Lie To Me (Redemption)

by Chloe Cox

  While she was inside.

  The thought still makes me crazy. I feel my shoulders come forward and my back round and I curse under my breath, pissed off again that I didn’t hold on to the guy.

  I make myself look directly at Harlow, though. She’s what’s important. She’s the only thing that matters.

  And she’s freaked out.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I’m telling the truth.”

  Harlow’s lip shakes and her face flushes the way it does when she’s upset, the way it does the few times I’ve ever really seen her cry, and she looks down at the table. I see her draw her eyebrows together, bite her lip. She’s always so determined to be strong.

  “That’s worse, isn’t it?” I say.

  She nods.

  “Lo.”

  She’s gripping her own hands now, hard, digging her fingernails into the skin. I put my hand over hers; it’s big enough to cover both of her little fists, my big, scarred, ugly boxer’s hand over hers. The second I touch her, I feel it. She gasps at the contact. Looks up.

  We stare at each other a second too long.

  “Do you want me to take you somewhere else?” I ask her. “I’ll take you anywhere you want to go. I’ll put you up in a hotel if that’ll help you feel safe.”

  She flashes that fierceness I love, shaking her head. Says, “No, I’m not leaving my home.”

  “Then I’m not leaving,” I say.

  Lo licks her lips. She looks like she wants to say something, but can’t decide what. Her hands burn under mine.

  “I will sleep on the goddamned porch if I have to,” I say. “I’ll camp out in the backyard—I don’t care. But I’m not leaving.”

  I don’t know how long the silence lasts between us. Could be a few seconds, could be minutes, but it feels like hours. Just hours of staring at her, breathing her in, looking at her and seeing everything I love: that strength, that intelligence, that fearlessness. She’s the most beautiful woman in the world to me. And she’s looking right back at me.

  She hasn’t moved her hands.

  Finally, she says, “You don’t have to sleep outside.”

  chapter 13

  HARLOW

  I look at Marcus’s face, still wet from the rain outside, while he sits at the kitchen table where he gave me one of the best orgasms of my life, sitting there in barely any clothes at all, and I see the determination on that gorgeous face replaced by a sly smile.

  I can’t believe what I just said.

  ‘You don’t have to sleep outside?’ Really? Could I have been any more suggestive if I’d tried?

  The thing is, I’m not entirely sure it was an innocent mistake.

  The past few days, since I kicked him out, I’ve missed him like an addict. I mean I’ve really felt it. Physically. An ache. A hole, an absence that needed to be filled, maybe something that was always there, but that I’d learned to ignore. Or that had been buried, after what happened with Dylan in the bathroom of the The Alley. Marcus unearthed it, woke it up, stoked it until it burned so hot I could barely think about anything else. I’ve looked forward to seeing him every day when he makes his daily pilgrimage to my house, and I’ve hated myself for it. Today he didn’t come at the usual time, and it actually hurt me. It hurt, too, too much, that maybe a little rain drove him away; that, in the end, just like before, I wasn’t that important to him. That he might just disappear all over again. Then I open my kitchen door to find Marcus beating the crap out of some guy who was trying to break into my home.

  God, even the thought of that…some strange man, breaking in while I’m home? I was in the living room, reading with only one lamp on, so I tell myself that maybe it looked like my house was empty from the outside. Maybe he wasn’t breaking in to get to me.

  That’s a big maybe.

  But still, what would have happened if Marcus hadn’t been here?

  I shudder all over again, and forcibly shove all thoughts of that night at the bar and the man who tried to rape me out of my head. That is not what this was.

  “You ok?” he asks me immediately.

  His big, heavy hand still covers mine. It is comforting even if I don’t want it to be. I look down and see that he broke the skin on his knuckles defending me, and I haven’t even noticed until now.

  “Jesus, Marcus, look at you,” I murmur.

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “I don’t know if I’m ok,” I say, truthfully. “Please just…let me fix this.”

  Before he can say anything I’ve gotten up, my head spinning when I lose contact with him, and I’m headed for the bathroom. I get all the usual supplies—rubbing alcohol, bandages, Neosporin—and try not to think about how I’m not dealing with Dill’s skinned knee, but instead cleaning the wounds of a man who just fought to protect me.

  I don’t want to need protection. I never have.

  To bad you almost never get what you want.

  When I come back Marcus is standing, still totally unable to remain seated while I’m up and about. He’s searching my face, concerned, and when he finally sees the stuff I’m carrying he smiles slightly.

  “You don’t need to do all that,” he says.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Sit.”

  Marcus sits back down and obediently gives me his right hand, his green eyes studying me. I try to ignore that x-ray stare, try not to think too hard about what’s happening here, or even what just happened outside, and instead pay attention to the job at hand. I still, after all these years, cannot get over his hands. They were always huge, just given his overall size, but somehow now they seem bigger. Definitely heavier. He must still hit the heavy bag, maybe even do knuckle push-ups, to keep that kind of bone density. I remember someone at one of his fights saying once that getting tagged with a Roma right cross was like getting hit in the face with a five-pound weight.

  I believe it.

  I think about how often the man trying to break into my home just got hit in the face with twin five-pound weights and I smile. I know I’m supposed to forgive and forget, but honestly, screw that. I’m glad Marcus hurt him.

  Maybe he won’t come back.

  Marcus doesn’t flinch when I rub the raw skin down with the alcohol, and I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. No matter how tough I was in the gym, I would always, always be a huge baby about this kind of thing. Marcus, on the other hand, probably still eats nails for breakfast.

  He’s still studying me.

  “What?” I say, squirming under that stare.

  “I really will sleep on the floor,” he says. “You don’t even have to talk to me if you don’t want to. But I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  I stop what I’m doing and I realize I’m holding my breath. He’s giving me an out. He’s giving me many outs. He’s also making it clear that I have to make an active choice. That I have to decide what this will be.

  And those words…

  I’m not leaving you here alone.

  Those are the words I’ve fantasized about him saying to me, over and over again, even though I knew it was pathetic. Those are the words that make me feel the weakest, because I want to hear them so badly. Those are the words I’ve wanted him to mean, for real, for everything, forever, and not just because he thinks someone is about to break into my house.

  “You can’t just move in here,” I say quietly, trying not to think about the way his hands feel in mine. I’m almost done. Almost there. “I mean, until when? When will it be safe enough?”

  It’s not just a rhetorical question this time, but I mean it in so many different ways. And he knows that.

  Marcus moves those big hands, moves the rubbing alcohol aside, moves the bandages, and takes my hand in his again. He grazes the back of my hand with the pad of his rough thumb, and I can’t help but remember what it felt like to have that thumb on my clit, and heat pools between my legs.

  Oh God, why am I thinking about that right now?

  “Until this development deal is over
and done with,” he says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  I look up.

  Marcus Roma, big and strong in nothing but a thin undershirt and some boxer briefs, his hair wet, his jaw tense, is looking at me as though I am the most important thing on this Earth.

  It’s so intoxicating that I almost miss what he just said.

  Almost.

  “Is that what this was about?” I say, slowly. “Why that guy was trying to break in? Because I won’t sell?”

  Something flickers across his face. I don’t know what, and it makes me uneasy. His hand is hot over mine, and now I know I should pull away—but I can’t.

  Damn it, I can’t.

  “Lo, look at me,” he says. “I don’t know if that’s what it was. But it’s possible.”

  “Jesus!” I say. I hadn’t actually expected him to say that. I thought he’d laugh at me, reassure me that that kind of thing only happens in movies, that this was just some random bad luck that I’m not in any more danger than usual, living in New York.

  I don’t know if this is better, or worse.

  I get up from the table, needing to just move around, to feel like I’m doing something rather than just sitting there, waiting for fate to come to me. Almost immediately I miss his touch. My body screams for it, wants to beg him to hold me, and it’s just making me feel more confused and lost.

  And then a few more pieces click into place, and I look at him again.

  “That’s why you’re here,” I say. “You didn’t run into me accidentally. You’re here, with me, specifically, for a reason.”

  The idea is just too horrible.

  “No,” he says loudly, getting up from the table, his brow furrowed. “No! Not like that, Lo. You know I work for Alex. He’s invested in this, that’s all. That’s all.”

  “So he’s big time, huh?” I say softly, leaning against the counter. This suddenly feels so overwhelming.

  Somehow Marcus looks even worse than I feel. Like he’s watching something bad happen and can’t do anything about it. He used to look like that when he’d see me start to cry years ago, when something bad really had happened and there was nothing he could do but hold me.

  He crosses the kitchen and comes close to me again, those big hands flexing, opening and closing in the air, until he’s close enough to touch me. He puts them on my shoulders, keeps them light, comforting. I’ve never known another person with such a light touch when he wanted it.

  “This thing, this development—it’s going to happen,” he says. “You can’t stop him, Lo, no matter how hard you fight. There’s too much money involved, and you don’t know Alex.”

  I close my eyes and say it.

  “Is that why you’re here? To convince me to sell out?”

  “No,” he says. “Look at me, Lo.”

  I open my eyes. I look at him. It’s one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, because I know that this time I’ll be able to read him. I’ll know if he means what he’s about to say. And because I’m about to risk it, I can see that he has the power to break my heart all over again.

  Marcus looks into me, deeply, one finger tracing the curve of my cheek. He says, “You don’t have to trust me yet, Lo. But I’m here right now because I love you.”

  He means it. Something inside me flutters awake, like a flock of birds breaking into the air, and I find it hard to breathe. I can hear my own heartbeat, and I can feel my pulse between my legs.

  Oh God.

  “You have to sell,” he says.

  “What if I don’t?”

  “He’ll make you.”

  I grip the edge of the kitchen counter. “No one can make me do anything.”

  “You don’t know Alex like I do,” Marcus says.

  “So tell me about him,” I say, and my voice is so urgent it surprises me. It surprises me realizing how much I want to know about this part of his life. About the part of his life that took him from me. “You work for him, you’ve been working for him, and more than that, he’s your—”

  “Don’t say it,” he says, putting a finger to my lips. “Don’t tell me what he is to me. It’s…it’s fucking complicated.”

  His finger. On my lips.

  It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to suck it into my mouth. Instead I bite my lip, and I can see what that does to him. He shifts his weight, and I can feel his erection against me. It’s not even remotely fair.

  “Don’t touch me when you’re trying to tell me what to do,” I say.

  He doesn’t say anything. Just exhales powerfully. But he moves his finger.

  “And what if I did sell?” I ask. Why am I bothering to pretend this is some kind of casual question? It’s anything but casual. “What would happen then? You’d be gone, right? ‘Thanks for the lay, see you later?’”

  Marcus’s face darkens. “No. I told you I’m not leaving. Not ever again.”

  “That doesn’t work, Marcus. You can’t have it both ways. You can’t work for the man who’s trying to destroy my home and be my…what? What do you even think you are?”

  Marcus puts those big hands on either side of me on the kitchen counter, penning me in, and leans in until his mouth is only inches from mine.

  “I’m the guy who’s going to keep you safe,” he says.

  I shiver as I feel his breath on my neck, and my heart breaks as he says those words. “Oh. Is that all?” I ask.

  His lips graze my ear, my cheek. He rubs his face against my neck, and then licks it, ever so lightly.

  “No,” he says in my ear. “That’s not all.”

  Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. The physicality of this man, and my attraction to him, removes all sense from my brain. I feel like a zombie, or like I’m hypnotized, like he could tell me to strip and my clothes would be half off before I even knew what was happening. Like I’m drunk on him, drunk and deranged and prone to making bad decisions. This should be illegal. You should not be allowed to drive a human body while under this kind of influence.

  “Marcus, I can’t do a repeat of this,” I say, and my breath is already ragged. “Please.”

  And I push against his chest, gently.

  I can’t look at him when he steps back because I know I’ll be right back there, unable to think clearly through my desire for him. Not just for him, but for everything to be right between us. That was the worst part about sleeping with him again—seeing a glimpse of how it could be. Knowing I love him now more than I ever did, knowing that learning more about the world in the last five years has made me realize just how lucky I was to have him in my life at all. And then the hangover: remembering that it’s not all right. That he still hasn’t explained why he left, that he might do it again at any moment. Remembering what happened to me after he left the first time.

  How could I bring him back into my life under those circumstances? How could I ever bring him into Dill’s life under those circumstances?

  That’s why I kicked him out. Didn’t seem to do any good, though. He’s still in my life. Even if he weren’t standing in my kitchen, looking down at me with such tender concern that it makes me weak, he’d still be in my life. Because I don’t think he’ll ever be out of my thoughts.

  “Lo,” he says.

  “Goddammit,” I say. I still can’t look at him. I’m actually sweating, I’m so turned on, and I still have to say no. I still have to be responsible. And I am furious. “Why can’t you just tell me? Why can’t you just explain? Why can’t you help me to understand so I can maybe, maybe, trust you again?”

  He starts to speak, but he’s got me going now. I have to get mad or I’ll start to cry. I think about all those sleepless nights after he left, I think about all those men who treated me like crap, I think about Dylan in the bar. I think about how much I hated myself, how I thought I was just unlovable, if after all that Marcus Roma could leave me so easily.

  I push him in the chest again, harder this time.

  “Do you have any idea what it did to me when you left?�
� I ask him.

  I can feel the anger roiling through my blood, twisting around the lust, the love, turning it all into something potent and powerful and destructive, and if I thought I was drunk on him before, I had no idea what that meant. I am no longer in the drivers seat. Something else is happening here. All those things I never said, all those things I felt: they’re coming out.

  I shove him, hard enough to surprise him.

  “Do you know what happened to me?” I shout.

  Marcus’s eyes glitter softly, so softly, and when he speaks, his voice is gentle. “Tell me,” he says.

  It makes me so angry.

  “Fuck you,” I say. “Like you deserve to know? You want to know how badly you broke my heart? I drank for six months straight, Marcus, all the time. I hated myself. I hated everything about myself so much that I kept sleeping with guys who made me feel as shitty about myself as you did, just because it felt right. I went out with guys who treated me like crap, who made me feel worthless, and one of them tried to fucking rape me.”

  Time stops.

  Oh God. I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t. I look at Marcus, his face slowly collapsing in agony, and immediately I want to take it back. I never meant to tell him like this, in anger. I don’t know if I ever meant to tell him at all. I want to somehow tell him it’s not his fault, even though I just said it like it was, like I blame him, even though I don’t. And I know he’ll blame himself, no matter what I say, and that this is something I can never, ever take back.

  “Harlow,” he whispers.

  I have never, ever seen him like this. Not when I’d have a panic attack, not after his father died. Never. He is ashen, his face slack, his mouth open in horror. He walks towards me and then collapses to his knees in front of me, putting his arms around my waist. He pulls me in tight, and when he presses his face into my stomach, I feel his tears soak through the thin material of my shirt.

  I’ve never seen him cry before.

  “I am so sorry,” he says, his voice strangled, muffled. “I am so, so sorry.”

  “Stop,” I say, and my own voice is thick with emotion. “Please, Marcus, it’s not your fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but that asshole who… Marcus, please.”