“Well, I’ll tell you what I don’t need—another brother. I have a brother back in Brooklyn, and apparently I have Ian, too. I don’t need you taking on the role as well.”
The last thing I want her to see me as is her fucking brother. Christ, I’ve been in her pussy. The idea that she thinks of me as her brother is more troubling to me than I’d like to admit. I just shake my head and look down at her fidgeting hands. “I don’t think of you as a sister.”
“No, I guess I’m just a Lost Girl then, huh?” I try to fight the way that comment makes me feel—like a real bastard. I hate feeling shit, and it seems like that’s all I’ve been doing lately. I was not prepared for this shit with Alex. She’s pretty much everywhere, and the places she’s not, people are fucking talking about her. The last thing Alex is, is a Lost Girl. She’s not a club whore.
“You’re not a Lost Girl,” I say. Why she gets me talking, I don’t fucking know. I just need her to know that she’s nobody’s whore, not even mine.
“Then why did you treat me like I am?” Her shoulders are slumped and her brows are tight. This is the last thing she needs right now. She’s still struggling with the Ma thing.
“You want to do this now?” I ask, hanging on the hope that the harsh tone I use is enough to deter this conversation. I know why I did it, I’m just not ready to face it. Pop was right. All the fucking tears going on in this house are going to make my balls sprout eggs.
“Might as well get all the ugly out of the way,” she says, jutting her chin out. I’ve seen this before, her trying to be brave. She’s so na?ve. She doesn’t have a fucking clue how ugly shit can get. This isn’t the ugly, even though she thinks it is. This is just an aftershock of the ugly, if even that.
“We fucked. It was fun.” I shrug it off like it’s nothing, like it’s the truth. “What, you want a diamond ‘cause I got in your pussy?”
The comment makes her flinch and look away. I lock my jaw in place to keep from apologizing. Isn’t that what the other night was about—hurting her? I’m supposed to be pushing her away, not pulling her closer. Letting her know that I feel sorry for treating her like a whore isn’t an option.
Just when I think the tears are going to come, her face hardens and she faces me once more. “You’re a bastard.”
“I know,” I say, my eyes trained on hers. She’s finally getting it.
“Are you even going to try to change?”
“No.”
“Fine,” she says, throwing her hands up. “Don’t change, that’s fine. But we’re in each other’s worlds. We have to find a way to be civil around each other.” She pushes her hands into the bed beside her, pulling herself up straighter.
“I don’t want to be civil around you,” I say, forcing myself to shut my mouth before everything else spills out. I don’t want to be civil around her because civility requires an emotional distance. I don’t feel distant when I’m with her. I don’t feel civil or nice. I feel on edge, needy, manic. I’m way too deep into this chick to feel fucking civil. Maybe I could have been civil before I fucked her, but not now. Being in her pussy was good and all, but that’s not what’s fucking me up. I know she didn’t enjoy it. It hurt her, and I didn’t want her to enjoy it. And what kind of fucked up bastard does that shit? Not anybody she should let fuck her, that’s for sure.
“You’re an impossible asshole!” she screams.
“Don’t you think I know that? Maybe you didn’t hear me the first fucking time—it’s you or my patch. What is it going to take to get you to hate me?” I reach up, hanging onto the back of my neck with my hands, and blow out a breath. I shake off bitches on the regular—why this is so hard, I don’t know. Every time I try to push her away, she fights me on it.
“You say you don’t want me, you act like you hate me, but you keep coming around.” She shakes her head in disdain and wrings her hands together in her lap.
“I never said I didn’t want you,” I say and turn away from her, leaving the room the way I came in. I don’t know when I turned into Mr. Fucking Chatty, but this shit has got to stop.
I have to get the hell out of here. This chick is fucking with my head again, and it’s making it impossible for me to do my job. I just need some distance.
Giving Squat, whose real name is Rob, a nod, I cross the deck and take the stairs into the grass two at a time. I take a quick look back to see he’s taken my position at the sliding glass door and has his piece in hand. I trust him well enough—for a prospect—but just in case, I decide to give him a reminder.