“For three, if you think all we’re doing is fucking, then we should stop,” I say, biting back tears. “Because it sure doesn’t feel like just fucking to me.”
I barely get the words out of my mouth before his arms are wrapped around me. I don’t cry, but my heart squeezes so hard that I can’t breathe.
Those are words I’ve wanted to say for months now but never could find the spot to say them. If I would’ve thought about it a few moments ago, I would’ve held back. But I didn’t, and while I’m partially terrified of what he might say, I’m also relieved.
“At least I got you pissed off,” he jokes, stroking my back.
“Not funny,” I sniffle.
“No, it’s not. You’re right.” He rests his head on top of mine. “It’s a huge fear that my life will poison yours. You have everything going for you, lady. I feel like I’ll hold you back, even if I’m pushing you along.”
“Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?”
“Because I can’t let that happen.”
He finally lets me go. We stand inches from one another, both of us clawing at the proverbial cliff we’re about to go over, not sure if we want to fall together or just cling to where we are.
Clinging is safer. Falling could be amazing or could destroy everything.
“Will you do me a favor?” I ask, working to keep my hands from shaking. I’ve gone this far—I might as well push.
“Depends on what it is.”
“Will you go to lunch with me and one of my brothers?”
“Hell, no,” he laughs, sitting again. “Why would I do that?”
Sighing, I put a hand on my hip. “You know how you feel about not letting me ruin my life?”
“Yeah.”
“They feel the same way.”
“Exactly,” he breathes. “They think I’m going to ruin your life and you want me to sit there and take it?”
“It won’t be like that.”
“Yes, it will.” He shakes his head. “Besides, what am I going to do? Pretend to have something to talk about with them? Play make-believe that we have anything in common? For what, Cam?”
“Because it would mean a lot to me,” I whisper. “It would take so much pressure off my plate. If we are going to keep just fucking or whatever this is for much longer,” I gulp, “I’m going to tell them about you.”
“Even knowing what you know, even having Nolan be my uncle, you’d still tell them?”
“Yes.”
He considers this, to my surprise.
“They don’t think anything about you because they don’t know you. I’m not asking you to meet my entire family—”
“Good.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m just asking to meet . . . an emissary, of sorts,” I offer, thinking immediately of Ford. “Just meet one of them so they can tell the rest of my family I’m not fucking some serial killer or bank robber. Okay?”
“You do realize I’ve killed someone. This may not work out in your favor.”
“You didn’t kill someone,” I say softly. “You protected your family. The same thing my family is trying to do for me, just in a different way.”
A flash of understanding flickers across his face as his brother’s voice comes down the hallway. He looks at me, his big, blue eyes wide and worrisome. “This matters to you?”
“Yes. So much.”
“It’s just to make things easier on the home front?”
“Yes, Dom,” I sigh again. “I won’t take this meeting as meaning that you—”
“Fine.” He cuts me off, his chest rising fast and hard. “Fine. I’ll meet one of them to make things easier for you.”
“Thank you,” I say, not entirely sure if this is a win or a loss.
Dominic
A BAG OF GROCERIES IN each hand, I kick the door closed behind me. There’s water running in the bathroom but the apartment is quiet otherwise.
Walking into the kitchen, I grin around the keys I stuck in my mouth. Camilla’s mark is on everything. The salt and pepper are sitting on the middle of the stove, not jammed in a cabinet like I leave them. There’s a towel folded next to the sink that’s empty.
The bags hit the counter with a thud.
The scent of Cam’s perfume lingers in the air, despite the fact that she left hours ago. I’ve worked out, showered, and grabbed a list of things Nate asked me to pick up from the market since she went home early this afternoon. Still, I can feel her here. And I miss her.
Taking out the items one by one, I ignore the growing sensation in my chest. It’s a nagging feeling, one that digs at you until you’re spurred to action. I’ve trained my brain to think of anything else in times like this. Like it’s supposed to, my mind flickers through punching combinations, mixed drinks, random television trivia, but none of it works. None of it can distract me from her.
Not that this is an unusual development. I think of her all damn day. Today was different, though. More specific.
Instead of imagining her tight pussy or hearing her laugh at some stupid joke, today I’ve thought of the look she had in her eyes last night. It was devoid of judgement. There was no fear, which was my fear. It was just the look of a woman caring about . . . me. The real me. The me that has all this dirt and garbage and not-so-nice things. Me. Dominic Hughes, born April 8, 1989.
It’s like she sees me as someone worth seeing.
“Shit,” I say, blowing out a breath.
Taking out the last item, a jar of smooth peanut butter, I walk to the pantry and place it inside. I turn towards the kitchen table when I see a piece of white paper on the floor next to Nate’s shoes.
Lifting the folded piece of paper that looked like it had fallen to the spot where it was lying, I open it. The top has the logo of the bank Nate and I use. Beneath that is his name and a figure much larger than it should be.
“What the fuck?”
Bringing it closer to my face and ignoring the vomit that swirls at the base of my throat, I see that it’s a notice of a money transfer. My body slumps, realizing he must’ve gotten the loan fast-tracked. I make a note to give him hell about moving out and start to drop it onto the counter. Before it falls from my fingers, I snatch it up again.
Camilla Jane Landry is listed at the bottom as the sender.
“What?” I hiss. The paper rasps as I shake it straight again. “What the absolute fuck is this?”
The lines blur as a heavy dose of adrenaline kicks in. The numbers don’t make sense and it sure as hell doesn’t make sense to see Cam’s name on a bank receipt with Nate’s name attached.
The rush of blood to my head causes me to wince, my jaw clenching so hard it throbs. A million thoughts roar through my mind, searching for a logical explanation to a situation I can’t make sense of. Because there is no sense to make of it.
“Did you get the . . .” Nate’s voice drops off as he rounds the corner and stops in his tracks. He takes a quick look at my face, then to the paper, then to my face again. His eyes widen. The hand that’s holding the towel he was using to dry his hair falls limp at his side. “Dom . . .”
“First question, where’s Ryder?”
“With Chrissy. Why?”
“I don’t want him to hear this conversation,” I state, the paper quivering in my hand.