I give up on the eggs and grab two protein bars from the pantry, tossing one to Ryder. “It’s Sunday.”
He catches it on the fly. “Yeah, I know. But Theo got new skins on his kit, and we wanted to jam before he has to be at work.”
The older he gets, the more he’s been avoiding our Sunday routine. When he was a kid, he had no choice but to join me, but now that he’s older, he has the freedom decide what’s best. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.
I notice then that there’s a tiny smudge of black makeup below one eye, and his fingernails are painted black. “What did you do last night?” I motion to his arsenal of emo-punk dead giveaways.
He glares at me, his pale blue eyes bloodshot. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“After party.” I take a sip of my coffee, focusing on my son, but my mind goes back to Eve: her body, warm and welcoming, wrapped around mine. The sounds that fell from her lips ring through my skull, and I turn to hide my dick swelling at the memory.
“Some party.” Ryder motions to the side of my neck; his lips tick into a knowing smile. “Did you get assaulted by a vamp?”
I hold up my stainless steel coffee mug but can’t see shit in the reflection. My gut tightens at the memory of her mouth at my throat while I was thrusting inside her tight little body. Goose bumps break out on my skin and my neck gets warm. Had to have left a mark. Great.
The last thing I need in my already fucked-up head is the complication that a woman brings, especially a girl like Eve. She’s young, and if her dance moves and party skills are any indication, she’s not giving up her wild Vegas nights any time soon. I don’t have the energy to keep up with a girl like her. Not with everything else I have going on in my life or the fourteen years I’ve got on her.
But fuck, the sugary scent of her hair, sweet taste of her skin . . . What I wouldn’t do to taste her everywhere.
Last night is a perfect example of what happens when I lose focus and follow my dick rather than logic. Once she led me into her house, the need to be deep inside her took over, and foreplay was non-existent. Not that she seemed to care. If I’d had my way, I’d spend hours pleasuring every inch of that body: full hips, round ass, and gorgeous breasts that fill two hands. I groan and get Ryder’s questioning eyes.
“Vamp . . . ha-ha, smartass.” No use in throwing out some made-up story about falling down the stairs or wrestling with a vacuum cleaner. Ryder’s no idiot to the ways of bachelor life.
“Mom called last night,” he says through a cheek-full of protein bar.
Perfect buzz kill subject. I drop my chin and bite down on the string of curses that are pushing to be said. “Figured she might. Everything okay?”
He coughs out a humorless laugh. “Is anything ever okay when it comes to her?”
Fuck, I hate this. After D’lilah and I got divorced, she really took a turn for the worse. The drinking and partying were out of control, and I threatened to fight for full custody. She checked herself into rehab when Ryder was eight. Unfortunately, her sobriety only lasted until she checked out. I had no choice but to make good on my threat. I’d lost one child I couldn’t save. There was no way I’d risk losing another.
“She’s doing her best, Ry.”
“Her best is shit.”
“You know your mom.” I force back what’s really on my mind. Like the fact that she thinks she can pick and choose when to come and go from his life. His birthday’s around the corner, and she hasn’t given a shit about more than half of them. “Cut her some slack. She’s having a hard time dealing with . . .”
“I know. But she’s not the only one who lost Rosie. I don’t see you getting shit-housed every day.”
If it were possible to curl up and die, I would’ve done it the day I pulled my baby girl’s body out of that pool, but I knew I needed to make up for what I’d done. I didn’t take my brain damage seriously enough. If I’d worked harder in rehab rather than throw all my focus into getting back into the octagon, she’d still be here. I’ll never forgive myself for that.
My chest is heavy and my skin clammy. The urge to comfort Ryder pricks at my throat, but I know my limitations. Talking this out with him will only bring out the anger and shame: all of the crap that makes my legs threaten to give way beneath me. I can’t go there, won’t allow myself to feel anything even close to what I felt that day.
It’s survival. Necessity. I have to stay on my feet.
Six
Cameron
“Mornin’, Layla.” I stop off at her desk and sort through new messages. “World still turning after the fight on Saturday?”
“Seems to be.” She hands me the hour-by-hour schedule of my day. “You’ve got a lunch meeting with Jonah and Owen and then two more on site this afternoon.”