The Downside of Love (The Blue Line Duet Book 2)

by Meghan Quinn

  I don’t want him to leave and go back to Ryan’s.

  And now, as he looks at me with his expectant eyes, anxious and yet craving, I can’t stop myself from wanting more. I yearn to hold him, to bury myself in his arms and never let go.

  I’m coming close to crossing a line, and I have a feeling if I give him a hug tonight, I’m going to have a hell of a time not crossing it.

  “Well, have a good night,” I say, and instead of walking over to him to give him a hug, I awkwardly give him a quick wave. From the knowing smirk on his face and the way he’s sauntering toward me—all ripped and . . . and . . . God . . . and fine as hell—I feel like my wave isn’t going to do the trick.

  And yes, I admit he’s fine.

  Jet-black hair, chiseled jaw, a body to die for, and biceps that make you want to hang on to for a ride. He’s the entire package, and I tell myself there is nothing wrong with admitting it.

  He steps toward me, and his masculine scent hits me first.

  I gulp.

  No.

  Not going to act on this attraction.

  Not even a little.

  This is just a crush, that’s all.

  Harmless.

  “What happened to my good-night hug?” he asks, his voice so deep, almost rough to the ears.

  Acting dumb, I say, “Oh yeah, duh. Forgot about that.”

  I didn’t. Because I look forward to this moment every single night. Crave it.

  Knowing there is no way of getting around this, I try to harden my heart as I step up to him. I will my body to act normally.

  He wraps his arms around me, pulling me in close, his skin soft against my cheek, his arms protective. It’s as if when I’m around him, nothing could ever harm me. In an instant I’m brought back to the park, the memory of our intimate position hitting me in the chest, his voice filtering through my brain on replay. Soft and so sweet.

  Instead of stiffening, I release a long breath and melt into his hold, eyes shut, arms firmly clasped around him. I hold on to him for longer than I should, getting lost in his warmth, in the feel of his velvety-soft skin against mine. Leaning in, he presses a kiss to the top of my head and says, “Sweet dreams, Rory.”

  Letting go, he gives me a gentle smile and retreats to his twin air mattress.

  My heart spasms in short palpitations, watching him get comfortable, the covers only going up to his waist as he stretches his hands behind his neck, his biceps like boulders, flexing with his movements. Slowly, I get into my bed, forcing myself to turn away, to look anywhere besides the golden bronze of Stryder’s perfectly chiseled chest.

  Turning to my side, I stare at my nightstand, and note the soft hum of my fridge filling the silence. Usually I don’t notice the sound as much, but some reason, tonight I’m hyperaware of the silence between Stryder and me.

  There is so much going unsaid, so many things I want to talk about, that I want to ask him. When he sang to me—saying he wants to hold my hand, and then gripping it for the rest of the night—I wanted to know how long. How long has he wanted to hold my hand? Since my operation? Since he moved in?

  On the drive home from the park, we didn’t speak of the intimacy we shared, or the way Ryan eyed us curiously. What we did talk about was the concert and the genius idea to make s’mores. He was relaxed, carefree, laughing, and so freaking happy that it stunned me he could be so easygoing when there was chaos raging inside me.

  My thoughts scream for answers, my body itching to crawl in under the covers next to him.

  Just when I think Stryder might be asleep, he says, “I don’t think I like Brad for Ryan.”

  Okay, that came out of nowhere, but I’m grateful for the conversation, grateful for the pull from my thoughts.

  “Why?”

  He shifts on the bed and when I give in and look over to him, he has his head propped up by his hand, his torso flexed, the sheets kissing the hem of his shorts that are slung incredibly low on his hips, making it look like he’s almost naked under the covers.

  Sweet Jesus.

  Lie back down, Rory.

  “She can do better than him, that’s all. He seemed like a douche.”

  He did seem like a douche. A nice douche, but a douche nonetheless.

  “Ryan has always had a hard time picking the good guys.”

  Stryder makes a noncommittal sound and lies back down, the soothing sound of the mattress moving a familiar noise I’ve come to know by now.

  “I texted her earlier, to let her know I’m staying at her place tomorrow.”

  My breath stills as I try to process his words.

  He what?

  I mean, I know we’ve joked about having shared custody of Stryder and I know that he’s stayed at my place the past week to help me after surgery, but I just figured after what happened tonight, maybe he’d stay longer.

  Maybe I read the entire situation completely wrong.

  “Unless you need me to stay and help you?” he quickly asks.

  “Oh, uh, no, I’m good,” I answer awkwardly.

  “You sure?”

  “Yup.” I nod, even though I’m sure he’s not looking at me.

  I don’t want him to leave, to go stay with Ryan. I don’t want to wonder what they’re doing, what kind of fun they’re having, if they’re talking about me. Have I been bugging him? Crowding him in ways he hates? Does he want to get away from me?

  My throat starts to grow tight, my emotions running a mile a minute, my anxiety growing.

  The need to cry hits me hard for some godforsaken reason, square in the chest, tears prickling at my eyes.

  Don’t cry, Rory, for the love of God, don’t cry. Not with him here, not where he can hear you, because when he asks what’s wrong, there’ll be no answer.

  Because I don’t know why I’m on the verge of tears, why I’m so beyond emotional right now.

  Maybe this time apart will be good. I can gather myself, get back to regular Rory. Because this heightened-senses Rory, the one that notices every little thing about Stryder, from the way he playfully winks, or the smirk he wears when he’s joking, or the way his large hand feels holding mine? She needs to be excused from the situation.

  He’s making things way too complicated and hard. I’m starting to think of Stryder as someone he isn’t. Mine.

  Chapter Seventeen

  STRYDER

  I drop down on the couch and take a deep breath.

  I might have bras and thongs hanging all around the apartment, and I might have nearly put my hand in a bowl of old popcorn on the couch when I sat down, but for the first time in over a week, I can actually breathe.

  There was no doubt in my mind that after the concert in the park, I needed to get the hell away from Rory, and not because I wanted to, but because I needed to.

  I crossed a line, a noticeable one.

  And I think she could sense it.

  The music, the fucking night with the stars above us, her warm body pressed into mine. I was inches away from kissing her, from tilting her head back and fusing her lips with mine. I was bordering dangerous territories, and when we were driving in the car on the way to the apartment, all I could think about while Rory was gushing about the concert was what Colby might say. If he saw us tonight with my cheek pressed against hers, my arms protectively wrapped around her, my hand holding her hand, fingers entwined . . . I know if the shoe were on the other foot, I’d be pissed.

  That’s why I sent a text to Ryan letting her know I would be back at her place for the next week, telling her I wanted to give Rory some space.

  Thankfully, she was okay with that.

  And the last two nights, I’ve been able to get my head on straight because Ryan has been at Brad’s place. Not my favorite choice for her, but to hell if I’m going to say anything since she’s letting me stay at her place.

  Who knows, maybe he’s not the douche I really think he is.

  Kicking my feet up on the coffee table, I lean back on the couch and switch on the TV
, turning to the Rockies game. My boys have been playing well this year, with hopes of the post-season in their future.

  I scoot the popcorn bowl Ryan left on the couch to the coffee table so I don’t knock it over, and spread my arm over the back of the couch. What I wouldn’t give to take my shirt off right now, but I would never do that with Ryan. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind, but it wouldn’t feel right. Hell, I shouldn’t even take my shirt off around Rory, but I can’t help that. I fucking love the way she looks at me when I’m shirtless around her. It’s like she’s trying to memorize each and every contour of my body.

  It’s sexy as fuck.

  It’s another reason why I’ve lost complete control over the situation, and why I’m watching the Rockies game at Ryan’s apartment next to a stale bowl of popcorn rather than sitting at Rory’s dining room table, asking her about her day.

  The door to the apartment opens and not even turning my head, I say, “Hey Ryan.”

  “Hey Stryder. Did you eat dinner?”

  “Nah, you?”

  “Nope, thankfully Rory brought some.”

  Rory?

  And there goes my peace.

  Sitting up straight, I turn my head in time to see Rory carrying in a casserole dish and a bag of groceries. I rush to her side as quickly as humanly possible and take the bag from her.

  “You shouldn’t be lifting things.” I take the casserole dish as well.

  When I take her in, I catch the roll of her eyes before she turns to shut the door. “I can carry things, Stryder. It’s not like I had a hernia.”

  I take the food to the kitchen, setting the warm dish on the counter and peeking in the bag to see salad fixings, which I stick in the fridge.

  “I’m going to go change real quick,” Ryan calls out, tossing her purse to the floor and flipping her shoes off her feet during her rush down the hall to her room.

  Rory is wearing denim shorts and a black T-shirt that says “I’m the cat’s meow.” Her hair is pulled back, exposing her neck, and a light amount of makeup decorates her eyes, making the green pop. She’s so fucking beautiful. I’ve missed seeing her so much.

  She looks so damn good, and just like that, air is stolen from my lungs once again.

  We haven’t talked since Monday morning when I was getting ready for work, and it feels like an eternity rather than two and a half days. Four hugs . . . I’ve missed those too, and yet I doubt she’ll hug me here.

  Bringing the attention to the living room, her brow crinkles when she says, “You’re watching the Rockies game?”

  “Yeah,” I drag out. “Is that okay?”

  “Of course, you just . . . I don’t know. You never watch it at my place.”

  Because I’d rather talk to you than watch TV. Because I’d rather spend my time learning more about you, not wasting it staring at a TV.

  “Wasn’t sure if you got the channel,” I lie. Because I fucking can’t tell her that I’m hopelessly in love with her and would do just about anything to hear her soft voice for hours on end.

  “I do,” she answers, fiddling with the casserole dish.

  “Okay,” I say awkwardly, the tension between us building and not in a good way.

  We don’t feel natural right now. I knew I fucked things up the other night by letting myself get too handsy, and we’re feeling it now. She’s uncomfortable around me, and I fucking hate that.

  “You know, I should let you and Ryan have some time together. I’ll, uh, I’ll go out.” I head to the entryway to put on my shoes when Ryan comes barreling down the hallway, throwing her hair up in a ponytail.

  “Where are you going?” she asks, eyeing me.

  “I was going to go out, give you and Rory some time together.”

  “What? No, she made tuna noodle casserole. You have to stay and eat.”

  “Nah, it’s okay. You guys have fun.”

  Ryan comes up to me, looking like a little spitfire in short pink shorts and matching tank top. The girl has no problem showing off skin. “Don’t be ridiculous. Take your damn shoes off. You’re eating with us.”

  She swats my shoes away and pulls my arm, dragging me through the kitchen to the little dining set in the corner. It’s bigger than Rory’s with four chairs compared to Rory’s two. Personally, I like the two because it’s perfect for us. God, I’m so hopeless.

  Sitting me in the chair, she points her finger at me in a commanding manner and says, “Stay.”

  Knowing Ryan, there is no fighting her, so I do what she says and watch Rory work her way around the kitchen. But what I see makes me swallow hard. Her shoulders look deflated, and her head is bent forward.

  Shit, did I upset her?

  Wanting to make sure she doesn’t think it’s about her food, I say, “Tuna noodle casserole sounds good. Never had it, but it smells amazing.”

  Ryan pulls plates from the cupboard and stacks them next to Rory, who starts heaping servings onto them, along with the salad from the fridge. “Gah, Stryder, it’s amazing. She crunches Doritos on top, giving it the perfect crust. You’re going to become addicted.” Moving to the fridge, she asks, “Would you like a soda?”

  “Sure,” I answer, surprised at how fluently Ryan moves around the kitchen. I’m usually the one serving us.

  Rory brings me over a plate and sets it in front of me, when she glances up at me, I say, “Thank you, looks amazing.”

  She politely nods and moves back to the other plates where she puts them together. She’s too . . . silent. At home, we’d be chatting about our days . . . At home.

  Once we’re seated, Ryan holds her fork up and says, “Dig in.” Not even wasting a second, she scoops up a huge bite and plops it in her mouth, moaning as she chews. “So good. You’ve really outdone yourself, Rory. Thank you.”

  “Oh sure, not a problem. Glad you like it.”

  I take a bite as well, unsure of the whole tuna, noodle, peas, and Doritos combination, but with the first bite I’m pleasantly surprised. It’s really good.

  “Yeah, this is delicious, Rory.”

  Glancing in my direction, she shyly says, “Thank you.”

  This is not good. This isn’t the normal, easygoing Rory I’ve come to know. She seems stiff, unsure, and . . . quiet.

  What the hell did I do?

  “Why!” Ryan moans, holding her card to the air. “Why do I always get paid shit with this game?” She tosses her salary card onto the game board and scoffs at it. “I’m not asking for much here, but more than twenty thousand a year would be awesome. Fucking game.” She takes a pull from her beer bottle and sulks.

  It was Ryan’s decision to play Life after dinner, excited that there was more than one other person to play with, but I’m guessing her excitement is short-lived after the card she just pulled.

  “Let me guess, I’m going to have twins and then get a divorce? Happens to me every time. I should really stop playing this godforsaken game.”

  Just then, her phone rings and when she sees the caller ID, a big smile spreads across her face. “It’s Brad, so I’m going to take this in my room. You guys can keep playing, or not, do what you want, but I’m taking this phone call.”

  Hopping up from her chair, she answers her phone and skips toward her bedroom, leaving me alone with Rory.

  Twisting her lips to the side, she eyes the game board and then takes a look at the time. “I should probably get going.” Because she doesn’t want to be alone with me, I know that’s how this works. I made things awkward so she’s bailing.

  “Do you really have to go?” I ask, hating that she’s going to leave.

  “Yeah, I have some laundry to fold and little things to do around the apartment. I uh, washed your sheets for you. I’ll make your bed. That is, unless you plan on not coming back.”

  “What? Of course I’m coming back.”

  “Okay, I mean, you don’t have to, but if you decide you want to, I can make your bed for you.” She stands from the table and goes to the kitchen where she starts gathering
her things.

  Standing as well, I follow closely behind her. “Rory, are you upset with me?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “I guess I was just surprised that you left, that’s all. I didn’t know if it was something I did or said.”

  “Rory.” I tilt her chin up so she’s forced to look me in the eyes. “I was giving you space. I didn’t want you to get sick of me.”

  “I wasn’t.” Her answer is direct. There is no bouncing around the problem; she gets straight to the point. I like that about her.

  “Okay, well . . . that’s good to know.”

  Christ.

  Her face once again falls flat, and I hate that I’m not good at this shit. I don’t know what to tell her without revealing my true feelings, without telling her that there is nothing I want to do more than go home to her apartment—to our comfortable sanctuary—and take her in my arms, spread her beautiful legs out on the bed, and bury myself deep inside her. And never leave.

  I want to hear my name fall off her lips, while my hips thrust in and out of her.

  I want to know what it feels like to have her trapped beneath my body, her passionate moans urging me to move faster, to drive harder.

  I want to know what it feels like to have her come apart on my tongue, on my cock, to feel her tighten around me.

  But I can’t.

  I’ll never know.

  Because she’s not mine, and she’ll never feel that way toward me.

  Silence falls between us while she searches my eyes for a few beats before sighing and turning away, pulling her casserole dish from the fridge with the rest of her salad.

  “Here, let me help you,” I offer, coming up behind her.

  “I got it, Stryder.” There is a bite in her tone, and for the first time since I’ve reconnected with Rory, I’m nervous things have shifted badly.

  She walks toward the entryway, slips on her sandals, and opens the door. Without turning around, she says, “Will you say bye to Ryan for me?” She doesn’t wait for an answer as she lets the door shut behind her, the click a finality to our conversation.