Slow Burn

Chapter 13

I can’t focus on much. But the few things I take in between my rage and my incessant pounding on his back is Becks being the ever-consummate gentleman as he carries me down the streets of Los Angeles.

Over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

All the while saying, “Good evening,” to people like he’s on a goddamn Sunday stroll.

I’m seething. Fucking bastard.

I’m tired—my head feels like it weighs fifty pounds as I try to lift it up again to work out where we are—and I’m about to succumb to the exhaustion and sag over him from the mixture of too many shots and expending too much energy when all of a sudden, I’m being thrown through the air.

I’m shocked into what I’d like to think is semisobriety—but really is probably far from it—when I land with a loud oof on the softness of a couch beneath me. But soft or not, the impact of my weary muscles against the cushions is jarring. The moment I hit it, though—the minute my mind catches up with my body—I’m scrambling to get up, to get in his face and ask him how dare he treat me like this.

Before I’m even standing, Becks is on me: knees straddling my hips, hands pinning my wrists on either side of my head. And God, I’m so fucking pissed at him, I want to knee him in the crotch, and at the same time, I want him to lean in closer so that I can devour that sexy-as-sin mouth of his, which is so temptingly close to mine.

I know I’ve had a lot to drink—the alcohol must be making me want him as desperately as I do—because as angry as I am at him right now, all I want is for him to release one of my hands so I can fist it at the base of his neck and force his mouth down to mine. I want to steal a taste of the man who’s been owning my thoughts.

Did he really think I didn’t see him sitting in the club across the dance floor? It was like an electric current buzzing through the room the minute my body became aware of his presence. A lightning strike to my libido. And yet he kept his distance.

The. Whole. Time.

It unnerved me.

Me, the girl who’s always on her game. I knew Cal was there observing how I ran things, but fuck, having Becks there was ten times worse. I tried to tell myself he was there with his friend—that it was merely a coincidence he was at the same club as the Scandalous event—but I don’t put that much stock in fate.

As the night wore on, I could feel his eyes on me the whole time. I knew he was watching and waiting, but for what? He had farmers’-market-what’s-her-name, didn’t he? And then I was hurt thinking about it—also confused—all the while trying to paint a damn smile on my face and make sure everyone was having a good time. Pretend to focus my mind on them when it was always fixated on him.

And with each shot I slung back, the nerves got a little less powerful, and the anger grew a little more. How dare he make me like him? How dare he make me like the idea he was sitting over there just to make sure that I was okay? And how do I know that’s why he was there? Because that’s just the type of guy he is. Fuck, I don’t want that. It’s just not a possibility.

And that made me even angrier.

So another shot down, a smooth line delivered by a decent-looking guy to my alcohol fuzzed mind, and I was so game to be a little festive. To lose myself in him and forget Becks. And then by the time I realized I was progressing from wanting to use sex to forget the grief of losing Lexi to wanting to forget the ache of not allowing myself a chance with Becks, it was too late.

I was kissing the guy except the problem was even with the shots and the high of kissing a different person, the thrill was nonexistent. He wasn’t what I wanted. And then what I wanted was there, all alpha and arrogance and sex on a stick. As Becks pulled him away from me, I was pissed at being caught, at what it looked like, at what he thought of me now. I turned the embarrassment into anger, and a lot of fucking good that did me.

Now the man I don’t want to want is tempting me in so many ways, it’s comical.

And arousing as all get out.

“Let. Me. Go.” I pant out the words as I struggle against him.

“Uh-uh.” He grunts with exertion as I buck beneath him, trying to escape. And of course, I can feel him thick and heavy against my lower belly, and that sets off warning bells to my staunch resolve not to have him, not to want him.

And a slow burn of liquid heat starts to spread from my core through my body, the ache coiling like a loaded spring waiting for its chance to spiral out of control.

“Goddamn it, Montgomery. Calm the fuck down, and I’ll let you go … but you’re not leaving until we talk.”

“Fuck. Off.” The words are out of my mouth before I can filter them. I don’t really mean them but damn if he’s not riling me up something fierce.

He laughs at me. Fricking chuckles at my assertion, and that irks me even more. I hold my head still and look up at him, the shadows and the muted light from the hall playing over the angles of his face. He leans in closer, his mouth a mere whisper from mine, causing my breath to emit a betraying hitch, and says, “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? For me to walk away without asking you a single question.” I furrow my brow as his slow, even cadence hits my ears. He licks his lips, and I swear to God, my nipples tighten at the sight alone and the memory of that tongue of his.

“Fuck you.” I grit the words out as I writhe beneath him, struggling within the confines of his thighs, my hips grinding up against his. My thoughts scatter momentarily when I feel him hardening against me. Damn if my desire isn’t surging through my body like the blood in my veins.

He emits a sliver of a laugh—the sound of a man on the edge of losing control—before he continues. “Oh, believe me, I’d love to do just that right now, to fuck you, but I prefer my women to be willing participants in the act … and you, sweet Haddie, are nowhere near compliant.”

Compliant, my ass. He thinks that he can throw me over his shoulder and force me to go wherever the hell we are, and I’m going to be a willing participant? Is he fucking crazy? Obviously. And he’s … he’s … My thoughts are lost as he lowers his mouth to mine.

I part my mouth on reflex. My tongue and lips are so thirsty for a taste of him that I arch my neck in a nonverbal begging motion. I’m stunned momentarily, but it’s a split second before I feed my craving.

And take.

I let his tongue lick against mine—absorb the warmth, the comfort, the desire, all mixed into one heady combination that has a moan in the back of my throat before his lips even begin moving against mine. His hands tighten their grip on my wrists as his mouth takes without asking, as it brands and claims and owns every inch of mine.

I fist my hands—a useless attempt to halt the freight train of desire hurtling out of control within me. But it’s too late … especially when I can taste the mint mixed with rum on his breath and smell the earthy scent of his cologne, the fragrance of his shampoo—because all I want is more of the man I’ve told myself I can’t have.

Before the kiss even ends, I’m telling myself this—the taste of Beckett Daniels on my tongue and the comforting feeling of his weight on top of me—is enough, but I know it’s not. I try to convince myself that it’s the alcohol screaming in my mind to beg for more, to ask him to drive me to that mind-numbing place I know he can help me find, but just as I’m about to blurt the words out, Becks tears his mouth from mine.

And his weight lifts from my body.

“Goddamn it!” I hear him bark out the curse beside me as I’m busy trying to assess what the hell just happened. How we went from the club to the couch to nothing in such a short period of time. “I need a minute.”

I scramble up from the couch, and I stare at the broad lines of his back as he walks away from me, both hands shoving through his hair as he confuses me even more when he mutters something else about the click and how it’s fucking ridiculous. “Haddie …” My name is a groan on his lips, but when he falls silent, I can’t figure out what in the hell he wants right now.

I’m so primed with need, so invigorated by his kiss and amped up with anger, that my body reacts on instinct. I want him—no, need him—to quiet the constant sadness that hasn’t been silent since the last time we were together. And hell yes, I know I want to use him right now. Need him to use me right now. Because if I know it’s mutual, I won’t feel bad when I have to walk away because I can’t commit to anything more than this with him.

Or anyone.

I step into him, cup him through his jeans, and bring my lips to his. He tries to resist me at first, tries to talk, but I can feel the pulse of his dick through the fabric as it hardens. His breath hitches and his body tenses with the demands made by my greedy hands. But when our mouths meet again, a vicious meeting of lips and unspoken needs, he relents. He kisses me back with just as much aggression. We bruise and nip and take from each other. Our actions scream anger, carnality, pure need, but he doesn’t touch me, hands flat against the wall beside him.

I tear my lips from his, as his refusal to touch me—a blatant denial of what I want—challenges me, urges me to push a little harder, seduce a little more. I’m a woman used to getting what I want, and what I want is him. I decide to change tactics and press my lips to the underside of his jaw, lacing openmouthed kisses up the line of his neck. His skin is warm. the slight taste of salt and pure Becks hits my tongue and enrages the heat he seems to control within me.

He remains stiff—both in posture and in my hand—as he wavers on whether to give into the primal need that continually reverberates between us or to resist this temptation for whatever reasons he seems to have. And I don’t care what the reasons are, nor do I want to think about how impressive his restraint is, because all I want to do is satisfy the ache in my core.

“Haddie, we can’t … my rules … We shouldn’t—”

“Sh-shh!” My finger is on his lips stopping him. “I know … but we’ve broken all the rules so far. Why stop now?” I look at his lips and then back up to his eyes before leaning in closer, my teeth tugging on his earlobe in a move that earns a hiss from him to help reinforce the words I murmur in his ear. “Please, Becks. I want to feel you.”

“Damn you, Had. I’m trying to do the right thing here.” His hands start to move now, his head angling back, and I fear it’s so that he can pull away from me, so I curl my fingers in his hair to hold him still.

I wait for him to look into my eyes so he can see how badly I want this. How badly I need this. “You can respect me all you want later. Right now, though, I’m all about doing what’s wrong.” I see a flicker of unfettered need in his gaze and know he wants me. Know that he’s riding that razor-thin line of restraint. Time to tip the scales. “I want you to make me feel owned.”

His eyes widen, his teeth clench, and I know I’ve gotten him with my forward demands. My body tenses in reaction at his silent acknowledgment.

We stare at each other in a suspended state of acceptance of the hard and fast that is about to happen. I feel like everything raging inside me is reflected perfectly in his eyes and in that telling hitch of his breath.

And between one heartbeat and the next Becks’s mouth is suddenly on mine, where it belongs. One hand fists in the sequined shirt on my back and presses my body against his while the other cups my ass through my skirt, fingers kneading into the flesh there. He nips my bottom lip, soothing it with a tender lick of his tongue before taking ownership of the kiss once again.

There’s something about the way he kisses that makes me hope he never stops. Soft and firm. Demanding yet giving. Teasing but desperate. I get lost in it. Get lost to him. I can’t think. His tantalizing assault on my mouth doesn’t allow me to. I’m ready and willing, my body his for the taking, and he’s done nothing more than kiss me.

That single thought breaks through the haze of desire clouding my mind and causes little flutters in my stomach and tingles in my toes at the anticipation of what’s to come.

I want to urge him to hurry, to rip my clothes off and take me right here, right now, but something tells me that I might have gotten away with ordering Beckett Daniels around one time, but one time is all I’m going to get.

Becks just might be that rebel at heart that I go for after all. Sweet, ever-loving fuck yes!

My hands find the hem of his shirt and snake their way beneath the fabric so I can score my fingernails against the hardened slab of muscle. I feel his torso flinch in reaction, as I use touch to entice him, to connect with him, to tease him. I map my hands along his flank and then up the strong lines of his back.

His hands inch under my skirt so that his fingers can tempt my bare flesh. Chills race across my skin from his incendiary touch despite the surge of heat intensifying with each passing second. I lift my leg and wrap it around his hip so the apex of my thighs rubs perfectly against his denim-clad erection.

The moan falls from my lips without thought. My hands act on reflex to pull his shirt over his head while our mouths break contact for the first time so that it can pass over his face, and then our lips crash back together as if we need each other’s air to breathe.

My hands roam freely now. So many places to discover, so many nerves to tease into a frenzy. And I know it’s working—the combination of kissing and touching—because slow-and-steady Becks begins to move faster, dominance evident in his touch, but he’s anything but steady. Cupping my face, taking the leisurely trip from the curve of my ass up the line of my spine to fist my length of hair, demanding more of me from our kiss before easing back some and then starting the process all over again.

I’m left breathless by his thoroughness—no man has ever kissed me this completely—and I’m ready to scream for him to lay me back on the couch or table or floor and press into my wetness. Drive me to the edge so that I can score his back and yell out his name.

“Becks …” His name is a pant on my lips, my call to him that foreplay is overrated because right now I don’t care about lighting the fuse or the leftover collateral damage.

I’m in the moment—the here and now—and all I care about is the detonation, the need for release.

I allow my hands to leave his skin for a moment, crossing them in front of me as I pull my shirt over my head, tossing it to the side without a second thought. And hell if the groan that Becks emits from the back of his throat when he realizes that there’s nothing else beneath my top—no bra, nothing—isn’t sexy as hell and spurns my need brighter.

I back away from him, ready to take this erotic dance to the next step. I stay facing him and retreat to the couch until the backs of my legs hit the edge. He follows, eyes locked on mine before momentarily running up and down my naked chest, miniskirt, and high heels. My lips are numb from his kisses and my sex is damp and humming with anticipatory need.

And he just stands there, fists clenched, body tense, staring at me as if the thoughts in his head are working way too hard when it’s the other head on his body that I want working hard in me right now.

“Fuck me, Becks.” I have no shame in admitting that I want him. No embarrassment in confessing my needs. But a trace of unease tickles the base of my spine when he stands there and looks at me, head angled to the side, eyes probing through the darkened room into mine.

He glances up to the ceiling momentarily as if he’s gathering his strength to push me away. Panic fires anew because his words from moments ago hit me. I’m not letting you go until we talk. I know that he’s going to start asking questions I don’t want to answer. But why now? Why in the middle of what was about to become some incredible nail-scratches-down-his-back and teeth-marks-left-in-my-shoulder type of sex?

Because he wants more.

The thought dawns on me. Well, at first it dawns on me, and then it turns into a wrecking ball of panic bearing down on me. I know Becks isn’t that manipulative, know that he grabbed me from making a mistake with that guy from the club because he’s a good guy, but hell if the mixture of alcohol and his possible rejection isn’t feeding my irrationality right now.

He rolls his shoulders and spits out a slew of curses as he turns from me and stalks away for the second time tonight.

My temper ignites into an inferno of rage fueled by warring pride and desire with a touch of disbelief. “What?” I yell, the sound of my heels filling the frigid silence as I stomp after him. He starts to walk one way and then stops and paces back the other way, shaking his head, shoulders tense. I walk the few feet to where my shirt lies discarded and tug it over my head as if it’s a layer of armor to protect me from what I fear will come next. “You haul me from the club, kiss me like you want to fuck me, and then what? Change your mind?” There’s fire in my veins and ice in my voice.

“Yeah, imagine that,” he huffs, sarcasm rich in his tone, as he puts his hands on his neck. He lets his head hang momentarily as the silence grows stifling. “Christ, Haddie, I know all you want is a quick romp and to walk the fuck out the door with an ‘I hope this won’t be awkward next time we see each other.’”

I stare, face impassive at him and his dead-on assessment before he continues. “But one of has to step back to prevent the disaster this is heading toward since you sure as fuck are determined to give nothing of yourself.”

“Nothing of myself?” My voice escalates with each word as my temper flashes hot again. Does he have any clue how hard it is for me to hold back right now? How much I think about him? How I want to take the leap, not look at tomorrow and see what the future holds?

But I can’t.

I can’t until I know for sure. Until I know that I have tomorrows to offer him.

“I’m giving you everything I can right now, Beckett.” My voice is soft but resolute, and I can practically see my words drift across the space between us and slam into him full force.

“I call bullshit,” he swears as he continues toward the wall of windows. He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares out at the world beyond us. A striking solitary silhouette. And all I want to do is walk up behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, and let him in. Tell him I want more so that I can share this pain, the fear, with someone so that I’m not alone anymore, but that would make him feel obligated to stay when things go to shit—and that’s not fair to him, either.

How can I ask so much of him when I feel like I’m a ticking time bomb myself?

I force myself to look away from everything about him that calls to me. I make myself take a moment to glance around the room so that I don’t have to look at him or acknowledge the comment he’s thrown at me. So that I don’t focus on how the confliction he’s feeling is so palpable that I can feel it roll off him and collide into me. Because right now if I acknowledge it, if I accept it, then I might take that step forward and tell him I want those strings tied to him with knots and pretty little bows covering them.

The whole package.

The Danny and the Maddie.

I squeeze my eyes shut and pull myself from a momentary panic attack that threatens at the thought of what I’m never going to allow myself to have. I tell myself to shut down, to disengage so that I can’t feel.

I open my eyes when I hear movement to see Becks walking back toward the entryway. He stops and turns to face me, an apology etched on his handsome face. “I promised myself that I wouldn’t break my rules again regardless of how damn tempting you are. Haddie … we either are or we aren’t.” He shrugs, his eyes begging me to make the right decision. “So you tell me, what the fuck is this, Haddie?”

Panic claws its stifling fingers around my throat as he asks me to make a decision I can’t make. Either answer hurts one of us, hurts him or breaks me. So I try to play dumb, hope he thinks I’ve had enough alcohol to pull it off. “What the fuck is what? Seems to me you wanted me, and now you don’t. What else is there to figure out?”

And I know I’ve failed miserably because he’s on the move again, crossing the few feet until he stands at the front door. He pounds his fist against the wood—the boom reverberates around the room—before turning and leaning his back against the door, thumbs stuck in his pockets, one foot propped behind him and his eyes assessing every inch of me.

“That’s how you want to play this? Turn this into you pretending that I don’t want you. That I’m rejecting you? Haddie, everything about you makes me want to beg to take you … to fuck you into oblivion so thoroughly that you forget your own name because you’re so goddamn busy moaning mine.” He rolls his head back on his shoulders, staring at the ceiling for a moment while my body recovers from the visceral reaction to his words, my panties now damp from their dark promise. He’s offering everything I want. “Hell, I’m all for casual sex, Had—been there, done that—but this, us, it’s too goddamn complicated to be anywhere near the realm of casual. So make me the bad guy if you have to—blame me—but really, this is on you until you answer the question: Are we or aren’t we?”

Images flash through my mind. Memories we could make together if I answer the question truthfully. If I let him in … allow myself to feel with one hundred percent of my heart rather than the bits and pieces I dole out when I’m not cautious.

Then the images switch from hope and happiness to darkness and grief: Lexi’s casket, tears falling like rain, and my heart cinched like a vice. My body may be screaming yes to the thought of so much more with Becks, but my head and heart argue no.

They say disengage.

And I’m a hot mess. A cornucopia of fucked-up and conflicting thoughts that pushes me toward the irresistible man before me and pulls me back all at the same time. I try to rationalize, to tell myself that my heart is in the right place. That the fight I’m about to instigate to push him away is justified. To save him from the train wreck I can’t control.

Please, forgive me. I throw the thought out into the silence of the room and hope that somehow the universe delivers it to his mind, allows him to understand sometime in the future that I’m doing this to save him in the long run.

“It doesn’t have to be this way. Complicated. You’re the one rushing in to save the day when I was far from the damsel in distress.” If I wanted him to look at me, this was obviously the right thing to say because his eyes snap to mine and anger sparks in them.

I see that muscle in his jaw pulse from his gritted teeth as he tries to contain his emotions. As he tries to rationalize my lie and hide the hurt I see flash in his eyes. “If he’s what you want, feel free.” He shifts off the door. “You know the way back to the club.”

His eyes taunt me, dare me, say, Try me. And hell yes, I want to walk toward him—but not to leave. Every part of me tells me to answer the question honestly—say, we are—and that right there is exactly why I have to walk out the door and back to the club.

Except I’m not thinking too clearly. I still have that last shot humming through my blood and the taste of Becks’s kiss on my lips. Just enough of both to make me defiant, want to pick a fight with him for his caveman stunt. For pulling me away from quick and easy with club guy and bringing me here to the worth it and complicated. Two things I can’t have right now. I know that I can’t be tempted with wanting more even though for some reason it just feels so damn right with Becks.

And he mistakes my internal struggle for something else, for wanting someone else. “Cat got your tongue? Weighing your options because I’m sure Slick back there will treat you like a lady. Make sure the bathroom is empty at least before he brings you in there and tries to fuck you in one of the stalls.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Real classy.”

He’s pushing my buttons. I recognize it, but it’s just what I need to hold on to to make me leave and prevent the mistake I’m about to make. The one I want to make to sate the craving he started when he pinned me to the goddamn couch and kissed me like a man starving for more.

But it’s so much easier to hold on to the anger, latch onto it and be mad at him. Use his words as my reason to hold fast to the fight. I tell my feet to move, tell my sexy-as-hell heels to put one foot in front of the other, but they stay rooted to the floor right along with my gaze.

He chuckles low and even, a sarcastic amusement woven through the sound that pisses me off. “What are you afraid of? Why is his offer so much more tempting than mine, huh? Oh, I know why,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his words. “He’ll walk away without any questions. But I won’t, will I, Haddie? I have plenty of questions. The first one being, what exactly are you running from?”

My eyes flash up to meet his, and the look—the moment that passes between us—is too honest, too raw. I have to break it. I can’t let him see the truths that even I’m trying to hide from. How I feel and what I need to fix me—the answer being him—because I’m not going to allow it to happen.

I can feel it. I can know it. But he can’t.

My mind flashes back momentarily to the night of the wedding. Of how I asked him—gave him no other option, really—to take me to bed. Did I know then that unzipping my dress and inviting him between my legs would lead to this? Me wanting something more? Me standing in the middle of his apartment, wanting to take the next step but unable to because of the fears that are holding me hostage?

So just tell him the truth, Had. The thought flickers through my mind.

Fuck. Damn. Shit. I just can’t.

“I’m not running from anything.” My voice is steady when I speak, and I hope he can’t hear the waver of uncertainty on the last word.

I don’t know what I expected in response, but it wasn’t a smarmy smirk and a raise of his eyebrows. “You keep telling yourself that, and one of these days you might believe it. Whatever it is he did to you must have been quite a number for you to run like this. Every damn chance you get.”

I have to hide the shock on my face from his assumption. The fact that he thinks I don’t want to be with him because another man damaged me. “You don’t know anything about me.” I start to refute him, and then I realize it might be easier if I let him think that. Let him blame another man for my own shortcomings.

Feed the lie.

“I’m beginning to think that same thing myself,” he says. The potent combination of disappointment and judgment flashing in his eyes causes my anger to fire anew. “But, uh, like I said, be my guest.” He cocks his head to the side on the last words as he pats the door beside him.

“Fuck you.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, earning me that patronizing chuckle again.

“Well, there’s always that possibility, but I haven’t heard an answer to my question yet.”

His unaffected nonchalance throws me when all I want from him is to tell me to choose him. Pick him. Give me the words to anchor my runaway thoughts and give them something to hold on to—weekend mornings where we fall back onto rumpled sheets to make love all day, cooking dinner together, knowing someone will pick up when I call my own house.

But he just continues to stare at me. Then it begins to piss me off as he stands there with amused eyes and the patience of a saint when all I want him to do is to tell me to quit being such a goddamn tease—a fucking coward—and either commit to him or get the fuck out of his life because I don’t deserve him or his compassion.

Because all of the personal touches I’m noticing around his condo—the tattered dog toys, the Carole King CD on his shelf that reminds me of Lex, an orange ceramic giraffe on his coffee table when I love giraffes—if I know all of these personal little touches about Becks, then it makes him real. It makes the feelings for him I don’t want to possess real. It makes him too genuine, too perfect, and too accessible for this girl who wants her heart to be inaccessible.

Make the decision for me, I scream in my head.

But he doesn’t. He simply stands there, watching me, waiting for me to make the next move. Hoping I make the right one.

“Well, if it’s that hard of a decision—if you think I’m comparable to Slick—then I’ll make it for you,” he says, unknowingly giving me what I want. He turns the knob and swings the door open before leaning against the doorjamb and crossing his arms across his chest.

Shock filters through me as I realize he’s kicking me out. I can’t believe he just did that. I refuse to let my mouth fall open like it wants to because I can’t let him see any of my schizophrenic emotions, which would show him how much I care.

Rejection kicks me solidly in the gut until I feel like I can’t breathe.

I glance around the room, rapidly looking for another exit because I’m pissed and I sure as fuck don’t want to give him the satisfaction of walking past him on the way out. I don’t like that he’s got the upper hand now, especially since it appears we are several floors up and he’s leaning against my only chance to escape.

Jumping off the balcony is looking pretty tempting though.

“Get away from the door.” I stride a few feet toward him, my heels kicking a blue pillow that must have fallen on the floor in his abduction and subsequent trapping of me on the couch.

“Nope.” A soft, lopsided smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, amusement reaching his eyes. His hair is mussed from our struggle, and his shirt collar has been tugged askew.

How can he look like something I want to sink into when I’m so angry at him right now?

“Daniels, I don’t think you have any clue how pissed off I am at you right now.”

When he responds with that condescending chuckle again, I want to knock it out of his mouth. I walk toward him, his smirk in full force, and he just stares at me and shrugs. “As you can tell, I don’t really care how pissed you are, City.”

“Do you have any idea how important the job of mine you’re jeopardizing right now is to me? How you just kidnapped me from a potentially huge opportunity?” I yell at him, my sanity ebbing with his blatant disregard for everything I’ve worked for.

“It looks to me like you were doing a damn good job of jeopardizing that client yourself.” That cocksure smirk on his face goads me, pushes me. “Couple more shots and another tongue down your throat, and hell, Had, you might get more than a publicity job out of it.” He raises his eyebrows at me, a nonverbal Try me, and I can’t help but react at the buttons he’s pushing right now. Every single one but the one I really want him to push. “At least you’d be getting paid for it, right?”

I’m unable to speak at that, the unexpected nasty side of Becks I’ve never seen before throwing me off balance. So I move, using my nervous energy, and take a few more steps toward him. The hallway light falls over a segment of his face, and despite the contempt in his words, I can see the desire in his eyes—as well as the fleeting confusion about what in the hell I was up to with the guy in the club.

“Get out of my way.” I sneer at him as I begin to go through the door. His hand flashes out and grabs my arm before I can make it over the threshold. Our eyes lock on each other’s, his fingers flexing at my wrist as he fights whatever internal battle he’s waging right now.

And I really don’t care. God, yes, I’m being selfish—would readily admit that to Becks if he hadn’t completely clouded my thoughts—but all the same, I just need to go so that I can clear my head of all this shit. But that’s impossible when he makes me want him—kissing me like I’m his last breath so that all I want to do is stay right here—before shoving me away like the sack of potatoes he carried here over his shoulder.

“That easy of a decision, huh? You sure about that?”

I snort out in disbelief. Want me, push me away, and want me again. Can this get any more confusing? But I’m not sticking around to be insulted. To be manhandled, kissed until I’m breathless, accused of wanting to sleep around, and then be told to stay. I try to pull my arm from his grip, but he holds firm.

I fight to ignore the little thrill that shoots through me and reverberates around the anger.

“Let me go, Beckett. I’d best be getting back, at least someone should benefit from my whorish ways.” I grit the words out because at this point I don’t even know if I’m angry because I want him and he doesn’t want me anymore or if it’s because he wants me and I can’t give him the more he’s asking for.

I want to scream, to rage, to kiss him, to fuck him, to hate him, to let him walk away and not want more. And none of those things is going to fix that ache in my heart I get when I look into his eyes and see him asking me again for an answer. For a sign of where this could take us, if we can work out our kind of complicated to make it our kind of right.

“You leave, Haddie, I’m not chasing you again. So you’d better make sure that’s what you want.” His voice is quiet steel. “And if you stay, I’m going to start tying some knots in those goddamn strings of yours.”

His words make shivers run up my spine, make the ache in my heart throb, and send a panicked fear straight through me. Because God, yes, I want. And I don’t want. Everything I’m feeling is in such extremes right now that I feel like I’m going crazy.

As I begin to tug my arm from his grip, my only thought is to escape the inexplicable hold he has over me so that I can think straight without his presence clouding things, but he tightens his grip. “Really? Gonna leave just like that, huh? Take the easy way out? I figured you for a fighter, not a coward.”

And I don’t know if it’s the moment, his words, his proximity, or my fear but it all collides into a wrecking ball of irrationality when I turn on him. “You don’t get to judge me!” The volume of my voice escalates as every part of me wants to expel my irrationalities out on him. I lunge at him, hands flying, hurt reigning, emotions overloading.

My hand connects with his solid chest with a thud, and it’s nowhere near as satisfying of a feeling as I thought it would be. So I try again, and what pisses me off even more is that he stands there and takes it. He doesn’t fight back, doesn’t try to grab my hands to stop me. He just stands there and accepts it.

Even has the gall to laugh softly at the lack of harm I’m inflicting.

“Let me go!” I shout, fists connecting, rage increasing. “You asshole! How dare you make assumptions about me, about my job … call me a whore after you’ve sampled—”

“Then quit acting like one …” He grunts as I move my knee, and he blocks it efficiently, which only infuriates me further. “You want to hurt me?” He chuckles. “Go right ahead. Hurt me like you want to do to the bastard that hurt you.”

His words tear into me because his assumptions are so off base, and yet my head’s so messed up that I’m pissed he’s talking about Lexi like that.

“You have no fucking clue what I’ve been through,” I shout in a voice broken from my exertion, while his calm demeanor fuels my anger, my hurt, my everything. “How dare you—”

“That all you got Had?” he says, his grip like iron, his voice laced with amusement.

“I hate you!” I yell needing more of a reaction to justify my hysterics. “Let. Me. Go!”

And of course, I continue to hit him. Continue to shout obscenities about what he can do with his opinions, where he can shove his boy-next-door charm. Words fly and punch harder than my fists do. And I’m so messed up that it feels so good to hurt someone else for a change rather than being the one to take it.

I’m on the verge of hysterical—making no sense whatsoever—and I don’t even care anymore because I’m so sick and tired of caring that for once I let it all go. All of the hurt and the pain and the shutting everyone out so that when he finally wraps his arms around me, I don’t know what to do but struggle some more.

And he just holds on, my name a repeated murmur on his lips, the warmth of his breath against my hair as I cling to him.

But something happens in the moment—I struggle a few more times and then all of the fight leaves me.

I sag into him as large hiccupping sobs overtake my body, and my spiteful words turn into incoherent murmurings. My fists still pound against his chest, and he takes a hand and smooths it over my hair and holds my head against him, his thumb rubbing reassuringly back and forth on my cheek. He rests his chin on my head. “I’m right here, Had. I’m not going anywhere, so let it all out. C’mon … shh … c’mon.”

And it feels so damn good to need him. It feels so nice to use someone else to help with the emotion I’ve barricaded for so long that I can’t stop it from pouring out and running down my cheeks. It is such a relief for him to be strong while I break down in this foreign place with a man I don’t want to want but can’t seem to separate myself from somehow.

So Becks holds me as I fall apart. As the months of grief and fear of the unknown become a perfect storm of release. Until my body trembles and my nose runs. Until my feet ache from standing in my heels and my fingers are sore from gripping his shirt so tightly. All the while he just holds on and says nothing aside from reassuring words, telling me that it’s okay. That I’m going to be okay.

Time passes.

My walls begin to crack.

I’m sure the moon moves across the night sky at my back, but I don’t know for sure because my eyes are blurry from crying so damn much. I have no idea how much time has lapsed. And now that my tears abate, now that silence has descended around us like a smothering pillow, the realization of what I’ve just done hits me full force. Shame follows quickly on its heels. I’ve got a moment of desperation where I know I need to salvage my dignity, but no idea how to go about doing that. I squeeze my eyes shut, uncertain where to set my feet beneath me on this ever-shifting ground, and try to pull away from him, but he just holds me tight, not allowing me to escape.

Emotionally or physically.

“Please, let me just go home, Becks.” I don’t even recognize the strange whimpering voice that comes from my mouth. The sounds of a person on the brink of losing it again.

“Not gonna happen, Montgomery.” He presses a kiss to the side of my head. “You’re not going anywhere.”

We stand there in the darkened room. At some point, he shifts us to the couch. He’s seated, with my body cradled across his lap—butt between his parted thighs. I don’t know how we got in this position, but I know that not once has he loosened his hold on me. It’s almost as if I’m a scared jackrabbit he’s afraid will bolt the minute he releases me.

And he has good reason to think that.

I find an odd comfort in the silence for once. I’m concentrating so hard on not crying—on not thinking about tears—that I find it hard to think about anything else: Lexi, Becks, living without feeling.

Dying.

I find consolation in the rhythm of our chests resting against each other’s, from the physical contact that allows me to steal his warmth and use the reassuring beat of his steady heartbeat to soothe my aching soul.

And my mind must be so exhausted from the ridiculous display that I put on at the club that at some point, I succumb. So for the second time in a week, Becks sits with me as I fall asleep.

This time I just happen to be in his arms.