“Like I said, Shun, go to hell and leave me alone. You’re good at that, at least.”
He disconnects, and I’m left staring into the blackness, his words twisting in my chest like rusty blades.
These past years, he never once let down his guard, his anger, his hatred for me. Never let me explain my reasons for anything I did, and never gave any indication of any chance at forgiveness. And now…
Now the pain in my chest is turning into an open wound, because yeah, he’s blaming me, he’s hurt, but for a completely different reason. He doesn’t get that I did what was best for him.
Dammit, I did what was best for him. He knows how hard things were. He knows staying there was a trap.
But that was before the accident, of course, and he can’t see past that, not with our folks telling him day in and day out how it was all my fault.
Nobody ever can.
Chapter Seven
Kayla
Ocean is acting weird. As in, weirder than he has in these past weeks, and that was already something.
I mean, okay, we kissed and stuff. He touched me, and… Holy crap, that was so good that heat seeps back into my face just thinking about it.
But I told him not to think about it. Heck, that’s what I’m trying to do, too, though it’s difficult. Knowing he was proving a point doesn’t help with the heat seeping into my belly at the memory. I lick my lips.
He made his point damn well.
If he says something… if he mentions what we did, if he gives me a sign it meant more… Please, dear God. Let him say something to show it wasn’t a random hook-up.
But I’m not holding my breath. And it’s okay. I never set out for anything more. I wanted a taste of the eye-candy that’s Ocean Storm, and I got it. Not every girl is so lucky.
I finish the soup, lowering the heat, letting it simmer. Yeah, all is good.
But he’s taking an awful long time to make his phone call. I wonder what the big deal was.
Jason coughs from the living room, and I’m torn between making sure the soup doesn’t burn—it’s a thick broth—and checking on him.
No wonder Ocean looks so worn out. If he’s as worried and protective as he seems to be, I bet he’s up all night checking on his sick guest.
Least I can do is finish this soup so they can both eat and rest. It smells great already, and although I wasn’t able to find any spices and herbs in the cupboards—which in retrospect I should have expected—I think it’ll be good.
Lifting the spoon, I try the brown liquid, burning my tongue in the process. Hm. Maybe another pinch of salt…
The apartment door is thrown open, slamming against the wall. Heavy steps follow, but don’t head toward the kitchenette.
Frowning, I turn off the stove and cover the pot.
The apron straps get tangled in my hair as I pull it off and fold it, placing it on the counter. One last look at the stove to make sure it’s off, and I walk out of the kitchenette and into the small living room.
Ocean isn’t there. The apartment door is shut, and Jason seems to be asleep, curled under the cover, only his bleached hair showing on top.
A crash reverberates. Jason mumbles something and shifts uneasily.
There’s only one room I haven’t seen yet. One door I haven’t been through.
The bedroom.
I wait, unsure of what to do. Maybe this is my cue to leave. It’s getting late, and I’m more confused than ever, when I think I hear a muffled shout.
Jesus. What’s going on?