more, feel her defenses getting just a little bit weaker. The fact that a hint of a native accent crept into his voice when he said “Missouri” was just icing on the cake.
“Say it again,” she teased, straining forward to drop a kiss on his chin.
He looked baffled. “Say what?”
“Missouri. Your accent is adorable.”
He rolled his eyes at her, but he did it—twice—then waited for her giggles to quiet down before saying, “Okay, my turn.”
“For what?”
“You don’t think you’re the only one in this bed who gets to ask questions, do you?”
She had thought that, actually. But if he had questions…she had answers. As long as he didn’t ask her about her real reason for being in Austin.
Her stomach tightened unpleasantly at the thought. Here she was, all hung up on whether she could trust him, and she was the one lying to him. The one keeping secrets. The fact that she was doing it because she cared about him, because she wanted him to succeed, didn’t seem to matter so much anymore. Not when they were plastered against each other in bed playing twenty fucking questions.
Because her guilt was eating her alive, she told him, “Ask away. I’m an open book.” And she would be, she promised herself, about everything but her relationship to her dad and Caleb and her real reason for being in Austin. Wyatt deserved that much.
He tightened his arms around her waist, pulled her even more firmly against him. She reveled in it—in the feel of his tight, hard body beneath hers. In the sound of his heart beating beneath her ear. And, most importantly, in how well their bodies matched up. How good it felt to be wrapped up in him as the streets below them started slowly filling with people beginning their morning commute.