by Jo Raven
Shit. Too tempting.
I let the switchblade clatter to the floor and clamber to my feet. I need…something. An escape. A break from my own thoughts, and at the same time an anchor.
Who am I kidding? I need Megan, but I made sure she hates my guts, and now I’m about to dissipate into nothing. Shatter to fucking pieces.
So I grab my jacket and stride out of the apartment, slamming the door behind me. Jittery and scattered like particles on the wind, I zip up, jam my hands into my pockets and start walking.
Snowflakes twirl on the air. The cold stings my face as I hurry down the road. Not sure where I’m heading. No destination in mind. Like my life, a train gone off the rails, hurtling along into nothingness.
The urge to start running hits me. It feels like I’ve been running forever, running from all the bad things, trying to outrun my fate—but I honestly don’t have the energy. I feel...stretched too thin. Insubstantial. Fading.
And if I don’t pay attention where I step, that might as well be the way I end up, I realize, lurching back from the street as a truck rushes by, showering me in frozen slush.
Christ. I slip in the snow, arms flailing, and manage to catch my balance in the last possible moment. My head spins as I bend over, hands braced on my thighs. My breathing rattles in my ears.
A dark thought is stuck in my mind, swirling like the snowflakes. What if…
I straighten, step onto the street once more. My black boots leave deep grooves in the fresh layer covering the ground. There’s nothing to look forward to. I had Megan in my arms and I pushed her away to chase after the ghost of a murderer I’ll never catch.
More cars rush by, tires squelching, splashing me with icy water. A bus. A van, headlights catching the falling snow.
What if next time I don’t…
Another car races by, showering me in dirty snow, honking at me. I wipe my face and blink up at the building across the street. It’s familiar somehow. A lit window on the third floor winks at me.
Megan’s window. This is Megan’s building. What the hell? I somehow ended up here without noticing. Which makes sense. It’s the only place where I want to be, she’s the only person I want to see. The thought of holding her in my arms again speeds up my pulse and twists painfully in my chest. All my broken pieces reach toward her.
Before I can analyze what the hell this is, this pull, this sudden brightening of the world when I think of her, I start walking toward her building. Have to see her, touch her, kiss her.
Next thing I know, someone is yelling, a honk goes off like a war siren, and I’m yanked backward, crashing on my back.
A strangled shout leaves my mouth as I land on what have to be spectacular bruises, and the impact jars my ribs. Hurts like a motherfucker. Can’t breathe, and black’s bleeding into my vision.
Meanwhile, a cacophony of honks fills the air as I lie there, looking up at the morning sky, sounding strangely distant.
The unfamiliar face of a bearded man leans over me. “Are you all right?” he asks. “Are you hurt?”
He gives me a hand up and I take it, let him pull me to a sitting position on the sidewalk. My back screams at me and I curl an arm protectively around my ribs.
Fucking ow.
“I saw that car coming right at you, man. It’s a miracle you’re alive.” The guy lets go and tugs at his short beard. “You were looking up, instead of where you were going. Damn car almost ran you over.”
“Let’s get you up,” another guy says, and I glance around me.
A small crowd has gathered, and I’m sitting on my ass in the snow, bent over, hair in my eyes. What a day from hell.
I accept another guy’s hand to get up and grit my teeth against the waves of pain radiating from my chest.
The guy grabs my arm, steadying me when I sway slightly to the side.
“Shall we call someone for you?” a woman asks, reaching into her purse, probably for her cell. “Shall we call an ambulance?”
“I’m fine,” I mumble, focused on staying upright. I have a high pain threshold, and already my brain is working on ignoring the soreness. “Thanks for…” For saving my life. Holy shit, I came close, didn’t I?
“Are you sure?” The guy is still holding my arm and I pull free.
“Yeah. I’m…”
“He’s with me,” a woman’s soft voice says, a voice I know, one that makes my breath catch every single time.
Megan.
She squeezes through the people gathered around me to reach my side. “Here you are. Looked everywhere for you.” Relief shines through her eyes as she stretches out her hand. “Ready to go home?”
I’m still caught between the “looked everywhere for you” and that “go home” part, my eyes doing that stingy-burny thing again. My body, though, has no doubt whatsoever as to what’s gonna happen.
I take her hand, breathe out. “I’m ready.”
Chapter Thirteen
Megan
Holding on tight to Rafe’s hand, I open a path through the small crowd. He looks battered, one side of his face bruised, white lines of pain around his beautiful mouth. He’s moving stiffly, and I wonder just how bad his fall was.
The thought I almost lost him turns my blood into ice.
If not for all the honking and yelling and screeching of tires, I wouldn’t have looked out of my window, wouldn’t have come down to see if I could help. Wouldn’t have found him.
He stumbles as we enter the building, and I release his hand in favor of wrapping an arm around his lean hips.
“Hit your head?” I ask, worried.
He touches his bruised jaw gingerly and grimaces. “Nah, this is from yesterday.”
I vow to get him to talk this time, find out what’s on his mind, and what happened since the night he left my apartment, letting me believe he was done with me. I know now it wasn’t true. All he’s done ever since was look out for me. My turn to look out for him.
“Yesterday.” I steer him toward the elevator. “Got into a fight?”
“Sort of.” He closes his eyes as we ride up, blond lashes resting on high cheekbones. “Got jumped.”
“What?” My stomach clenches. “What happened?”
He says nothing.
Something’s very wrong here. He opens his eyes as the elevator doors open and the bleakness in them has me tightening my hold on him. He’s got that thousand yard stare you see on men returning from war, empty and exhausted with life.
The anniversary is today. A terrible, terrible suspicion hits me, and I need to know I’m wrong.
“Rafe, tell me you didn’t step in front of that car on purpose.” I swallow against a dry throat. “Did you?”
He swallows hard, his mouth tightening.
He doesn’t deny it.
Oh holy shit. My heart is trying to break through my ribcage. This so very bad. Zane was right to be worried. Did he even realize how close Rafe might have come to giving up?
But I’m not giving up on him. I’ll drag him back from the edge, remind him life is worth living. I’ll do my best. Because this boy tugs at my heartstrings with every word, every move. It’s crazy how badly I want to see him happy.
As I pull him out of the elevator before the doors close again and tug him toward my door, he’s silent. I unlock my door and we enter the apartment.
Raf the kitty meows from the coffee table, then hisses and jumps away, probably catching a whiff of Rafe. Pressed so close to him, I’m aware of his scent—spice, musk, and the coppery tang of blood, but his clothes are soaked and filthy. A shiver goes through his frame.
“Shower?” I barely wait for his acknowledging nod before I lead him in that direction. I need to check his body for injuries, get him warm, then figure out how to talk to him.
He comes along gamely, his boots thumping on the tiles, and lets me push him down on the closed toilet seat. I tug his jacket off, then his sweater and T-shirt, take a moment to take in his muscled, inked torso. His pecs and abs flex as
he leans back. Mottled bruising on his side catches my eye. A lot of it.
Crap.
Almost lost him. I have to fight the urge to grab him and wrap myself around him until I’m sure he’s here, alive and well.
I shrug off my jacket, toe off my shoes and kneel down to unlace his boots. They’re splashed in mud and the bathroom will be hell to clean, but it’s the last thing on my mind right now. I’m tugging on one wet boot when I feel his hand on my hair.
“Meg?” His voice is raspy with exhaustion.
“Let me take care of you.” I pull off one boot, then the other. Socks, then I place my elbows on his thighs and look up at him. “My turn.”
He looks confused, but his gaze darkens with something else as he runs his knuckles over my cheek.
Rough patches catch on my skin as he does so. My pulse jumps. I catch his hand, study his blood-encrusted knuckles. He has dirt under his fingernails. A cut on his forearm is oozing blood.
I put his hand to my cheek, turn it over to kiss his palm, and see his eyes turn to dark bronze.
“I’m so glad you came here,” I whisper. “So thankful you didn’t step in front of that car. Oh God, I’m so thankful.”
“I changed my mind,” he whispers, and a faint glimmer of hope makes me hold my breath.
“Why?”
“Wanted to see you.”
My heart twists in my chest. Oh crap, I’m going to cry like a baby.
“You can always come to me,” I say, my voice cracking. “Always. When you feel you can’t go on. Just call me, okay?”
He takes a moment to reply. “Okay,” he whispers.
I put his hand down, bend over to cover my face, and set about undoing his pants. I drag them down his muscular legs, then reach for his briefs.
“Shit,” he mutters, staring down at me, golden eyes wide. They dip to my breasts, and I’m suddenly aware I’m practically flashing him. The cleavage of my blouse is gaping wide and I’m not even wearing a bra.
Holy shit, more like. He’s completely hard, his piercings clearly outlined in the soft material of his underwear. He tenses when I reach for him, and sucks in a sharp breath when I pull down the black briefs, freeing his erection.
He moans and another shiver shakes him. His hand lifts to my hair and his fingers tangle in my long tresses, but he says nothing as I study his aroused body. The first time I saw his erect cock I was a little bit scared. He’s big, thick and long, curving up toward his ripped stomach, and with those piercings…
Now all I feel is excitement. Heat rushes through my body, and a throb starts deep inside my belly. The urge to touch him is so strong, my hand lifts of its own accord and I trail my fingertips down his hard length.
His cock fascinates me. I touch the crown and watch wetness spill from the small slit and roll down the sides, wetting my fingers.
“Meg…” he groans.
I glance up. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his mouth slack. He gives a slow blink when I follow the path of one drop of precum down his shaft to his balls, and his stomach muscles tense, showing off those mouthwatering washboard abs.
What would he taste like? I remember how good it felt when he went down on me, and wonder what noises he’ll make if I take him in my mouth. The thought makes me so hot I might combust.
I lean in, take an experimental lick. Salty, a bit sweet and bitter.
A strangled moan leaves his throat, and his hand tightens in my hair. “Oh fuck…”
I should be dragging him to the shower, to warm him up, chase away that faraway look in his eyes. But maybe this is what he needs right now, this raw, sharp edge of arousal and pleasure, to ground him in the here and now.
And I need him, too. Need to touch him, feel him, know he’s here, solid and real.
Too close. Too close to losing him.
I put my mouth on him and hope my lack of experience doesn’t show. I wrap my lips around his thickness and swirl my tongue below the head, teasing the hoop there. The metallic taste mingles with his saltiness as I lap at it, then I suck at the bar piercing the head of his cock.
He makes a funny sound, between a gasp and a grunt, and his hips snap up, pushing his hard-on into my mouth. “Shit, yeah. Oh fuck, Meg…”
I choke and pull back a bit, then take him back in, stroking him with my tongue. I love that he called out my name.
His body trembles, muscles bunching and releasing in his legs as he strains not to move again, not to push deeper. I wrap my hand around the base of his cock as I mouth the head, toying with the barbell there, and he hardens even more, growing larger.
“I want to undress you,” he murmurs, and his hoarse voice does funny things to my insides. “Need to see you.”
I pull back, breathless, and the sight of his rock-hard cock trembling against his flat stomach sends my pulse skyrocketing.
Getting to my feet, I take off my black yoga pants, pushing them down along with my panties and socks, and grab the hem of my blouse. He climbs to his feet, towering over me, pressing his body to mine. His large hands close over mine and pull the blouse right off me, leaving me in a tiny white T-shirt.
He lets the sweater fall to the floor and runs his hands under my T-shirt, cupping my breasts, kneading them. Pleasure shoots down my spine, and I put my arms around him, drawing him closer, spanning the wide flare of his ribcage.
A hiss escapes him, and he flinches, wrenching himself away. “Fuck.”
Takes me a second to realize I was pressing on his bruises. “Crap. Oh crap, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m okay.” His broad chest rises and falls. Pale hair falls in his eyes, and he shoves it back, tucking a longer strand behind his ear. The studs in his lobe glint. He doesn’t look at me, keeps his face averted.
He’s so devastatingly beautiful. A golden boy with a heart of gold. It hurts to see him in pain of any sort. I want to take it away, share his burden.
“Rafe…” I touch his arm. I need to see his face. When he doesn’t react, I reach up, stroke his cheek, the rough stubble on his jaw. “Look at me.”
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and his head falls forward, his eyes closing. Still not looking at me. “Sorry, Meg.”
“You…” I bite my lip and put my arms around his neck, fighting the urge to shake him. “You paid my rent, found me a job, made sure I was safe. I…”
I love you, Rafe Vestri. But instead of speaking the words, I rise on tiptoe and kiss him.
His lips part, and he kisses me back, a muffled moan vibrating through him, and then he grabs me and pulls me against him. His tongue thrusts into my mouth, stroking me, and I shift, rubbing on him, pleasure zipping along my nerve endings.
But he breaks the kiss and, before I can protest, he wraps himself around me. He’s shaking.
Shit. I hug him close, let the tremors pass through me. “What is it?”
His face is buried in my hair. “I can’t fix this, Meg. Can’t fix anything.”
“Fix what?” I can barely breathe, crushed against his hard chest.
“I’m so tired,” he whispers. “Tried everything…”
“You look tired.” I rub his back. “Did you sleep last night?”
“Can’t sleep. Haven’t slept since that night.”
“What night?” I ask but even as the words leave my lips, I know the answer.
“The night of your birthday.”
Oh crap. Wow. “That was four days ago.”
He says nothing.
No wonder he’s completely zonked out. Insomnia and depression go hand in hand. Could this be why he came so close to losing it this time?
“That’s awful,” I whisper. “You should get a prescription, I’m sure—”
“No pills.” He shakes harder. “No fucking way. Stopping them last time was a bitch.”
I open my mouth, but don’t know what to say. My heart aches. I want to know everything he’s been through. I want to piece together the puzzle that is Rafe, and above all… Above all, I want to see him
happy.
Not sure how to accomplish that, I struggle backward and he relaxes his hold. Maybe starting with the simple things would be best. I tug him toward the shower stall and start the water running, wait until the heater kicks in and it warms up. Then I drag him under the spray, let him lean on the stall wall and reach for the soap and sponge.
Taking care of the body helps the soul, Grandma Anouk used to say—or so my mom claims. Of course, she used it as an excuse to drink, which makes no sense—so I focus on his.
Not a hardship, really. I lather up the sponge and drag it over his wet skin, over his defined biceps and the hard planes of his chest. I pay special attention to the scar right above his heart, stopping to caress it and kiss it.
After that, I can’t stop touching, kissing. I place another kiss to the center of his chest as I slide the sponge down his side, moving it gently over the darkening bruises to his hip.
He observes me from under lowered lashes as I move away to wet the sponge and take up the soap again. The light is better here and I can see him well. He has dried blood at one corner of his mouth, and his lip is puffy. His jaw is a nice shade of purple, and he has bags under his bright eyes, so dark they look like bruises.
I adjust the spray to hit lower and take his hand, drag the sudsy sponge over his forearm, again and again. His lids droop.
“Why can’t you sleep?” I ask quietly as I soap up his hand and tug lightly on his fingers, then massage his palm.
He drags up his gaze and blinks at me. “Been trying to fix things. But I can’t.” He thunks his head back on the tiles. “Can’t fix a goddamn thing. It’s all useless.”
“Rafe…”
“My family’s murderer is roaming free. They never caught him.” His teeth grind together. “He’s got the tattoo of a hand on his arm. I’ve told the police. But they don’t believe I saw it. Said I was in shock. Goddammit, I saw it. He’s out there.”
“Shh.”
“He’s out there, Meg! Motherfucker’s living his life, free as a bird, after killing my family.”
He’s shuddering, falling apart, like he said he would. And I’m supposed to put him back together. Have to remind him he can be okay. That there’s not only the past, but also a present and a future.