Her I-am-woman-hear-me-roar gene snapped to attention. “I don’t need some guy to protect me. I’ve handled way worse than bad press.”
He walked over to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t get your feathers all fluffed. I have no doubt you could slay the hounds of hell if faced with them. But the question is, should you have to? And would a man who’s supposed to love you, make you?”
“You sound like Jace.”
His lips hitched at the corner. “That guy’s wiser than people give him credit for.”
Jace. Her chest ached like she’d been running for miles. “Thanks for the room.”
Grant lowered his hand and headed to the door. “Get some rest, darlin’. You have my word that I won’t tell anyone you’re here. You’re safe from it all for now.”
Grant closed the door and left her in silence.
Safe. But alone.
Seems she could never be one without the other.
Maybe it was time she accepted that.
She walked over to her suitcase and unzipped it, staring at what she’d tucked in the front flap. Daniel had handed them to her before she’d left, and she’d wanted to toss them back his way. But now the little prescription bottle beckoned her with its promise. She pulled out the antidepressants she hadn’t touched in months, rolling the bottle between her fingertips.
She looked at the empty room, her empty bed, and then went into the bathroom for a glass of water. She tilted one of the pills onto her palm and swallowed it.
Time to get on the train back to numb. Living life in 3-D hurt too much.
TWENTY-SIX
Jace sat at a table in the back of the bar, trying to drown his thoughts in beer and rock music. He’d planned to go home and do the same in a more comfortable chair. But when he’d walked into the loft, Andre had been packing boxes.
Fucking packing!
Jace had asked what the hell was going on, but Andre had simply shrugged. “Going to stay with my brother for a while. I’ll get the rest of my stuff when I find a new place.”
The few remaining bricks in Jace’s already cracked foundation had seemed to crumble into dust beneath him. Andre was leaving? The two of them hadn’t talked much in the days following Andre’s confession. Jace had been knocked on his ass by the one-two punch of losing Evan and finding out how Andre felt and hadn’t even known where to start. But the last thing he wanted was for Andre to bail. “You don’t have to fucking move out.”
Andre had looked up, his expression flat. “Yeah, man. I do.”
And what had Jace done? Had he insisted Andre sit down and talk with him? Had he told him that the reason he’d been quiet was because he had no fucking idea what to do with the stir of feelings Andre’s admission has caused inside him?
No. He’d turned on his heel and walked out. Like a fucking coward.
And now Jace had lost not one, but both the people who actually meant something to him.
He swigged another gulp of beer and leaned his head against the booth, the pulsing beat of the music like a hammer against his throbbing skull. He should’ve never let himself care. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t open up to anyone again, but maybe he had a deeper masochistic streak than he thought. Because it seemed his whole life he’d done nothing but fuck himself over and let down the people he loved.
“Adding alcoholism to your long list of vices?” a familiar female voice asked.
Jace’s head snapped upward just as Diana slid into the other side of the booth, her cherry-red lips curled into a sneer.
He had no idea why she was there or how she’d tracked him down, but he didn’t care. Now was not the time to have a discussion with her—not when he had more anger and alcohol coursing through him than good sense. “Go away, Di. I’m not in the mood to deal with you.”r: Roni Loren
He’d directed her to wait in one of the cowhide upholstered chairs, then had disappeared behind a large mahogany door that seemed to scream do not effing enter. That had been a solid ten minutes ago. Now she was beginning to wonder if he was coming back at all. Maybe she should just go. Find some roadside motel.
But the grit scraping her eyeballs every time she blinked reminded her that if she got back on the road, her car would probably end up with a tree for a hood ornament.
The door opened finally and instead of the front desk guy, Grant Waters stepped through. He was in his standard-issue Wranglers and had a plaid work shirt thrown over a wifebeater, but his dark wavy hair was clearly bed-rumpled and he had flip-flops on instead of his usual boots.
“Ms. Kennedy,” he said in an East Texas drawl that could probably inspire the panties off a nun. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”