Текст книги "Walk Through Fire"

Автор книги: Kristen Ashley

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

“You could have and you should have. And you fuckin’ know it,” he fired back.

“You both wanted kids so bad,” she whispered.

“No,” he grunted. “I wanted Millie. You knew it. You fuckin’ knew.”

“Low—”

He leaned away but kept her skewered with his stare. “She live a good life, Dot? Hunh? She move on and find her happy?”

Dottie’s eyes got wet.

High’s gut burned.

She didn’t.

Just like him, his girl lived twenty years blistering in the fire.

“Yeah,” he snarled.

“You don’t know how she was.”

“No, I didn’t. But I found out half an hour ago, woman, which was twenty years too late.”

She flinched.

He liked her, once loved her like the sister she was supposed to be for the rest of his life, but more, he had shit he had to see to.

So he relented.

“I’ll fix it.”

Her eyes got big again.

“Wh-what?” she stammered.

He didn’t repeat himself.

He ordered, “And while I’m doin’ that, you take my back. You get that man of yours to take my back. You get Justine and Kellie to take my back. And you work with me however I gotta maneuver it to guide my girl back to happy.”

A tear slid down her cheek as she stared up at him, lips parted.

When she seemed unable to speak, he prompted, “Hear?”

Her head jolted.

“I hear, Low,” she said quietly.

“Do not fuck up again, Dot,” he warned, then went on, “First up for you, you put the brakes on whatever moves she’s made to get outta Denver.”

Another tear escaped but her lips quirked as she muttered, “Seems we Cross women have a type. Bossy.”

Was she fucking serious?

“I’m not thinkin’ anything at this juncture is funny,” he growled.

She pressed her lips together before she nodded and said, “Right. Of course. Consider the brakes put on.” She tipped her head to the side. “Do you wanna get out of the snow and come inside where it’s warm to boss me around? You do that, I’ll make cocoa and introduce you to my kids.”

He didn’t want cocoa.

He did want to meet her kids.

And fuck him, he was pissed as all hell at her but he was that at the same time he forgot how much he liked the bitch.

“You got an important job, focus and don’t fuck up,” he said as reply.

“Aye, aye, Captain.”

Fuck, the Cross sisters.

Pains in the asses and too goddamned cute for their own good.

Dottie was demonstrating mostly the first part and he was screwed because he was ticked beyond reason and he still liked it.

Christ.

“Get on that,” he muttered, turning. “I got shit to do.”

He moved off her stoop but stopped and twisted back to her when she called his name.

“Missed you,” she said, face soft, voice soft, words easing a nasty sting he’d been living with so long it had become a part of him. “You let go me fucking up, I’ll let go the shit you’ve been pulling the last coupla months. And I’ll start all that by saying I’m glad to have you back, Logan.”

He stared at her a beat and said nothing.

Then he turned from her and walked away, that sting still there, but suddenly it didn’t hurt so goddamned much.

Not looking back at her house, he got in his truck, started up, made a decision, and took his chance before the snow got worse.

He drove to his RV.

Once there, he packed a bag.

Then he drove to the Compound.

He moved through the space crowded with people who gave a shit and were worried.

As he moved, he asked Tack, “Food in?”

“Yep,” Tack answered.

“Out in my truck,” High ordered.

Tack’s lips twitched.

High ignored that and went to his room, which meant he moved back through the space crowded with people carrying a totally out of it Millie.

Big Petey lumbered in front of him, right there to open the door to the backseat of the cab so High could move in and carefully lay her there.

He shut the door quietly, turned and saw Pete in his space, Tack several feet back, Cherry standing at her man’s side.

“Get home,” he ordered them as the snow fell heavy all around them.

“You good?” Pete asked.

High looked down at Pete.

“I will be,” he stated, and turned, brushing against Big Petey when he did.

He opened his door, climbed in, and drove on roads getting bad to Millie’s house.

He carried her inside, put her in her own bed in a room that had been straightened, probably by Dot, sometime while she was away.

It was picture perfect again.

She was going to have to kiss that good-bye.

High didn’t live immaculate.

And neither did his Millie.

High moved back out to his truck, got his bag and the groceries, and brought them in.

He put the shit that needed to go into the fridge away. He left the other shit wherever he found a place for it on the counters.

Before he took his boots off, sitting on the ottoman to her big chair, he stared at the crate, wondering how she got it back and deciding he’d learn that after they waded through twenty years of colossal fuckups.

He was just glad it wasn’t gone.

He left his boots on the floor where he took them off.

He tossed his cut on her couch.

Then he walked back to her room, climbed under the covers with her, pulled her in his arms, and tangled himself up in Millie.

She felt so good sleeping woven up in him it was like he’d lost a limb and it had miraculously grown back.

He tipped his chin so his face was in the top of her hair.

I gave you up, walking through fire to do it but I did it. I did it in the end. I gave you everything.

He’d fucked up, the stunt he pulled at Wild Bill’s field and everything after, the penance he made her pay for a sin she never committed.

But he’d fix it.

Then it was his turn.

Finally, fucking finally.

It was his turn to give her everything.

Twenty years ago...

Logan stood in his and Millie’s bathroom, the little pink, flat, round case in his hand.

It was opened.

It was empty.

He knew her cycle so he knew that wasn’t right.

She was close to graduating.

His girl worked for it. She worked her ass off for it. She worked to get it, to give it to him, and she’d succeeded.

Three years and she was going to graduate.

And he knew by the empty pill case in his hand that she didn’t fuck around getting her degree, she wasn’t going to fuck around about other stuff that was even more important.

He grinned down at that pill case, remembering their conversation from a week before.

“You want it to be a surprise?” she’d asked.

“Want what to be a surprise?” he’d asked back.

She was on him, naked in their bed, and she pulled herself up so they were face to face.

“When I get pregnant,” she whispered, and he felt his gut get warm, so fucking warm it felt like mush at the thought of his Millie with his baby growing inside her. “Do you want to plan for it or do you want it to come as a surprise?”

He slid a hand up her back and into her hair. “What you want, beautiful?”

“A surprise,” she whispered.

“Then that’s what we’ll have.”

She grinned a happy, triumphant grin and he knew then what he knew standing in the bathroom a week later.

His Millie did not fuck around.

He flipped the case closed and tossed it back into the medicine cabinet.

Then Logan moved out of the bathroom in order to find his woman and aid her in her efforts of not fucking around.

But he intended to do it by fucking around a lot.

He was going to enjoy this. He knew it from a shit load of practice they’d already had.

He was also going to enjoy watching her grow heavy with his kid. He was going to enjoy helping her fill their home with babies. He was going to enjoy being at her side watching them grow up.

And she was going to be a fucking brilliant mom. She had a good one. Her sister was the shit. Her father was solid. She was the best woman a man could find.

She’d kick motherhood’s ass.

He found her in the kitchen cooking.

He fucked her on the floor.

Dinner was ruined.

Neither cared. They just hopped on his bike and went out for food.

Logan never mentioned he saw she’d dumped her pills.

Then, for six months, he watched her try to hide the slowly increasing changes in her manner, to shield him from the worry that he sometimes caught leaking into her eyes as all else remained the same.

Including them fucking like rabbits anytime they could and his girl never coming up pregnant.

He did it not knowing that he’d live for twenty years before he found out she fed him bullshit as to what all that meant.

He did it not knowing, through all that, he should have mentioned those fucking pills.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Hole in My Soul

Millie

I OPENED MY eyes feeling disoriented and not knowing where I was.

But I smelled bacon.

I shoved up a bit and saw I was in my bedroom.

I’d come home.

Right, I’d come home.

But what was with the bacon?

Suddenly, it hit me like I was at the bottom of an avalanche, covering me, smothering me, and in a flurry, I threw back the covers and launched myself out of bed.

I stood there and looked down at myself.

I was in the clothes I’d worn to travel. No boots. No

jacket.

I looked around.

My room had been tidied.

However, the last thing I remembered, I was fading away in Logan’s arms in Logan’s bed at Chaos.

How did I get here?

On that thought I spied a beat-up black leather bag on my chaise, gaping open, clothes hanging out, some in puddles on the floor.

Cautiously, I moved to the bag.

I pawed through the clothes. Heathered gray thermal Henley. Faded black thermal Henley. Midnight blue thermal Henley. Two pairs of exceptionally faded jeans. A belt. Black socks. Black boxer briefs.

Slowly, I turned my head to look down the hall.

It was empty.

But the bacon smell was assailing me.

Without thought, my stocking feet took me in that direction, soundless against the wood floors.

I made it to the end of the hall and stopped, peeking around the corner.

And there I saw Logan moving around my kitchen, hair wet and slicked back, unshaven.

What on earth was he doing here?

No.

Unh-unh.

I didn’t care.

Not right then.

He wanted to be in my house cooking bacon after the extreme of the day before?

Whatever.

One thing I’d learned the past few weeks, I needed to look after me.

And what I needed was to get out of these clothes. I needed a shower. Both of these things would make me feel tons better and (maybe) able to face whatever Logan had in store for me next.

Bacon, of course, the universal cure-all, would probably do that even better.

However, since Logan was cooking it, I wasn’t going there.

I retraced my steps and locked myself in my bathroom.

Or, more aptly, I locked Logan out of it.

There I saw on the double sink vanity (at the sink I didn’t use) a can of Barbasol (though why he had that and put it in the bathroom since he clearly didn’t use it, I did not know). Ditto these thoughts on the opened pack of razors and the electric shaver. There was also a comb.

And as I approached the shower, I saw a bottle of shampoo that wasn’t mine and a bar of green veined soap.

Who used bars of soap anymore?

I knew who.

Bikers.

Fabulous.

It appeared Logan had moved in.

I decided for my own peace of mind, considering how fuzzy that mind was and how unable I was to use it at that current juncture, to ignore that too.

I kept ignoring things when I saw that Logan had thoughtfully brought all my luggage from the back door and set it in the walk-in closet in the bathroom.

I busted open my luggage, dug out what I needed, made a decision that was based on what was happening with my head and the strange, nagging but not alarming nausea I was feeling, and selected my apparel for the day.

I then took a long, hot shower, shampooed, conditioned, exfoliated (face and body), shaved, and got out to towel off, lotion, gunk up my hair, tone and moisturize my face, then put on my undies and pajamas. The pj’s were a soft gray-green, no lace, long tight sleeves, a fair amount of chest (if not cleavage) bared, and lounge-y, loose-fitting pants.

Unfortunately, through this, I learned that the healing powers of a shower didn’t extend to jet lag.

In other words, it was time to crash again, snooze away the fuzziness in my head, the weird feeling in my belly, and wake up, hopefully to Logan having consumed his bacon and being the hell out of my house.

I unlocked the door, opened it, and stopped dead.

This was because Logan was standing there, arm up high, hand to the jamb, leaning his weight into it. His ankles were crossed, his other hand was fisted and to his hip, and, until I opened the door, his head was bent to contemplate his socks.

But when I opened the door, his eyes came to mine.

They were warm. They were concerned.

They were Logan.

“Hey, baby,” he said softly.

I thought I was dead inside.

Gone.

Faded away.

So how could he keep killing me?

I didn’t respond to him. I skirted him and went directly to the bed.

I climbed in, pulled the covers up to my ears, and closed my eyes.

He wasn’t there.

This wasn’t happening.

Yesterday didn’t happen.

I was experiencing a very weird, long, crazy dream.

The bed moved and I knew he’d sat on it.

Shit.

He was there.

I gritted my teeth and fought back screaming in frustration.

“You still tired?” he asked.

“Go away,” I answered.

He said nothing to that but the bed moved again as he shifted to pull the covers down to my shoulder; then he locked them in place when he leaned over me, putting his weight into the covers by my chest.

“Think it’s best you’re awake when it’s day here, Millie. You need to get used to bein’ back on Denver time. And you gotta get some food in you.”

I needed to get used to being back on Denver time?

How did he know I wasn’t on Denver time?

I didn’t ask that because I didn’t care about his answer (I told myself).

“I’ll do all that when you go away,” I audibly told the insides of my eyelids.

“Not goin’ away, beautiful,” he said gently.

Why?

Then again, these days, why did Logan do anything?

“Of course not,” I sighed.

“Sit up,” he ordered. “I’ll bring you some food.”

Weirdly, even though I felt kind of queasy, I also felt hungry.

And there obviously was bacon.

That decided it.

I pushed back, avoiding his body that was sitting on the bed behind me, and sat up.

“Be right back,” he muttered.

I didn’t say anything. I arranged the covers precisely folded over my lap.

It took him longer to get back to me with food than it did for me to arrange the covers but at least in that time I was able to come up with a strategy.

I was tired. I was nauseous. I was jet-lagged. I’d had a massive drama the day before. I had a lot of reasons to be quiet that he’d likely get and therefore not question and thus I’d eat. Then, if I didn’t actually pass out, I’d pretend to pass out.

While I was pretending (or actually unconscious), I’d hope Logan would go away.

If he didn’t, I’d use that time to come up with a strategy to make him go away.

With this plan in place, I felt better when he got back, carrying a plate in one hand, a coffee mug in the other.

No tray.

“You didn’t bring a tray,” I blurted.

He was eyes to me as he walked my way and he didn’t falter a single step when he asked, “A tray?”

“If I have breakfast in bed, it should be on a tray.”

He stopped by the side of the bed and stared down at me.

God, he was tall.

And his shoulders were really broad.

And he’d made the perfect winter fashion selection, even if it was singular with the only variety being color and the nuance of fade to his jeans. Snug-fitting thermal Henleys were perfect on him. Including the wine-colored one he was currently wearing.

“Never brought breakfast to anyone in bed, didn’t know the protocol,” he muttered.

My eyes went from his thermal at his chest to his face to see his lips curved up.

That was perfect too.

“I could get bacon grease on my sheets,” I informed him haughtily.

“They’ll wash,” he returned, bending to put my coffee cup on my nightstand (without a coaster!) at the same time offering me a plate that had four slices of bacon, a huge pile of fluffy eggs, and two slices of bread liberally slathered with butter and grape jelly.

More disasters waiting to happen to my sheets.

I took it from him automatically, telling him, “Bacon grease isn’t easy to get out. And what if it gets on the duvet cover? That could be cataclysmic.”

He raised his brows.

Also perfect.

Why oh why when it felt like I was fading away I... just... didn’t?

“Grease on your sheets is cataclysmic?” he asked.

“Have you ever tried to get grease out of anything?” I asked back.

His lips curved up again on his, “No.”

“Then you don’t understand. Further, this bed set is seasons old. And it’s perfect. If something happened, I’d never be able to replace it.”

“Fuck, you’re right,” he stated. “That is cataclysmic.”

I felt my chest depress.

He was being sweet, gentle, thoughtful, and teasing.

In other words, speaking to him was totally fucking with my strategy of eating then fake-passing out and coming up with a new strategy to get him gone.

So I had to stop speaking to him.

I moved and set my plate on the nightstand so I could get out of the bed and I did it mumbling, “I’ll eat in the kitchen.”

A hand landed firm on my shoulder, pressing in, and I tipped my head back.

When I caught his eyes, he said, “I’ll get the fuckin’ tray. Where is it?”

Logan was going to get me a tray.

I stared up at him.

Apparently I did this too long because he straightened and turned, saying, “Whatever. I’ll find it.”

Then he walked out of my room.

Something came to me the instant he disappeared and I yelled, “Bring a coaster! They’re in the drawers of the coffee table in the living room!”

I heard a faraway, “Jesus,” then nothing.

It was then I had thoughts of climbing out the window.

I was in jammies, had wet hair, and my mind wasn’t all there, likely for more reasons than just that I was jet-lagged, so I didn’t think being in my jammies with wet hair on the run in the cold would be a good idea.

So instead, I reached for my coffee and sipped it.

After that, I stared at the breakfast and hoped he didn’t dawdle. It looked delicious and food like that was a lot more delicious when it was warm.

I didn’t think about the fact that he cooked it.

When we were together, Logan cooked, but not much. This was because I loved cooking and he loved letting me do what I loved. But part of loving it was doing something for my man, doing my bit to take care of him.

When he cooked, it wasn’t bad, it wasn’t great, though by the end he was really getting good at the grill and he could make any kind of potato fabulous.

He’d obviously gotten better, at least at eggs.

He came back with a tray that I’d bought with the idea of putting out hors d’oeuvres and serving fabulous cocktails on it during the parties that I eventually never gave.

It appeared there was more food on it, definitely another mug of coffee.

He came right to me, plopped the tray on my lap, took a coaster from it, and tossed it on my nightstand, then grabbed the plate of food and mug of coffee off it and moved away.

I watched apprehensively as he rounded the bed and put his coffee mug (not on a coaster) on my other nightstand. Then he climbed in bed with me, settled back to the headboard, legs stretched out, stocking feet crossed at the ankles, and he forked up some eggs.

I sat motionless, staring at him eating in my bed.

With me.

What was going on?

With mouth still full, he turned to me and asked, “Hand me the other coaster, would you, babe?”

My brain having stopped functioning altogether, I looked down at the tray, saw another coaster there, mutely picked it up, and handed it to him.

He took it, twisted, I was treated to his thermal stretching across his ribs and lateral muscles and doing this tight as he put his mug on the coaster. Then he sat back, his eyes sliding to me.

“Eat,” he ordered low.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

“Eat,” he repeated.

I turned more fully to him. “What’s happening, High? Why are you here? Why are you making bacon? Why are you eating my food?”

“Dot stocked you up but she didn’t buy eggs and bacon, Millie. That’s from Chaos,” he told me. “Now this shit is fuckin’ good, so grab it before it gets cold and eat.”

It was from Chaos.

I turned and looked at my food like a woman who’d just been informed her meal was laced with arsenic.

From beside me came a warning, “Eat or I feed you, Millie.”

I wasn’t in the mood to test that.

Hell, I’d probably never be in the mood to test that.

So I didn’t test it.

I grabbed the plate, put it on my tray, slid the fork out from under the food, and stabbed at the eggs.

I put them in my mouth.

There was cheese, a sharp cheddar. There was garlic, not too much. Fresh ground pepper, which was nice. And something else savory and flavorful that I couldn’t put my finger on.

Then I did.

A hint of oregano providing a pleasant surprise.

Damn, Logan put oregano in his eggs.

God.

The food was still warm. The bacon crisped to perfection. The toast lightly and expertly toasted. And my coffee had a splash of creamer, no sugar, very strong, like I liked it.

Like I’d always liked it.

I forced down the food, enjoying it too much, but doing it telling myself I was not going to cry.

I was going to eat and pass out and wake up with my head clear and then I was going to find the words to communicate to Logan that our game had been played, he won, and I was leaving him to his life in Denver.

Logan cut into my thoughts. “How many of pairs of those jammies you got?”

“Several,” I muttered, biting into a slice of bacon, ignoring him using the word jammies again, or more accurately, how cute I thought it was.

“Mmm,” he murmured. It was rough and growly, which was not cute in the slightest, and I felt tingles hit my thighs.

I did not need tingles.

Ever.

I focused on my bacon, deciding to speed things up, so I took a bite and chewed fast.

“Dumped snow last night,” Logan stated. “Serious. Snowed all yesterday and all night and it’s still goin’. Two feet and we’re gonna get more. They say you don’t gotta go anywhere, don’t.”

Oh no.

Was I going to be shut in my house with Logan during a blizzard?

That could not happen.

I turned to him. “Then you need to eat and leave.”

He took a bite of toast and looked to me, speaking and chewing. “Say it one more time, babe. Not leavin’.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Why?” he asked back.

“Yes, High. Why?”

He tipped his head to the side, opened his mouth, and shut it.

He studied me and he did this for some time.

Then he looked back at the plate he was holding in front of him and said, “We’ll talk after we eat.”

“If it’s snowing that bad, you need to get going,” I pointed out.

He looked back to me and his voice was quiet when he replied, “Let that go. That fight you ain’t gonna win. We’ll talk after we eat but I’m not goin’ anywhere, Millie. And I mean that in a lotta ways, so you best start gettin’ used to it now.”

Panic assailed me and I twisted farther his way. “High—”

“Eat,” he ordered inflexibly. “Then we’ll talk.”

I stared at him, fear beginning to infuse my bloodstream, then I turned back to my plate and ate.

Fast.

Forking it in, swallowing it down, cleaning my plate in no time.

I then turned back.

“Done,” I announced, mouth still holding half-chewed toast.

His lips were curled up as he replied, “Christ.”

I swallowed with difficulty and declared, “We’ll talk in the living room.”

Before I could move, he dumped his plate on mine on the tray and took the tray off my lap. He then leaned so deep into me his stomach was pressed to my thighs and he did this so he could drop the tray to the floor with a clatter.

Before I knew what he was about, he arched up, took hold of me, shifted, hitched, twisted, and hauled so he was under the covers with me. He’d pulled me over his body in a roll and pinned me to my back in the bed with him on me.

Panic gripping me, I started panting.

Then I caught the look on his face and started gasping for air.

“I get it,” he whispered.

“Y-yes,” I stammered. “You did. I gave it to you. And now it’s supposed to be over.”

“I get it,” he strangely repeated.

“Logan, I told you so this would be done.”

“I get it and I’da done the same thing.”

I stared up at him.

He lifted his hand, the tips of his fingers tracing my hairline along the side of my face and he kept talking.

“Found out it was me, found out I couldn’t give it all to you, I woulda done the same thing, Millie. I would have made it so you got it all and I would have done it ugly so you’d walk away from me and never look back so you could have it.” He dipped his face closer to mine. “So I get it. I get why you did what you did. I totally fuckin’ get it.”

Okay.

That felt good. Better than good. It loosened the grip that took hold of my heart the second he turned and walked away from me, letting it pump again, almost like normal.

But no.

It was good he knew. It was great he understood.

But this was over.

“I’m glad you understand,” I replied. “And thank you for sharing that with me,” I went on. “However, what I don’t understand is why you feel the need to do that lying on top of me in my bed.”

His head jerked back a few inches.

“Say what?” he asked.

“It’s all out there, High, the game has been played. There are no more moves to make. So it’s over and it’s time we both put it behind us and move on.”

“Put it behind us and move on,” he parroted incredulously.

“Yes. What we have is damaging and unhealthy and we have to put a stop to it and get on with our lives.”

He stared down at me and I tensed when his expression started to turn stormy.

I tensed even further when his face suddenly cleared and he roared with laughter, his weight bearing into me, his head dropping so his forehead rested on my cheekbone, his hair tickling the skin of my face.

“High.” I pushed at him.

He kept laughing.

“High!” I snapped, pushing harder at him.

He lifted his head, eyes dancing, lines radiating out the sides, creasing, body trembling with the chuckles that still had control over him and there it was again.

Perfection.

Enough!

“Get off me,” I demanded.

“Babe,” he replied.

I listened.

He said nothing else, just rode the wave of his amusement until it naturally died.

Then it hit me. The memory. The memory that there were a variety of occasions where Logan spoke Badass.

There were only a few words in the Vocabulary of Badass but each one had a number of meanings. They included beautiful, Christ, fuck, Jesus, and shit.

But the one used most was babe.

I was out of practice. I had no idea what that particular babe meant.

And I wasn’t going to find out.

“Nothing about this is funny,” I bit out. “Let us not forget, I came to you to tell you what I told you yesterday and in your fancy-ass RV, you humiliated me.”

There was no amusement in his expression when I quit talking.

No.

Instead he shifted over me so he was fully covering me. I was taking a fair amount of his hefty weight, and he lifted his other hand so he could use both of them to hold either side of my head.

In other words, there was no escape.

“Yeah,” he growled. “I did. I did it with intent. I was a dick and I was a dick on purpose. Because what you did to us fuckin’ destroyed me and I never put the pieces back together. But, Millie, I did it for more reasons than that. I did it for self-preservation. I did it ’cause you were back in a way you were back, in my bed, ass in the air for me, takin’ my dick and I felt you, I smelled you, I heard you, and I saw the ink on your back permanently declarin’ you were mine when you made that a lie for reasons I did not get. And all I could think was that I wanted to keep fuckin’ you, listenin’ to how much you loved takin’ me, feelin’ my cock sink inside you, and I wanted that until I stopped breathing. If I had you on your back, woulda seen your face, which would have fucked with me more. I picked the lesser of two evils. So I had to cover that shit on your back so I didn’t let go and let you lead me to the brink again and convince me to jump.”

Oh my God.

“High,” I whispered, and he dragged his thumb along my cheek, pressing it into my bottom lip until it hooked on the edge of my teeth and he moved in so we were so close, I could see nothing but him.

“I’m Logan to you.” His voice scratched out, chafing my skin.

Against his hold on my mouth, I forced out, “I—”

That was all I was able to do.

“You feel sweet. You feel scared. You feel happy. You feel sad. You feel anything you use your name for me. You can call me High. But not times like now. Times like now, I’m Logan.”

I wasn’t entirely certain I understood precisely the different occasions I could use his different names but I felt in his current mood I should agree.

So I said, “Okay.”

He swept his thumb from my mouth to the flesh under my cheek and pressed in lightly.

Then he went on.

“I held you down for that,” he continued to explain. “I held you down, coverin’ that ink. You were not faceless pussy, Millie. You could never be that and you fuckin’ know it. Even if you forgot, what came after woulda told you that shit couldn’t be true.”

“What came after wasn’t much healthier,” I shared hesitantly.

He moved back an inch and tilted his head slightly. “Yeah? You think?”

What?

He didn’t?

“Of course,” I said quietly. “You were there. You have to think the same thing too.”

“Three weeks ago when I didn’t have it all, maybe. Now. Fuck no.”

“It wasn’t healthy, Logan.”

“I couldn’t get enough of you, Millie.”

I drew in a sharp breath.

“Couldn’t get you outta my head. Didn’t rest until I found a new reason to get in your space. Found those reasons, got in your space. If I didn’t give a fuck about you, I wouldn’t have followed you for forty-five fuckin’ minutes, from the second I laid eyes on you at Bill’s rally, and found my shot to get in your face. If you didn’t mean shit to me, I’da seen you and put you out of my head. I didn’t. I got in your face. You kissed me. I fucked you. And I kept comin’ back for more.”

Okay.

Damn.

Okay.

Shit.

That made sense.

“And you,” he continued. “If you didn’t give a shit about me, you moved on, you would not have seen me buyin’ a burrito and come lookin’ for me. You woulda heard what I said, felt what that meant, and went on with your life. You didn’t. You found me. You kissed me. You took my cock. And even with how I took that from you, when I kept comin’ back for more, you kept takin’ it. You didn’t want it, you know you made that clear, I woulda been gone. You did not make that clear. You entered that fucked-up game we were playin’ because you needed what you got, unhealthy or not. Just like me when it comes to you, you’d take what you could get.”