They always do.
How had I screwed it up so badly? I’d gone from being determined to stand strong and get my shit together to drowning in the residue of all my bad choices.
I look at the man sleeping soundly in the bed. I know what will happen when he wakes. He will soothe my tears, tell me it will be okay. He’ll heal my wounds with kisses, and before I know it, I’ll be on my back with his cock inside me, my job and my plan all but forgotten.
I tell myself I am strong enough to resist. That I will tell him and then simply walk away.
But I know better. I want him—his touch, his kisses. If he wakes, I will stay.
And I will hate myself—and him—for it.
I turn, lost, and stumble back to the bathroom counter. I blink back tears and stare at my reflection. “Do something,” I say to the girl who looks back at me. “Fix this.”
And so I do the only thing I can think to do—I run.
Chapter Six
I’m sorry.
That’s all I wrote on the note that I left on the bedside table. I wanted to say more, but I’m not good at saying the words, and I’m even worse at psychoanalyzing myself.
And I’m certain that I had to go—I have to get my shit together, and you scare the crap out of me wouldn’t have been the best approach, even if it was true.
I’ve been driving for two hours now, and the sun has long since disappeared behind the San Bernardino mountains that fill my rearview mirror.
I’d made my escape quietly, wearing only the jeans and T-shirt that I’d left in the bathroom, and taking only my purse and phone. I’d brought a suitcase with me to California, of course, and my suite was littered with shopping bags. But I hadn’t bothered with any of that because there was no way for me to pack and not wake up Ryan.
So I’d run, knowing full well that I could call Gregory, Damien’s valet, in the morning and have him gather my things and ship them to my parents in Texas.
As for the Vegas job—well, I had makeup in my purse, but I guess I’d just have to suck it up and shop for clothes. I figured that counted as retail therapy, and even considering the damage that I would undoubtedly do to my credit card, it would be cheaper than a round of sessions with a shrink.
I’d taken the Ferrari from where Damien had left it for me in his impressive underground garage. It had taken concentration to get out of Malibu because I tend to get turned around on all the twisting roads, but as soon as I hit the highway, I started thinking about Ryan. About leaving.
About the way he made me feel.
Twice, I reached for my phone, then yanked my hand back before I could close my fingers tight around it. When I reached for it a third time, I snatched it up, then powered the damn thing off and tossed it in the glove box.
Out of sight, out of mind. Except while that worked to stifle the urge to call him, it did nothing to stifle the thoughts and memories and emotions that rattled in my head. The memory of his mouth upon me, his cock inside me. The image of his face as he gazed at me with such tenderness. My own admonitions telling me to run—to get clear. Ryan’s stern pronouncement that he liked me wild—but that he wouldn’t let me walk.
But I did walk—hell, I did more than walk. I ran.
And now, on the road, I am second-guessing myself all over again.
Fuck it.
I’ve been listening to my own thoughts for two hours and I can’t stand it anymore. I check the mirrors to confirm that I’m the only car on this stretch of Interstate 15, then snatch my phone out of the glove box and power it back on.