Fighting to Forgive (Fighting, #2)

He leans back fractionally, and, in a moment of terror, I wonder if a hug is too personal. Too late now.

Even on my tiptoes, my arms don’t reach his thick, corded neck. I lock my hands at his nape and pull him in. He leans down, the raw strength of his powerful arms wrap around my waist and tug me close. I’m practically lifted off my feet as he holds me to his body. His firm chest presses against mine, the heat of his skin penetrates my thin sweater and coils deep in my belly.

The safety of his strength and the warmth of his touch, combined with the clean, spicy scent of his skin, would be any girl’s happy place. With my cheek pressed to his shoulder, I bite my lip against a moan. How something can feel so good and be so, so bad, I’ll never know.

I pull away, and he releases me easily. “Thanks.”

His eyes do that thing where they travel from my lips to my hairline. Like he’s looking at a steak and doesn’t know which bite to take first.

A slow shiver crawls down my spine.

“Your place.” His strange statement has my cheeks burning.

My place. As in… no, that’s not what he means. Is it? What would I do if it was? “What?”

“Your address.” He doesn’t take his eyes off mine. “For tomorrow.”

Uncomfortable laughter shoots from my lips. “Yes. Of course.” I dig in my purse looking for a piece of paper and a—oh, found a pen. “One second here. If I could just find something to write on.”

He puffs out what sounds like an impatient breath. With one yank, he has the pen in his hand, and one move later, my hand is in his. “Text it to me.”

A little buzzed from the combination of his big hand consuming mine and the subtle forest smell I’m beginning to associate with only him, I bob my head affirmatively as he scribbles something on my palm.

He drops my hand and pops the pen into my purse. “Eight AM.”

“Um… eight, that… good. I’ll uh…” I struggle to get the words out, but he’s already turned and disappeared behind a row of steel lockers.

What the hell was that? One minute the guy treats me like a friend and the next a burden. And the almost kiss behind his Jeep today is the whipped topping on this mind-fuck sundae.

I shake off the awkward exchange. Whatever is or isn’t happening between us isn’t worth my overthinking. His actions prove he’s a friend. That’s enough for me.

Blake

It’s late, and I’m still up. I read the text that came in a few hours ago one more time.

237 N. Tulum Dr. #290 See you in the a.m. Layla

Shortly after I added her number to my contact list, right below Lanette and above Leah, I punched her address into MapQuest. She’s in one of the worst neighborhoods in Vegas.

If I was a good guy, I’d drive over there right now, pack up all their shit, and take them to a hotel until they find somewhere safer. I groan and rub my forehead, my brain feeling like a party mix of compulsion and annoyance.

Something ain’t right. There’s no reason I shouldn’t be able to tune this girl out. I’ve done it countless times in the past. All I have to do is decide not to care. But no matter how many times I make that decision, Layla Moorehead continues to grate against my determination.

Fuck. I push up from the lounger on my patio and head back inside. My back is completely numb now from the good doc’s cortisone injections, but I don’t want to take any chances. I grab a Gatorade from the fridge and throw back a handful of Doc’s prescription holistic crap.

Standing in the kitchen, I look around my condo. The lights of the Las Vegas strip blaze in the distance. The floor-to-vaulted-ceiling windows do nothing to ease the feeling of being shrink-wrapped in my own skin. I’m edgy, ticking, and on the verge of explosion.

Just like my dad. Pissed off, irritable, ready to take on the world with my bare knuckles.

Maybe it’s the fight coming up. That has to be it. I can’t stand to entertain the alternative. But the possibility lingers.

And for whatever reason, Layla’s presence in my life seems to aggravate the situation. Holding her in my arms, her fragile little body pressed in close from chest to hip. Vanilla spice curling through my senses and practically dropping me to my knees. Fuck. I was a half a second away from pushing her back against a wall and tasting that sweet mouth.

My words from the night before come flooding back. Good for him for getting the fuck away from you.

She’s too fragile. Broken in a way that makes a guy like me Riddex to my emotionally fractured Mouse.

Attacking Layla’s weak spot at the club, reeling her in just to kick her in the gut, was a typical Duke Daniels move. And as desperate as I am to avoid becoming even a shadow of a man like that, it’s out of my control. I’m furious at how easily I become what I hate the most.

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