It wasn’t late—he hadn’t slept much the night before and he’d thought he could crash for a while and then work the night through, but screw that idea.
Now, standing in the dark garage he’d converted into a work area, he tried to think past the nightmares so he could work.
But he couldn’t.
“I loved your mother…”
“You son of a bitch,” he rasped.
That bastard could talk to him about love?
How in the hell could he talk about love?
He’d taken her away—
Grief, an awful storm of it rose inside him and he was tempted to grab his blowtorch and use it, not to create, but to destroy. Because he didn’t trust himself not to do it, he locked himself out of the studio and stormed away from his home. He had no destination in mind, not right away.
He just had to move.
Images of his mother’s face flashed in front of him.
Usually, the memories were faded, softened by time, but on nights like tonight, they were keen as a blade. The screams were just as loud, her voice, angry and hurt, raged on while his father’s, that big, deep voice, bellowed out, full of bile and ugliness.
“Trailer trash … just get on out…”
Minutes ticked by into hours.
He had no idea how long he walked, how far.
He found himself standing in front of Ali’s.
Dully, he stared at the brightly lit windows. Inside, they’d be watching The Avengers and eating cookies.
The simplicity of it called to him and more than anything, he wanted to be in there, his arms wrapped around Ali. And Nolan. Nolan would probably already be asleep and that was just fine. Having that kid curled up on his lap while they finished off the movie and cookies, that sounded like … heaven.
“Fuck.” He stared at the sky, where a thousand stars shone down on him.
He shouldn’t be here.
It was the only place he wanted to be—the only place he’d ever found any peace at all.
* * *
Nolan hadn’t even made it to Puny God … smash, smash, smash …
Ali sat in the darkened room, watching Bruce Banner as the Hulk smash Loki into the floor. Her son had his face buried against her thigh and she was probably going to have to treat the khakis she wore for stains from the icing that had been on the cookies, but that was okay.
In the hours since Tate had walked away … again … she realized she had to change things. Her life, as it was, sort of sucked. She had her boys, and she loved them. She had her job, which she liked and at some point, she’d take over the pizza place from her parents, but that wasn’t the problem.
She was lonely. Deep inside, in a place that just couldn’t be filled with a girls’ day out, or hugs from her kids, or a talk with her mom. She was lonely. She loved Tate and what she wanted, more than anything, was for him to fill that void.
It would never happen. Because he wouldn’t let it.
This couldn’t be all she’d ever have in her life … a job that wore her out and a guy who’d only be there when he’d let himself.
She wanted … no, she needed more than that.
As long as he was around, though, she wouldn’t ever let herself look for anybody else.
I can’t believe I’m thinking about doing this. It was a bitter, ugly pain that had settled inside her chest and now that Nolan was asleep, she let herself really acknowledge it. Once he was in bed, she was going to lock herself in her room, run a hot bath, and … she swallowed and dropped her head onto the back of the couch.
Cry her damn eyes out. That was what she was going to do.
She was getting ready to boot Tate out of her life and it was going to break her heart.
Half-dead inside already, she watched as Tony Stark shot up into the sky, through a narrow little opening, and tears tried to form, but she blinked them back. No. No tears now. Not until later. Once the choice was made, she’d bawl. After she’d told him, she’d bawl.
Not while her son was sprawled asleep on her lap.
Later, though …
Then she heard the door open and her heart skipped a few dozen beats. Sucking in a deep breath, she turned her head just as he appeared in the doorway, his shadow falling across the floor.
Her bruised, practically bleeding heart gave a feeble, desperate jump.
The hand that lay in her lap closed into a fist.
Now. He was here now.
This …
She was right.
This was all they’d ever have. It was almost ten. He’d come here now when it was late, and Nolan was asleep. He’d hang around for a couple of hours and then he’d disappear again.
All but breathless as the pain slammed into her, she looked back at the TV. I can’t do this anymore.
The floorboards creaked under him as he came toward her and settled down on the couch next to her. Her body shifted toward his as the cushions gave under his weight and the scent of him wrapped around her. The longing inside her spread. You son of a bitch. Part of her wanted to shove him away from her. The other part wanted to cling to him, wanted to beg.
Instead she just sat there as he reached out and brushed Nolan’s hair back from his face.
“How long did he last?”
“Didn’t manage to make it to his favorite part.” Wow. Go me. Her voice was calm, level even. No sign of the misery she felt inside.
“‘Smash, smash, smash … puny god.’” Tate’s low, easy voice sent a shiver down her spine. He curled his arm around her shoulders, drawing her against him.
The words she needed to say rose in her throat. I think you should leave, Tate … we need to talk. This isn’t working …
Already, her resolve was melting.
His strength, his warmth, seeped into her body and she closed her eyes, letting herself take all of that in, one more time. Once she said those words, though, that was it. She’d never have him here, in her quiet, dark house while her boys slept and they talked softly. She’d never guide him to her room, never feel his hands on her …
I’m not ready.
Sam, the mutt Nolan and Joey had picked out last year, came trotting in and she glanced at him. Traitor. Of course the dogs hadn’t warned her … they never did. They were used to him and never barked when he came in, but tonight, she could have used the warning.
Blowing out a slow breath, she looked down at Nolan’s small face and brushed his hair back from his face. The sight of him helped her to steel herself. It didn’t matter if she wasn’t ready. It was time.
She wasn’t just making this decision for herself. Her kids adored Tate and they were already too attached. He wouldn’t ever let anything more come of it.
It wasn’t fair. Not to them.
“How did the cookies go?”
“Well. There are cookies and icing … they went rather well. I think we have a dozen left.” Her heart banged against her ribs as he slid his hand up to her neck, a light teasing caress that sent a shiver through her. As he leaned in and nuzzled her, she had to bite back a gasp. “You can grab some if you want. You know where they are.”
“I’m not hungry.” His thumb stroked over her skin. His voice had that rich, almost velvety undertone that spoke of a hunger, all right, it was just a deeper, more basic hunger.
She had to close her hand into a fist to keep from reaching out and pulling the tie from his hair, feel those silken brown strands tumble around her hands.
This has to stop.
He was never going to be able to give her more than what he’d already given her and she so desperately needed more.
Blindly, she watched the rest of the movie, her son asleep in her lap while she mentally rehearsed what she had to say. Her heart felt like it had turned to stone and Tate sat there, completely, blissfully unaware.
Ending it … now.
How could she do this now?
He was raw, and she knew it, dealing with his mom’s birthday, and the anniversary of his moth
er’s disappearance hovering just a few short weeks away.
As Fury was addressing the council and assuring them that the Avengers would be around to kick righteous ass when needed, Tate shifted on the couch and slid his arms under Nolan’s warm, boneless body. “I’ll get him to bed.”
She stayed where she was, letting him.
She wasn’t going to watch. Some part of her had clung to hope, seeing how he was with her kids—she knew he loved them and maybe that was why she’d hoped all this time. He loved her kids … but he didn’t love her. Maybe he wouldn’t let himself.
Once he was out of the room, she rose and headed to the kitchen, calling the dogs. As they came running, she opened the back door, resting against the doorjamb as they disappeared out into the night.
Pain practically ripped her in two as she stood there, her heart beating in slow, dull beats and bitterness lay like ashes on her tongue. Eyes closed, she sucked in one slow breath after another.
I have to end this. I have to.
A warm hand brushed down her spine.
She just barely managed to bite back the sob as it rose inside her.
“What’s wrong?”
She waited a few seconds before she responded, and still her voice was rough and husky as she murmured, “Who said something was wrong?”
“It’s what you haven’t said.” He slid an arm around her waist.
That simple gesture twisted her heart in her chest. He pulled her back against him as the dogs came running back inside. She let the door bang shut as he pulled her closer, tucking her against his larger frame.
He slid his hand into her hair, tangling it around his fingers.
We can’t do this anymore.
She opened her mouth to say it, the words hovering on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t force them out.
Tate turned her around, his brown eyes boring into hers as he backed her up against the wall.
Stroking one hand up her side, he slid it under her shirt and the heat of his hand on her flesh was a shocking, brutal pleasure. After three years, she should be used to this. She knew she should. It shouldn’t feel like she was cutting out a part of herself to think about pushing him away.
Just do it.
But then, as she tried to brace herself to do just that, he dipped his head and rubbed his cheek against hers. There was no deep, breath-stealing kiss. She might have been able to find the strength to stand against the want. She always wanted him and she had to find a way to live without that. The strength drained out of her legs and she had to brace her body against the wall just to stay upright.
His gentleness was even harder to handle just then. If he had just pulled her against him, shown her all the heat and hunger that raged inside, then she might have been able to handle it.
“What’s wrong, Ali?” he whispered, his lips moving against her skin. “You look so sad. I hate it when you’re sad.”
She fisted her hands in his shirt and tried to force the words out.
We need to end this.
“It’s because of…” He paused and she heard him swallow, felt the uneven ragged motion of his chest. “Hell, I’ve been an ass the past week. I know I have. I’m sorry.”
Don’t, she thought. Please don’t make this any harder.
His arms came around her and he tucked her closer. “I’m trying not to be. It’s just—”
His body spasmed.
Ali felt her heart wrench in her chest as a harsh, ragged sob ripped out of him.
You son of a bitch. Don’t do this to me now. Closing her eyes, she pressed her brow to his chest and then slid a hand up to cup his cheek. Under her hand, she felt the rough stubble rasp against her palm. “Tate, don’t.”
“If you’re nice to me after I’ve been an asshole … hell.” He pressed a kiss to her palm. “I don’t deserve it. I’m just ragged right now. But I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. I’m sorry I’ve been doing it.”
Taking it out on me. She wanted to laugh at the insanity of it. If only he would take some of his grief out on her. Maybe then she could help him with it. But all he ever did was bottle everything up. Battered, torn, she sagged against him even as she tried to find the strength to pull away.
* * *
Ali sighed against him and some of that tension faded out of her.
A fear he couldn’t fully understand eased inside him and he pressed his lips to her neck. He breathed in the scent of her, almost drunk on it already. Warm and soft, she smelled like cookies and coffee and her. Soft, sweet Ali. Her body was the sweetest pleasure he’d ever known, and all he wanted to do was hold her, get lost in her.
“Don’t give up on me. I’m trying.”
Her hand curved around his neck.
“Don’t give up on you.” She was quiet for a moment, then she slowly eased back, eyeing him with a look he couldn’t even begin to understand.
It left a tightness in his chest, though and that fear came rushing back at him. He wanted to grab her back and hold her against him, but his mind was already processing what he’d just let slip out.
What in the fuck was he thinking? Why had he said that?
“Tate, giving up on you would imply we had something to give up on.” Smiling sadly, she shook her head and moved over to the fridge. “We don’t. We’re friends. Sometimes, we have sex.”
Sex.
No. He’d had sex before.
What he had when he was with Ali was a lot more than sex.
She pulled the fridge open and grabbed a bottle of wine from the shelf. He stood there in silence as she poured a glass. “You’re asking me not to give up on a friends-with-benefits thing, basically.” She shrugged and lifted the glass to her lips. “That’s easy enough. I don’t give up on my—”
He closed the distance between them and slammed his hands down on the counter on either side of her. Friends. Yeah, so maybe he’d been the one to suggest this thing they had between them, but she had to realize how much things had changed. He couldn’t be the only one to see it. They’d slid past friends a long time ago.
“We’re more than friends,” he growled.
She stared at him over the rim of her glass, her soft green eyes distant as the stars.
“No. We’re not. Friends is all you wanted. Friends is all you’ll ever give me.” The look in her eyes sent a spike straight through his heart.
“I…” He closed his mouth, tried to figure out what to say to that. Something inside him twisted. Panic fluttered inside but he shoved it down. “Ali, we … we’re more than friends. You know you matter to me.”
“I matter to you,” she echoed, her voice hollow. Then she turned away, staring out the window into the night. “You know something? Scott said that very same thing to me once. But neither the kids nor I mattered enough. Not to him.”
Those simple words knocked the breath right out of him. Stunned, he backed up a step, leaned against the door as he stared at her. His voice came out in a gruff rasp. “Ali, what do you want from me?”
“I guess I want to matter more.” She lowered her head, staring at the counter where her hands rested. She clenched them into fists. Tight, bloodless fists. “I’d … hell. I guess I’d like a man who actually wants to be with me. Not just for sex, but for real.”
“I do want that.”
She turned her head, stared at him. “Do you?”
“Fuck, I just said I did,” he snapped, shoving away from the wall and closing the distance between them. “What the hell is going on? What are you getting at?”
Slowly, she turned to face him, her face quiet, her eyes sad. He went to cup her cheek, but she pulled back, staring at the wall.
“Is this because of…” He fumbled for the words, remembering how callous he’d been, how foolish and blind. “Is it because of the other night?”
“Oh, Tate. This is about a lot more than just one night,” she said, slowly turning to look at him.
It hit him, then. He got it, and it was like she’d taken a
knife from the butcher block sitting a few inches from her hand. The pain was sharp, piercing, and unending. She was done. That’s what this was about. She was done.
Staring into her pretty green eyes, while that pain tore into him again and again, only one thought managed to cut through it.
Like hell.
He closed his hands around her hips and boosted her up onto the kitchen counter. “No,” he said, his voice gruff and ragged as he pushed her thighs apart and moved closer. He slid one hand along until he could palm her butt and then he yanked her against him and he watched the heat bloom in her eyes, felt the slow, subtle tremor that went through her.
Her skin went the color of a rose, low on her chest, bared by the skinny-strapped shirt she wore and he knew if he pulled it away, that faint rush of color would go all the way down to her breasts.
“No,” he said again. “This is more than friendship.”
The need to strip her clothes away, climb on top of her, feel her close around him was strong, grabbing him by the balls—she would feel it, he knew that. He could show her just how much more this was.
“More than friendship.” Her lids drooped while that blush of color crept up her neck, then to her cheeks. Through her lashes, she watched him, all the while arching back so that the heat of her sex brushed against his cock. “This? This is just sex.”
He opened his mouth, the word no trying to form.
She slid a hand down his chest, toyed with the button of his jeans. “Sex.It’s good sex, it’s crazy sex, and it makes me forget who I am sometimes.”
His eyes all but crossed as she freed the button and then dragged the zipper down. Once she had room, she reached inside his shorts, closed her hand around his cock, and dragged it up, down. Each touch was a sweet, sweet torture and he found himself arching into her touch, even as he wanted to drag himself away.
Her eyes were distant, remote. “But this … this is all we really have.”
He caught her wrist and pulled it back, fury and need an ugly mix inside him. Slamming her wrist to the cabinet by her head, he leaned in, his mouth just a breath away. “It’s a hell of a lot more than just sex,” he rasped even as the need for her turned into a scream in his blood. “Sex is easy.”
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