Can we do that? See her every week but not touch her?
Fuck. We might have to find a different coffee shop. Part of me knows it won’t matter—I’ll never be able to scrub the feeling of having Wren close from my brain.
But one weekend fling can’t turn into a relationship. There’s no possible way she wants that, too. She’s opened up to us a lot, sure. But she’s still holding back. Why’d she do that if she wanted us?
It doesn’t matter anyway. Letting Wren into our relationship would bring along too many complications and dangers. It wouldn’t be fair to her.
Wren leans down, placing a kiss to the butterfly on my ribcage. Then she settles against me, her head on my chest.
“Comfortable?” I brush her hair to one side. “Are you sore?”
“Just a little,” she says, yawning. Then she giggles. “I promise I won’t fall asleep on you again.”
My lips ghost across her hairline. “If you’re tired, I don’t mind. Let yourself.”
I feel her tense. It’s barely noticeable, but reading her body language has become like a second nature to me. I guess that’s what happens when you can’t take your eyes off someone.
“Why do you care about me so much?” she says softly.
“Who are you comparing me to?”
“What?”
“Who are you comparing me to? Because the real question isn’t why I care so much. It’s why the men who had you before me didn’t care.”
She lets out a breath. “I guess that’s one way to look at it. All three of you are just so . . .” She shakes her head. “Never mind.”
I don’t press her. Whatever she was about to say, I have a feeling it’s too much, too intimate. And that’s the last thing we need right now.
We spend the rest of the bath in silence. I stroke her hair while she traces her fingers up and down my arm. It’s nice. Comfortable.
In bed, she tilts her head and watches me. “You’re worried. About Rhett?” There’s a hint of fear in her eyes.
“Don’t worry about it, love.”
She bites her lip, her brows furrowing. After a moment, she scooches closer and wraps her arms around me.
And that’s how we stay, until my eyes finally close and I drift off to sleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RHETT
I DON’T want to bring Oliver with me.
Other than what a friend was able to dig up for me, this Adam guy is a mystery to us. He seems harmless, but I could be wrong. And I hate the thought of dragging Oliver into a situation without knowing what we’re walking into.
But when I head downstairs, he’s already waiting by the door, tucking his gun into the waistband of his jeans before shrugging on his black hoodie.
I sigh. Maybe it’s for the best. He won’t sleep until I get back, anyway.
We climb into my truck, but I don’t start it. There’s something I’ve needed to say all day, but I haven’t been able to get him alone.
When he sees my face, he runs a hand through his hair. “Please tell me you haven’t been beating yourself up about this all day. You’ve been doing better, Rhett. It was just one slip-up.”
Of course he’s able to figure it out that quickly. When you’ve been with someone for over ten years, you learn them inside and out.
My knuckles turn white as I grip the steering wheel. “I don’t want to have slip-ups. You both—all three of you—deserve better.”
“Fuck,” he mutters. Then he leans over the console and grabs my face in his hands. “You were trying to protect her, okay? I shouldn’t’ve told her I’d be heartbroken if she decided not to stay. You were right to call me out on my bullshit.”
Not by snapping at you, I almost yell. But that would defeat the purpose of this already-failed attempt at an apology. “I shouldn’t’ve done it like that,” I grit out. “And I’m sorry.”
He touches his forehead to mine. “Apology accepted. I’m not holding it against you.”
Part of the knot in my chest unravels, but my skin still feels vulnerable and prickly. I press my lips to his before turning on the truck and pulling out of the garage.
When I pull up a couple of blocks away from Adam’s house, I let out a breath. Almost there.
“You good?” Oliver’s hand covers mine over the gearshift.
I work my jaw. Tighten my fist and then unclench it. “Just don’t let me kill him.”
He nods, and we start moving, hoods up. The snow crunches under our boots, and I keep my breaths even. When we get to his street, I pull on my gloves.
Just stick to your list. Hurt him enough that he’ll never dare to touch anyone else again. And then get the fuck out.
His front door is locked, but I kick it down with ease, gun in hand. He’s in the front room, sitting in an old armchair, an open bottle of whiskey next to him. One of his hands is clutching a gun that’s pointed straight at my head.
“Get out,” he yells, standing. “Or I’ll shoot!”
Oliver swears behind me, and I hear the shot before it’s even registered in my mind that he’s jumped in front of me.
Panic seizes my chest until I see Adam stumble backward, clutching his arm. Blood soaks his sleeve.
Shit. The neighbors definitely heard that.
“Freddy’s on tonight,” Oliver says, watching as Adam’s knees hit the floor. “There’s no way he won’t be the one who gets called to the scene.”
“Good.” That gives us more time.
Grabbing Adam’s gun from the floor where he dropped it, I eject the magazine and check the chamber. Both empty. What an idiot.
“I’ll watch the door,” Oliver says, grimacing at it. My kicking it down completely ruined it and the doorjamb.
At least it was cathartic.
I grab Adam by his hair and drag him into the back of his house. The kitchen is tiled, so it’ll be easier for whoever has to clean up the blood than the wooden floors of the front room.
I haul him up, tossing him onto the counter. Dirty dishes clatter, and I hear a few break, but I don’t care. I rip off his belt, tying it around his arm. I didn’t drive all the way over here just for him to pass out from blood loss.
“Please don’t hurt me,” Adam sobs. “I have a girlfriend. Her name is Wren. She won’t be able to live without me, she’ll be so—”
I punch him in his stupid mouth, and his head slams into a cabinet. “You really don’t recognize me, do you?”
“No! I swear, I have no idea who you are or what you want. I’ll do anything. Do you want money? Drugs? I’ve got both upstairs.”
“I want you out of this city.”
“Please, man. I can’t leave. I’ve got family here.”
“Don’t care.” I punch him again, my fist connecting with his jaw, and he slumps to the floor.
He lets out a pathetic groan as I hear the first sirens.
I crouch next to him, grabbing his chin and pulling his face to mine. “I’ve decided to go easy on you tonight. But if you’re still here by the end of the week, I’ll make your life a living nightmare.”
“This is going easy?” he sputters. Blood is dripping from his mouth, and he coughs, spraying my face.
“You have no idea,” I grit out. The things I could do to this punk—but I can’t. Freddy’s power is limited, and he can only help us get away with so much.