Something painful flashes across his face. “Can’t talk about that.”
If he’s no longer a cop, why would he be helping with this unless it somehow affected him? Does he have a wife in that cult, or a child maybe? Why would he risk so much when he didn’t have to?
“Is that why everybody is pretending they don’t know who you are?”
His eyes flicker away. “I can’t go into much detail, but it’s for my own safety. It can’t be known that I’m anywhere near this case.”
“Why?” I prompt.
“I can’t tell you that either.”
“They would have seen you there, so if you wanted to stay so secret why were you there that night?”
“The men attending didn’t know who I was, it was safe enough.”
“Well then who are you hiding from?”
“Can’t tell you.”
I huff. “What can you tell me?”
He leans forward, putting his elbows on his knees. “That it’s not safe.”
I roll my eyes.
His lips twitch. “You have to trust me with this, Lucy.”
I look to him again. “I don’t know what to trust anymore.”
“If you keep digging, people are going to figure it out and you’re putting not just yourself at risk, but me, too.”
My face falls. “You?”
“Yeah, me.”
That was never my intention. Not ever. “I don’t want that. I didn’t realize . . .”
He sighs and gets up, walking over to the bed and sitting down. “I know that, honey. You just have trust me.”
“So you’re saying I can’t see you, at all?”
His eyes soften. “Right now, that’s not a good idea. If you promise to stop asking around about me, then I might be able to visit.”
Visit. Like I’m sick and in a hospital.
I look down at my hands. “Do you still think about it?” I whisper.
He sits on the side of the bed. “Every fucking minute of every fucking day.”
“How do you just move on?”
He exhales slowly. “I haven’t had much of a chance to stop and think.”
“I’m grateful,” I say, looking up at him through my lashes. “So damned grateful I was sitting next to you.”
He gives me a lopsided smile. “Me too, Lucy girl.”
I smile.
His eyes drop to my lips again. His body goes tense, and he abruptly stands. “Going to borrow the shower, yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say softly, my heart pounding.
“All right,” he says, equally as softly.
He disappears into the shower and I watch the door for a few long minutes before staring down at my hands. I don’t feel guilty, but I should. My husband left, and I have no shame over the fact that there is another man in my room. Of course, I’m not doing anything with him, but the fact of the matter is I’m attracted to him and there’s no denying that. I can pretend I’m not, but I am. More than I care to admit.
That scares the hell out of me.
Is my attraction simply a reaction to what happened? Am I risking everything, only to wake one day and realize I have nothing left? No family. No home. Nothing. My heart seems so sure of itself right now, and things between Gerard and I have been spiraling downwards since the attack, but it was so good before that. Surely feelings can’t just change so quickly.
I do still love Gerard.
I just don’t love him in the way I did before the violence changed our lives. Is that purely because something inside me changed? Probably. He doesn’t deserve to hurt while I try to re-discover myself again. Still, the idea of waking up one day and having all this be just a stage I went through, and to find myself without everything I wanted so badly only a month ago, frightens me.
If I let Gerard go now, I’m letting him go. For good. No matter if I wake up one day and realize that was a mistake.
I have to stick to my choice.
The door opens, and my eyes flick in that direction. Heath walks out, a towel wrapped around his waist, his big body on display. My mouth drops open, and I don’t even try to attempt to close it. He’s beautiful. Scarily so. His body is big, which I already knew, but his muscles are so well defined they move when he does, as if they’re perfectly in sync, a beautiful dance. His big chest narrows down to a lean waist that disappears beneath the towel. He’s got tattoos all over him, stunning designs that obviously tell a story. I want to ask him how it ends.
“I’m just going to grab my bag.” He nods in the direction of a bag by the door. I didn’t realize he had one.
I flush and nod, looking down at my hands.
He walks towards the door and I peek up at him again, and I have to stifle my gasp. One hand flies over my mouth and tears burn under my eyelids as I stare at his back. There are scars on his skin, raised, angry-looking scars that crisscross over his body. They’re not new; they’re already a silvery color. What in the hell happened to give him such ugly scars? Who would do such a thing?
Stop overthinking it, Lucy. He was probably in an accident.
“Don’t ask,” he growls and my eyes find his as he turns to face me. “Don’t ever ask.”