I turn and walk away. I need to prep for the job, need to pack my car, need to do anything but keep standing here, wallowing in the guilt that’s eating me inside like black fire.
The fuck do I have to feel guilty for? It’s my fucking private life. Not Steve’s. It’s not his business who I’m sleeping with, or who Kenna is either.
But I know I'm making excuses. No matter how hard I stomp, how rough I try to shove it out of my head, I can't get that look of his out of my brain.
I storm into the garage, practically seeing red. There’s a twinge inside me telling me I’m just using anger to hide, but fuck it, it’s worked for me before.
I start throwing my gear together, stuffing it into cases and duffel bags. A few moments later, soft footsteps trail after me. Kenna stands in the door of the garage, a dark shape backlit by outdoor sunlight, her eyes nearly glowing in shadow, shining wet.
“Landon?”
I say nothing. Just rip the trunk of the car open and shove one of my kits inside. If I talk to her right now I don’t know what'll come out of me, but it won't be good.
Everything’s all fucked up.
I’m fucked up, if I ever thought anything like this could be for me.
I'm a bastard. An exile. Alienated from everyone who ever tried to care.
A monster who can’t trust, and who can’t be trusted.
Reb, she's better off without me.
And I have no time left to fix this fucking mess, not with this goddamned job breathing down my neck.
“Landon, please talk to me!”
No. I’ve got the words stitched up inside me to keep their ugliness from spilling all over her. I shake my head tightly, throw another bag in the trunk, and slam it shut.
I have to go.
Have to take myself away before I do something explosive, something that could hurt her the way I hurt her years ago.
She makes a frustrated sound, as I move around the garage gathering the last of my shit. Then she snaps, “So, what? This is it? You’re just gonna shut me out and run again?”
That's exactly what I'll do. The only scenario that doesn't end with me destroying her a second time.
When I don’t answer, she forges on, her voice growing thick. I don’t have to look at her to know she’s close to crying. That’s the kind of asshole I am. Even my love hurts, damages, destroys.
Melodramatic? It's fucking true. And the evidence is right in front of me, a gorgeous green-eyed girl who worked magic on my body, mind, and soul, coming apart because I didn't have the balls to come clean with Steve.
“Landon...I’m not going to let you do this again. Not after the last two weeks. Go ahead, you asshole. Try it. You can turn right back into that hollow, numb shell of a man again, but I won’t believe it for a second. Won’t believe you’re a monster, even if you try to convince me. I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not running from you. Not anymore.”
I jerk the door to the Impala open. I let myself look at her one last time, standing silhouetted with her hair a wild mess of beautiful tangles and her face still lit with every bit of passion and fury welling inside her.
She’s beautiful. She’s perfect. She’s kind. She’s wonderful.
And she’s not for me.
No one who believes in someone else this much should ever have to deal with someone as fucked up as me.
“The cats will appreciate the company,” I bite off. I know it’s cruel. I know it’s harsh. But I need her to let me go.
Just like how I tell myself I have to let her go, when I shove myself into the car and only give her a second to skitter out of the way before I’m backing out, peeling down the drive, refusing to look at the hurt, angry look on her face in the rear-view mirror.
But as I tear down the highway, fingers gouging lines in the steering wheel, I wonder.
What the fuck is wrong with me, that the only way I can think of to save her is to hurt her – and to ruin myself?
15
Hate to Love You (Kenna)
If life were a book I was hate-writing, this would be the point where the intrepid, bespectacled heroine realizes her hero is actually the villain, and suddenly realizes she'd be better off in a monastery.
Yes, I do that sometimes. When I get frustrated with story dead ends, I have my characters hang it up and do the craziest things, before they come back to their senses.
Seriously, I’m about to hang up my hat, become a nun, and give up on Landon Strauss, because I’d bet you the advance on my next book that the ascetic life would treat me nicer than that asshole hypocrite I've fallen far too deeply for.
Too bad I'm not super religious.
I sprawl on the patio alone, stretched out on a wicker sofa with Mews perched on the sofa's arm above me, tail flicking down over my nose. Velvet snuggles up against my thighs in the nook made by my bent legs. My notebook is closed, propped on my stomach after a morning of hate-writing some of the best conflict I’ve ever penned.
Probably because it’s coming from a place of very real, very personal fury.
I never thought Landon would end up being my muse in all the best and worst ways, but at least I’m getting this book done.
I blow out heavily, making a rude sound with my lips and ruffling the fur of Mews’ tail. He makes a disgruntled noise, until I poke at his tail with the capped tip of my pen. Narrowing his eyes, he twists to bat at it, while I feint it in and out. Watching the cat play mighty hunter without ever uncurling from his perch is the first time I’ve smiled since Landon went storming away yesterday morning.
“Why's your Daddy such an asshole, baby?” I ask, and gently boop Mews’ nose with the pen. His little eyes cross and I chuckle. “At least you're as nice as you look.”
Yep. I’m gonna be a stereotype.
The writer with ten cats, no boyfriend, but one hell of an active fantasy sex life in my books.
If I’m honest, the cats are the only reason I’m still here – and not just because of that nasty parting shot Landon made.
I can’t leave Velvet and Mews to fend for themselves, even if it aches to haunt this house where we spent two solid weeks making fire, making rain, making storms of the elements until we were thunder and earthquakes, wind and trembling flames, and the heartbeat of everything wild.
I’ve exiled myself back to the guest bedroom, and tend to either stay there or out here on the patio.
They’re the only two places we hadn’t fucked yet. The only places where I can’t remember the taste of him and feel his rough hands on my body. He made me feel special, for a little while. Made me feel loved.
And then he thrust me out into the cold again, cutting me off and destroying everything between us once more.
At least the bastard is consistent.
Even if this time, he’s the one who ran away.
I think I’m going to be gone, the day he’s scheduled to come back. Make sure the boys are fed and taken care of, then make myself scarce. I can’t stand to see Landon again. I feel numb, right now.
Numb I can handle.
I can’t handle the stab of pain that’s going to hit me when he walks in this house and looks right through me like he doesn’t even know my name.
My eyes well sharply, flinching at the vision. Fuck.
So much for numbness. I can’t do this. I've already messed up the new pages I'm writing, blurring ink with big wet splotches soaking through the paper.
“You don’t look so good,” a voice interrupts, jolting my heart into a startled little leap.
I scream.
The cats bolt.
Mr. Hoodie flashes in my head before I even look up.
Velvet catches the back of my thigh with a hind paw as he launches off the sofa, raking a burning scratch down my skin. I yelp, clutching at my thigh, sit up sharply, and crash my forehead right into my brother’s.
Pain hits me like I’m a ringing bell, my brain rattling inside my skull. I drop back down to the sofa, crashing against the cushions.
Steve had been leaning over the back of the sofa, but now he reels backward, swearing, clutching at his reddened forehead. I’m not much better, hissing under my breath and rubbing at my brow.