by Krista Holt
I hit him again, balled up fists against hard muscles. “I can’t believe a single word you say.”
He grabs my hands, squeezing them tight and holding them between us. “Do you feel better? Is this what you need? To hit me?”
“Nothing makes me feel better. I feel horrible all the time, and it’s all your fault!” I jerk a hand free and slap him across the face, snapping his head to the side. The sound of skin against skin echoes in the dark alley, bringing everything to a screeching halt. Even my breath. I hold it, waiting to see what he’s going to do.
“What about now?” He grips my shoulders, holding me still. “Do you feel better?”
No. No, I don’t. If anything, I feel worse. I don’t recognize myself, the way I’m acting. Tears well up in my eyes, but before they can fall, his hand travels to my chest. A searing palm settles on my collarbone, and strong fingers gingerly circle the base of my throat.
I take a quick breath as he leans down, his cheek roughly brushing mine, his lips close to my ear. “Enough, Reagan. Enough.”
His voice is wrecked, like he’s in actual pain. And I hate it, because it sends the first tear rolling down my face.
“I swear, sometimes I think you push me because you want to see how far I’ll bend before I break.”
“No,” I rasp, “that’s not why.”
“Then what? Do you want me to kill him? Because that’s what’s gonna happen if you so much as look at him again.”
“I don’t care about that idiot.” The stupid guy we left behind in the club is the least of my worries.
“Then what? What are we doing here?”
His thumb slides along my skin, coming to a stop right over a pulse point. I know he can feel my heart racing because his eyes drop to where he holds me, seeming to take comfort in the fact that I’m there. That he can feel my heart beating. That he knows I’m alive, that I’m real. And I hate that, too.
My hand grabs his, pulling it away. The pain on his face morphs into something else. Something that hurts me. Because he looks at me like I’ve betrayed him. And whether he knows it or not, I have.
“What the hell do you want from me?” I gasp.
He slowly takes a step toward me, the sole of his shoe scraping against the ground. “I want you. That’s it. That’s all. Ever since we started this, the only thing I have ever wanted, was you.”
I stare at him, completely lost for words. And in a way it feels like he took them from me. I watch as he methodically unbuttons his heavy coat and slides it off. Gently, he wraps it around me, cutting off the chill, but before I can even enjoy the reprieve, he moves in close. My body stiffens, unwilling to let him gain any more ground.
“You know I’m telling the truth, Reagan. I can see it in your eyes. And I think if you were honest with yourself, you’d realize that you want me just as much as I want you.”
His lips brush against my neck, right underneath my ear, kissing my skin. Warmth floods my system, and muscles that were once strung tight, relax. And against my better judgment, I don’t fight it. I give in.
Because after everything, after all we’ve done to each other, there’s still this pull between us. This connection that, try as I might, I can’t sever. That’s my only defense, the only possible explanation for why my hands tug on his shirt and pull him near. He presses a kiss to my forehead, and I crumble. My head hits his chest, and his arms tighten around me.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so damn sorry.”
“Don’t apologize if nothing is going to change.” I clench the fabric, trying to hold on to him. “I can’t keep doing this, Nic. I can’t.”
“I know.” He kisses my cheek, and then, he stops. He waits.
Waits for me to decide, to move, to take what little control he’s willing to let me have. Before I can even think about what I want from him, from this, my lips find his. And I kiss him. With hatred. With love. With seventy-three other emotions I can’t possibly explain.
My arms wrap around his neck, and when a groan rattles his chest, I lose control. He takes it back with a bite to my lower lip, deepening the kiss. Strong hands find their way under his coat to grip my hips, pushing me back until we hit the wall. I gasp, looking into his dark eyes that don’t seem so dark at the moment.
“I love you, you know?” His thumb skims my lower lip, soothing the spot his teeth marked a second ago.
An hour from now, I’ll look back on this and curse my weakness, call myself every name in the book for giving in to him, yet again. But right now, the thought of future disappointment doesn’t stop me from throwing myself at him, from pulling his head down to taste the words he just spoke. My feet leave the ground when he lifts me up, holding me tight around the waist. Stuck between the wall and the broad expanse of his chest, I’m caught and unwilling to fight it. For the moment, anyway.
“I hate you,” I whisper, as we wage a war. Kisses become defensive maneuvers and possessive hands on warm skin become our mutually assured destruction.
“No, you don’t.” Teeth graze the delicate skin of my neck before he punishes me with another kiss. “You don’t hate me at all.”
My nails dig into the back of his neck, and he curses under his breath. “I do. I do,” I insist, closing my eyes as I kiss him again.
His arms, banded at my waist, squeeze me even tighter, pressing my body even closer to his. I feel every muscle underneath his expensive shirt, every sharp edge he possesses.
“You’ve always been a shit liar,” he breathes. “But I didn’t realize until now how bad you are at lying to yourself.”
“Not everyone is as practiced as you are.”
His eyes narrow, his hands tighten on my skin, and his mouth opens to argue.
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it. Just kiss me.”
He deals me another blow, kissing me aggressively. His lips tangle with mine, and I can feel his emotion all the way down to my toes. His passion. His love. His desire for me. Nothing about this moment feels fake, or forced, and it reminds me of how confused I am. About him. About us. About everything.
And just like that, the spell breaks. My sanity comes rushing back, and tears fall down my cheeks. “Stop,” I gasp.
That one word rips me up from the inside out, and I’m not the only one who feels the pain of my denial. It flashes on his face as he lowers my feet back to the dirty stone.
“Reagan.”
“No.” I put a hand on his chest. “Damn it,” I pant, “what is wrong with us? With me?”
“Nothing,” he insists. “There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Then why can’t I get over you?” I cry. “Why do I cave every single time you touch me? You hurt me! Do you realize that? Do you even care?”
“Of course I care—”
“Boss,” a heavily accented voice calls from the street, traveling down the alley, pulling both of our gazes up. Nic steps back, putting some space between us.
“What?” he snaps at the outline of the intruder standing in the shadows.
“You all right?”
“Fine.” Nic looks back at me, his eyes piercing me with concern. The silence between us becomes so loud it’s painful. His lips part, like he’s going to say something, but then he thinks better of it. Instead, he moves toward me, his hand reaching into the pocket of the coat I’m wearing. Withdrawing the key to the Mercedes and his phone, he quickly slides them both into his pants pocket.
I start to take off the coat, but he stops my movement with a firm hand. “Keep it.”
“No.” I yank it free and thrust it at him. “I don’t want anything from you. Including some guy following me around. Call off your dog, Nic.”
He scrapes a hand over his jaw as he studies me, scowling. “Consider it done.”
Without another word, I push away from the wall, brushing against his body, and then head down the alley toward the other man. As I get closer, the streetlight gradually illuminates his face until I recognize him. The man from last night,
the one who has been lurking a few steps behind me for who knows how long. The same man who helped Nic take us that night and stood by while Scott was punched over and over.
He has the nerve to smirk, eyeing me up and down in amusement. Anger boils up my throat and before I can stop myself, my hand cracks across his face.
His head jerks to the side, but he recovers quickly. He swings his arm up, about to backhand me, when Nic’s voice cuts through his rage.
“Enzo! Do not touch her!”
He hesitates, and I’m not sure he’s going to listen. Then, slowly, he lowers his arm, letting it fall to his side. He glares at me, but I ignore him, glancing over my shoulder at Nic, who is now cloaked in shadows.
And because I can’t see his face, I imagine the worst—that he’s looking at me with fondness. With affection. With love. So, I quickly turn around and dart away. Refusing to look back again.
CHAPTER 8
Nic
“BOSS, YOU SURE KNOW HOW to pick them.”
My eyes reluctantly leave the spot Reagan disappeared from a second ago to focus on Enzo. He rubs his red cheek. No doubt it’s throbbing, like mine.
“What are you talking about?”
He rolls his eyes. “She means something to you. And not just as someone to exploit for information.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” I head out of the alley, but he follows close behind.
“Okay, fine. I’m an idiot, I guess,” he complains, still rubbing his face. “So, what happens now?”
Ignoring him, I tug my coat back on, briefly catching the faintest hint of Reagan’s perfume. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, trying to push through my exhaustion. This whole day has been a colossal shit show. Tracking down Vince Goretti took me nearly twelve hours. And then, after I finally found him, I had to sit through the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had before handing him the envelope and walking away—but that’s a story for another day. By the time I’d gotten back in the Benz and headed toward D.C., the sun was starting to set. When I’d arrived, after sitting in traffic for a few hours, Enzo had the unlucky job of informing me that Reagan hadn’t left her apartment all day.
Frustrated and unwilling to waste any more time, I’d left Enzo outside her place with strict instructions to call me the second she stepped outside, and then paid a visit to my favorite politician, Congressman Moretti. And for an elected official I allegedly blackmailed into handing over information on the Oversight Committee’s investigation into my family, he was surprisingly helpful. Finding out that Reagan’s boss is thinking about shutting down the investigation only confirmed my suspicions. They’ve hit a dead end.
But any relief at the news was wiped away as soon as I got Enzo’s message. A club was the last place I expected her to go. It’s not her style. Reagan is as straight-laced as they come. I understand that she’s frustrated, but letting another man touch her like that seemed like a provocation. Like she was trying to piss me off.
My Italian loafers hit the sidewalk and I scan the street, searching for any trace of her. But she’s gone.
“You’re gonna go back to the city,” I finally answer him. “And I’m going to finish things up here.”
“Ah…” He smirks. “Is that what the kids are calling it?”
“Shut your damn mouth.” Graciously ignoring his smug smile, I stop next to the Benz and tug the keys from my pocket. “Anything else I need to know? What about the other one?”
“Scott?” He grins at me, enjoying the shit out of himself. “The guy she spends all of her time with? What about him, you ask?”
“Yeah, him.”
“Nothing. Other than them spending a lot of time with each other. A lot of time. All day. Sometimes late into the night.”
I glare at him. “Do you want me to punch you in the face, or what?”
He cackles like an old woman. “Can’t help myself. Sorry, give me a minute.” He tries to stop laughing. Tries. “Eh,” he puffs some air into the cold night, struggling to keep a straight face. “There’s nothing going on with him. He hasn’t spotted me. And he sure as hell hasn’t hauled off and slapped me in the face, either.”
“I’d hope not.” I pop the car door open.
“Anything you want me to do once I get back?” His mirth finally starts wearing off.
“Yeah. Keep an eye on my sister.”
His brow wrinkles in confusion, but he nods anyway.
* * *
I’ve spent the day following her around like a lost dog. From her apartment to Rayburn. Then I spent close to nine hours waiting on a freezing park bench until she decided to leave the office. But now, I’m standing across the street from a crowded restaurant, watching her have dinner with someone I don’t recognize. He’s vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.
It seems like business, though. They don’t touch, just talk. And because someone upstairs is looking out for me, their meal finishes right as a sheet of rain falls from the sky. I pull open the door to the restaurant as the man she was with leaves the table. He passes me in the lobby, giving me a quick onceover before stepping out into the downpour.
“Sir?” The hostess notices my silent hovering. “Can I help you?”
“No.” I stride past her, weaving through tables to where Reagan sits, her back to me. Her beautiful face glances up from her phone, and anger instantly tinges the tops of her cheekbones. She doesn’t say anything, just shoves the phone into her purse, hurriedly grabs her coat, and lifts up out of her seat.
“Sit. Down.”
She freezes, half standing, half sitting as she glares at me. The silence between us is tense and thick. A million thoughts run over her features. She glances around the room, trying to decide if she should make a scene. Wondering if it might give her just enough time to slip away. Her predictability is one of the many things I love about her.
Fighting a smile, I drop into the now vacant seat across from her, and flick a finger toward her chair. Her mouth drops open the slightest bit, but then, surprisingly, she sits.
“Thank you.”
She reaches for her wine glass and quickly swallows its contents. “So, you’re following me now?”
“That word has such harsh connotations. I prefer keeping an eye on.”
“And I’d prefer to be left alone.”
A single brow arches pointedly. “We doing this again?”
She frowns. “No. We’re not doing anything again.”
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the table, wanting to push all the used dishes to the floor in an attempt to get closer to her. My eyes drill into hers, unable to look away, until the server stops next to the table and clears her throat.
“Would you like some more wine, miss? And can I get you something to drink, or would you like to order, sir? I can tell you our specials of the day.”
“No,” I answer, keeping my gaze on the woman sitting across from me. “I’ll take a scotch, and yes, she’ll want another glass of whatever that was.”
“I don’t want anything,” Reagan interjects.
“She does. Bring her one more.”
“I don’t.” She bites the words out, anger and ice-cold contempt fighting for control of her voice.
“Trust me, she does,” I insist. “She’s gonna want something to throw in my face, and her glass is empty.” With one more stutter from the server, I wave my hand, dismissing her. “That’ll be all.”
Rude, I know. But I don’t care. I only have a finite amount of time to say what I have to say before Reagan considers climbing over this table and finishing me off with her steak knife.
Actually…
I slide the knife slowly toward my side of the table.
She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest. “Really? If I were going to stab you, it wouldn’t be here. Too many witnesses, for one.”
“So, you’ve put some thought into it, huh?” I smirk. “Killing me?”
“Not killing so much as simply inflicting large a
mounts of pain.”
“About that—”
The server interrupts me as she deposits our drinks on the table. “Anything else I can get you?”
“Yes.” I pull out a silver money clip, peel off a few bills, and hand them to her. “Don’t interrupt us again.”
Taking the money, she disappears, and Reagan shakes her head.
“Predictable. Nic doesn’t get what he wants, so he just flashes some cash around like it’ll fix the problem.”
“Didn’t it?”
“No. It didn’t. All you did was buy your way into her good graces, not mine. But, maybe that’s what you’d prefer.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to chase away the anger her backhanded comment stirs to life.
“I mean,” she sighs, “be honest with me, how many women were in the mix while we were doing whatever it was we were doing?”
Teeth slice into soft skin and blood trickles into my mouth. I ignore the pain, focusing on keeping my voice steady. “I’m willing to take a lot of shit from you, but not about this. I am, I was faithful to you. Even while we were apart.”
“Apart? That’s what you’re calling it?”
I grimace, from the taste of blood and from her words. “Enough. Enough, Reagan. I’ve tried being nice. I’ve tried giving you space, tried explaining, tried apologizing, tried groveling. I’m done.”
“Good. Finally. We agree. We’re—”
“I swear, if you utter the words ‘we’re done’ one more time, I will lose my mind. Right here in this crowded restaurant, in front of all of these people, is that what you want?”
She glares at me, grabbing her wine—the wine she didn’t want—and takes a long swallow. I glance at my scotch, knowing it’s going to burn like hell.
I reach for it anyway. “About last night—”
“Last night never happened.”
My eyes meet hers, and the challenge shining in them awakens something in me. Something innate, a baser instinct that drives me to prove her wrong.