Sloane was hers, and she’d be damned if anyone took him away from her.
Even him.
Chapter Eight
Sloane wanted a fucking drink but wasn’t about to use that to cope. He’d done his best not to when he came home from the desert, and he’d be damned if he did it now. But it was tempting. Damn tempting.
He’d known it was going to hurt like hell when he finally let Hailey go, but he hadn’t known it would be this bad. It had only been a day, and yet the agonizing minutes had gone by way too slowly.
He was such a fucking idiot, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He just prayed she’d be okay eventually, and hell, that he hadn’t lost his job at Montgomery Ink for leaving like he had.
Seeing Jason like that had ripped him open. He’d bled with that man and had almost died with him. Yet what right did Sloane have to be happier than him? Choices had brought him to the place where he was, but did that mean he deserved the outcome of those choices?
Hailey was far too good for him. She’d survived and thrived. He’d made it through his life, and that wasn’t the same. If she were with him, she’d know the truth.
That he was stained with the blood of his fallen men. That he’d killed to protect them, but hadn’t done a good enough job. He’d killed to protect himself and his men, yet how could he live with that? He hadn’t been enough for the others and yet somehow he’d lived.
He wasn’t going to end it—that wasn’t the kind of man he was—but he also couldn’t consciously bring another down with him.
Hailey deserved better than that. Deserved better than him.
The knock on the door surprised him, but it shouldn’t have. It was probably Austin here to kick his ass for leaving not only Hailey but also the shop. The big man could probably take him, and that was saying something.
Without bothering to look out the peephole, he opened the door and froze.
“Hailey,” he said, his voice a broken growl.
She had her hands folded over her chest and a glare on her face. She looked hot as hell and even madder.
“If you shut the door in my face, I’ll just keep knocking, so you better let me in.”
Caught off guard and a little turned on, he moved to the side so she could storm past. And storm she did. She let out a small growl and turned on her heel.
“Well? Close the door, Sloane. We have to talk.”
He’d done his talking in front of Montgomery Ink. If he did it again, he wasn’t sure what he’d say.
“I already said what I needed to.”
“Well fuck you, Sloane Gordon. You need to let me talk, then. And when I’m done, you better be ready to talk or I’m going to kick your ass.”
His eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything. He’d never seen her like this, but damn if he didn’t like it. He’d loved her passion before, but hell, this was something more.
He finally closed the door, and she lifted her chin. Before he could take a step toward her—or away from her since his mind couldn’t figure it out—she stripped off her top so he could see her scars. He froze, unable to speak, to think. Her face was one of fury, but her stance that of strength.
“You see this? This is all of me. I'm not going anywhere. You think I'm less of a woman because of what happened to me? You think I'm less of a person? I sure as hell don't think you're any less of a man because you have PTSD, are scarred, or had to go through hell. You need to talk to me. You got it? You need to tell me what is going on in that head of yours and know I'm going to be there. I was your friend before this and I'm not going away.”
Sloane opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t formulate words.
“I don’t know what happened over there because you won’t tell me. If you don’t want to go into the details, that’s fine. For now. Because you need to talk about it, Sloane. Hiding away from it clearly isn’t helping. I love you, Sloane, and you’re in pain. I hate to see it and yet there’s nothing I can do if you keep hiding. So, yeah, I’m standing here topless so you can see every inch of my pain, of my past. I’m not hiding anymore. Please don’t hide from me.”
Shame covered him and Sloane took a step forward. He didn’t touch her, couldn’t if he wanted to think, but he let out a shuddering breath.
He hadn’t missed that she’d told him she loved him. But could she love him without knowing the truth? He walked past her to the couch and heard the telltale sign of a sob. Fuck. He was messing this up.
When he pulled the throw off the couch and wrapped it around her shoulders, she frowned at him. “I don’t want you to get cold.”
“I don’t feel much of anything, Sloane.”
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. She was here. Here and waiting. If he didn’t open himself up, she’d leave for good, and he’d always know he’d hurt her, scared her. Yet once he told her everything, she might leave anyway.