“Hurt me?” He frowned down at her. The ugliness that had grown inside him infected his heart and honed his tongue. “Ha! You think I’m hurt? Hell, woman, I’m pissed. After everything I’ve done for you, I thought for sure I’d get another five or ten good fucks before one of us kicked the other to the curb.”
She drew back like he’d punched her. He hated himself for that, but he couldn’t stop. “But don’t you worry. My bed won’t be empty for long.” He remembered the card the paramedic had given him. Pulling it out of his jacket pocket, he glanced down consideringly at the number scrawled across the back. “In fact, it won’t even be empty tonight. This concussion requires someone to wake me up every hour. I know just the woman to do it.”
With that, he spun on his heel and left her sitting there. The noxious mix of hurt and anger inside him refused to let him turn back. Shoving through the front doors of the police station, he was startled and sickened to see the reflection of his face in the glass. He looked…exactly like his father.
*
Samantha Tate’s Apartment, East Illinois Street
“The man sure knows how to make an apology. You have to give him that,” Donny said, plucking the card from the gift basket after Samantha closed the door on the deliveryman.
This was the fourth gift basket in four days. The first had been full of Snickers bars in every size from bite-size to as big as her arm. The second had been chock-full of all the things a woman would need to give herself a luxurious at-home pedicure: pumice stone, soaking salts, and twelve different colors of glittery polish. The third basket had contained a bright-pink carryall with matching wallet and key chain. But this basket…
This is my favorite.
It was filled with all the things she’d need to make herself a killer dirty martini. Jigger, shaker, deli olives, expensive gin, and a little bottle of dry vermouth.
He knows me so well.
Better than any man before him. Which made her decision to wean herself away from him that much harder. A clean break would have been better. After he’d stormed out of the police station on his way to pork that pixie of a paramedic, she had thought she’d done just that. Ripped off the bandage in one fell swoop.
But the next day, the first basket had arrived along with a lengthy note of apology. He had begged her to forgive him for what he’d said. Explained that he’d been tired and in pain and shocked that she seemed ready to end the physical part of their relationship. Then he had assured her that he was fine going back to just being friends. That he treasured her friendship.
Of course, she’d forgiven him in an instant—hard not to when she, you know, loved the man. But still, the gifts kept coming.
Carrying the basket to her kitchen, she set it on the bar before pulling out the contents. Donny handed her the card. “And he’s succinct,” he said.
Setting the bottle of gin aside, she turned over the card. Written in Ozzie’s slanting, decisive scrawl were three words: Cheers to you.
“I told him to stop it after the second basket arrived. I told him I forgave him. This is too much.” She frowned at Donny, adjusting her sweatshirt when it slipped off one shoulder. It was her favorite. But after hundreds of washes, it was stretched beyond all recognition. It also happened to be the same sweatshirt she had worn the night Ozzie kissed her for the first time. Kissed her and—
She stopped the memory before it could start. Heat had already stolen into her cheeks, and if she wasn’t mistaken, there was a tightening in her core. A profound sadness engulfed her. She’d never get to experience any of those things with him again. She’d never be with him again.
Donny hopped aboard a barstool, cupped his chin in his hand, and eyed her. “Number one,” he said, “I don’t want to know what you were thinking just now to make your cheeks light up like Michigan Avenue during the Magnificent Mile Lights Festival. Number two, let the man grovel if he wants. He was a total rat bastard.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I waylaid him. He thought we were friends having a good time hooking up. He goes to all this trouble for me, risks his life for me, then bam!” She clapped her hands together. “The moment I don’t need him to save my ass, I hit him over the head with what amounted to a verbal Dear John letter. Can you blame him for lashing out?”
“Yes.” Donny sniffed. “I blame him for making you a mess that night. I haven’t seen you that out of your head since your father died.”
“The man I love told me he was headed out to bang the Betty wearing butt-fuck-me Buddy Holly glasses.” She glowered at him. “What do you expect?”
“Nice alliteration.” He grinned at her, opening the olive jar and stealing an olive. Chewing, he sobered. “But whether or not I can forgive him for what he said is neither here nor there. That you’ve forgiven him is all that matters.”
“How could I not?” she asked. “You’ve met him. You know how amazing he is. A few harsh words spoken in the heat of the moment don’t trump all the months of friendship. And they certainly don’t trump what he’s done for me these last few days. Besides, he assured me he didn’t bang the Betty in the glasses.”
“Well, that’s something, I guess.”
“I wish it weren’t. Being insanely jealous is just going to make the weeks ahead that much harder.”
“Are you sure you’re not wrong about him, sweetie?” Donny asked. “I mean, there’s all this.” He motioned toward the basket and the others that were lined up on the counter behind her. “And he kept his word about that exclusive.” Yes, he had. The ATF had partnered with the FBI to keep her apprised of the developing story with the Basilisks. In a few weeks, when the feds were ready, they would tell her to write the story and blow the lid off the whole damn thing. “Maybe he feels more for you than you realize and—”
“No.” She cut Donny off. “I’m not wrong about him. He likes me, sure. I’d go so far as to say he likes me a lot. But he’s liked a lot of woman. That’s just him. The consummate gentleman playboy who, when he’s focused on you, makes you feel like you’re the only person in the whole world. But his focus eventually wanders. And I’m not stupid enough to think I’m any different than those who’ve come before me.”
She blew out a breath. It hurt, but she’d grown used to the sensation over the last few days. It was just her lungs rubbing up against her broken heart. “I really wish I could hate him for it. But I can’t. There’s nothing malicious about what Ozzie does or who he is. There’s no score keeping or locker-room talk or anything like that. He’s just…him.”