by G. K. Brady
She raised her head, her eyes brimming. “It was a horrible mistake.”
“So what did he do? Call you for some lame reason, then put the moves on you? That was the night you canceled on me, wasn’t it? He was your ‘last-minute thing.’ You blew me off for a classic booty call.”
His hurt and anger collided with the realization he was a bystander, not some betrayed lover. What right did he have to be outraged? Even so, she’d been dishonest, and he was pissed—and then some.
She straightened and folded her arms over her chest. “You’re wrong. What’s more, I don’t think it’s any of your concern.”
He jerked his head back as if she’d slapped him. “Whoa. Really? You’re always spouting about being friends. Well, friends have one another’s backs. And they don’t turn tail and run, by the way.”
Tears spilled freely down her cheeks, and she dropped her forehead on her fist.
Ah shit, don’t cry. Please. Don’t. Fucking. Cry. Part of him wanted to pull her in for a hug, but another part burned to lash out.
Anger simmering inside him, he softened his tone. “Look, I care what happens to you. And the reason I know what he was doing is because I was that guy. It’s a universal language men get. What he did to you is the kind of crap I’ve pulled my whole adult life. Maybe he’s cagier than I was, but he still did it.” And you fucking fell for it.
He slid the coffee cup back and began twisting it around and around. Keep a lid on it, Beck. “I hated those goddamn addiction recovery classes, but a few things did sink in, like you no longer do drugs, but you’re still an addict. It’s no different for jerks.”
No response other than soft sniffles. He began fidgeting. Rambling came next. “Maybe I should start a support group. Jerk-aholics Anonymous. Hello, my name is Beckett, and I’ve been a jerk-aholic since … well, since I was born. Step one. Embrace your inner asshole. Announce it to the world. Step two—”
Her head came up, and her mouth compressed into a tight line. Her moist eyes sparked under angry brows, like something from a sci-fi movie. She was suddenly all warrior woman, all “I’m going to grind you into pieces and spit your ass out.” Like she even has the right.
“Beckett, shut up! Don’t you get it? I let this happen.”
Not what he expected. Was her flash of anger directed at him? At Adrian? Or at herself? He had no clue. And in that moment, he didn’t give a fuck because his barely bottled up emotions were uncorking.
In contrast, the heat in her gaze seemed to cool, and her voice steadied. “I should’ve stopped it, but I didn’t.”
His gut screwed tighter, like wet sheets on a spin cycle. He pushed back from the table and rose. “Yeah, well, I can see it’s time for me to leave.”
Pausing in the kitchen doorway, he glanced at her. Her badass self had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, and she looked miserable. Jesus, had he done that? He hadn’t helped, stupid fuck that he was. Some of the wind left his sails.
He pivoted to leave.
She let out a whimper. “It’s not what you think.”
He looked over his shoulder. “What’s not what I think?”
She fixed her green-fire eyes on his. “Nothing’s changed—the divorce is still on.”
He turned. Now what? Get the hell out of here? Stay and fight through it? He had no idea. All new territory. He couldn’t even sort out his own chaotic feelings. Like a yoyo on a master’s string, he plummeted into an abyss of his own anguish only to be wrenched back up to Mega-Pissed-Off-World, lurching along the way at Support-Andie-Station.
Up, down. Up, down. Herky-jerky.
Tapping his fingers against the door frame, he struggled to tamp down his fury and hurt, praying what she said next was powerful enough to soothe the zips and zaps exploding in his bloodstream. It wasn’t.
“I didn’t tell you I was going over there because you get so aggravated whenever I mention him, and I wasn’t planning to be there more than a few minutes anyway.”
“So what you did is somehow my fault now?” He crossed his arms, waiting, his anger surging, his stomach roiling like an angry sea.
“That’s not what I said.” Her shoulders sagged on a sigh. “I only went to get some of my stuff back. I didn’t intend to spend a minute longer than I needed to.”
She pressed a tissue to her nose. “He pulled out a bottle of wine we bought for our ten-year anniversary, and he was … God, he cried, and I felt so bad for him …” she trailed off.
Beckett’s back went ramrod straight, as though a bolt of lightning fused it. “Jesus! You couldn’t see what he was doing? He manipulated the hell out of you—and you let him. Your words, not mine. And then you gave him everything he wanted. Even after everything he did to you, you felt sorry for the motherfucker, and you fucked him out of pity!”
How the fuck could she do that?
Her waterworks were full-on as she stared at him, but he didn’t care. This crazy bullshit that had him coming and going six ways from Sunday was done. Over.
He thundered out.
CHAPTER 20
Tempted
Holding up two fingers, Beckett slid onto a stool and nodded when Lexa pointed at the Breckenridge bottle. Maybe he could get the bad taste out of his mouth and erase all memory of what a fucking idiot he’d been. Hell, if Andie was handing out mercy fucks, he should’ve been first in line. But no. She had to go and sleep with that pompous asshole.
“Where have you been, handsome?” Lexa placed his double on a napkin.
He raised his glass and took a slow sip. “Working. Out of town.”
“Playing hockey?”
“Nope. Slaving at a real job.”
“That’s too bad.”
“It pays the bills.”
Lexa moved away to take more orders. Beckett’s eyes were roving over the crowd when a woman across the bar caught his eye. She was slinky, with dark hair pulled off her striking Egyptian features in a ponytail that went halfway down her back. She wore a short skirt, and when she crossed her long, high-heeled legs, she flashed him.
Egypt motioned Lexa over. They bent their heads together; Lexa glanced over her shoulder at Beckett, her lips curling up on one side. She nodded at Egypt and stepped away. Beckett continued surveying the bar, but every time his gaze wandered back to Egypt, her black eyes were fixed on him.
Lexa brought him another double.
He pointed at the drink. “Did I order this?”
“No, she did.” Lexa motioned to Egypt, who licked her lips. Slowly. “Name’s Victoria. Go introduce yourself, cowboy.”
“Is she with you?”
Lexa smirked. “I wish. I’m not her type. But apparently you are, you lucky dog, and if you’re a good boy, I’ll bet all my tip money she’ll be with you tonight.”
He picked up his drink and sauntered to the stool beside Egypt. What did Lexa say her name was? “This seat taken?”
“It is now.”
“Thanks for the drink. That was a nice surprise,” he laughed. “I’m Beckett, by the way.”
“I know.” She laid a hand on his arm and leaned in, giving him an eyeful of tits he was pretty damn sure weren’t entirely created by nature. “I’m Victoria,” she breathed in his ear. “The surprise is that you’re alone, and that more women aren’t buying you drinks.”
Wow. Okay. His ego picked itself up and began dusting itself off.
She continued in a low purr. “Of course, as often as I’ve seen you check your phone, maybe you left someone at home?”
“Work.” He shrugged and slipped the phone in his pocket. “No more work.”
“Oooh, lucky me.” She smiled, slow and seductive.
They spent the next little while drinking and dancing, and Lexa kept the drinks coming. Veronica—or was it Valerie?—liked the slow ones, and though there weren’t many, she made sure they danced them all. Hell, after a few more cocktails, she danced the fast ones slow, grinding against him. He didn’t complain.
When the chick h
eaded to the ladies’ room, Beckett and Lexa eyed her swaying ass.
“That girl’s into blow. I can hook you up,” Lexa offered.
He sipped his drink, picturing hiking up the miniscule piece of leather stretched across Egypt’s ass, arguing with himself. Buying Lexa’s coke didn’t mean he’d have to partake.
His lungs deflated a bit. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”
He lost track of time—being shit-faced helped—and found himself in an elevator with Victoria-Valerie climbing him like he was a fourteener, her tongue halfway down his throat. It was smokin’ hot. Or it should have been. Maybe he needed the cocaine after all to counteract the booze and get his engine revving.
When she led him into her apartment, she showed him the bar and excused herself. He poured their drinks and dumped the cocaine on her glass coffee table. As he was chopping it and arranging it into neat lines, she emerged, her hair down, and little on other than lacy scraps and her very high heels.
Wow. He was in for one helluva night. Just what he needed.
Wasn’t it?
.~ * * * ~.
Paige startled awake, curled in a tight ball on her couch, where she’d passed out hours before from exhaustion. Her nose was stuffed, and her head ached. So did her heart. Rising up on an elbow, she reached for her phone: 2:12 a.m. No texts. No missed calls. Not that she’d expected to hear from Beckett, but she’d hoped his anger had blown over and he’d boomerang back. She’d seen his temper flare before, but nothing like the gale that had stormed out of her house.
She flopped back on the couch with an exhale, wishing for the millionth time that she could unwind the calamity she’d set in motion with one reckless moment.
Despair, guilt, and hollowing loss consumed her. She was a child again, awash in crippling inadequacy. The ghosts of her broken past encircled her, bearing witness to her pain. Adrian. Mom. Her dad, whoever he was. Even Grandma had left. And now Beckett.
Beckett.
He’d dubbed it exactly what it was, hadn’t he? A booty call. That had transformed into a mercy fuck, or a good-bye fuck, or whatever the hell label one wanted to slap on the dirty deed. Nothing could pretty it up. And she’d never seen it coming because she’d let Adrian maneuver her again, and this time, he’d used her to try and manipulate Beckett.
Her aching heart weighed heavily in her chest. She should have been the one to tell Beckett—not Adrian, the bastard—but she’d missed her chance when she’d chickened out.
It had stung like blazes to have her transgressions leveled at her, especially by Beckett. She’d been angry because his crass words had condemned her and ripped through her. But after he’d walked out, they’d sunk in, and God, he’d been right. She’d been the one with the power to stop this circus, but she’d wound up the catalyst when she’d hopped into Adrian’s bed.
She’d made a mess of absolutely everything.
Stifling a cry that erupted from deep inside her chest, she hugged herself. Hot tears came, transforming into sobs. How could she expect Beckett’s forgiveness?
Suddenly, a thought struck her, and she sat up and swiped her wet cheeks. How can I expect forgiveness if I don’t ask? Grabbing her phone, she ticked off the reasons she shouldn’t text him. It’s late. He’s sleeping. He’ll be grumpy. But she needed to make this right. Now. She tapped out a message.
Beck, I’m so sorry. This hurts like hell. Can I hit replay? Forgive me?
Her finger hovered over the send button. She pulled in a deep breath and hit it.
.~ * * * ~.
Beckett wandered dark sidewalks, a dead-of-the-night, sub-freezing chill fingering its way under his jacket. Maybe the cold would help him get his bearings, clear his head, shake out the cobwebs. Was he even headed in the right direction? He snorted out a bitter laugh. How would an aimless, clueless, dumb fuck like you know?
Questions rolled around in his head like loose marbles, bringing him no closer to solving them. What the fuck is wrong with me? What the fuck am I doing?
Traffic lights flashed late-night reds and yellows, though no cars were on the road to heed them. Just him, trying to navigate their blinking warnings.
Nothing had gone the way he’d wanted. Nothing was working. He hadn’t conquered the old habits. How easy it had been to backslide into the same damn hole. And he couldn’t even get that right anymore. Why? Andie. She was dead-center in his shit-storm. Her and her second chances.
He blew out a steamy cloud.
An image of her teary eyes and trembling lip floated through his brain. Fuck. She hadn’t deserved his outburst. Well, not the full force of it anyway. He’d been so pissed, so caught up in blinding anger, that he hadn’t listened to what she’d said. She was going through with the divorce; sleeping with her asshole husband had been a “big mistake.” Hell, Beckett was an expert at mistakes, and she’d never judged him. Why couldn’t he allow her this one?
Because it fucking hurt, that’s why.
He turned a corner and realized he was a good two miles from the condo. How far had he walked? Not far enough because he was still muddled as hell. He shrugged his collar a little higher on his neck. Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to sharpen his mental faculties after all; it only reminded him how poorly he’d played tonight.
Frigid air seeping beneath his clothing, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. His phone was vibrating. He pulled it out and stared at it. And blinked. Warmth pulsed through his bloodstream, and he barked out a laugh as he re-read Andie’s text.
In that moment, he understood where he was supposed to be, and his own ache receded as though he’d been dosed with Novocain.
.~ * * * ~.
The slam of a car door jerked Paige awake in the dead of night. Loud, insistent knocking followed, and adrenaline jolted her to the window. Beckett stood on her porch, broad shoulders hunched. Stunned, she let him in. Without a word, he drew her against his hard chest.
She sniffled. “I’m so sorry for everything, Beck. I made a huge mistake, and I was embarrassed, and I took it out on you. I feel so bad.”
“I know. Me too.” He laid his cheek on her head. He smelled of bourbon and Old Spice, and he held her, just held her close. She slumped against him, wrapped up in those safe, strong arms.
She pulled away and looked up at him. “Were you … Did I interrupt something important?”
He drew back, his warm breath stirring her hair. He stroked it and whispered, “Not a damn thing.”
They sank into the couch, her cheek pressed against his jacket. Her hand slipped beneath and rested against his cotton shirt. Soon she closed her eyes and drifted off in a contented fog.
When she roused, she lay lengthwise on the couch, her head on a cushion and a big body spooning hers in the dark. Beckett’s jacketless arm was draped over her, his rhythmic breaths falling on her neck. She couldn’t remember how they’d fitted themselves together, but it felt good. It felt right. His chest heated her back, and his familiar scent enveloped her, mixed with the alcohol oozing from his pores. She wrapped her arms around his and closed her eyes.
The next time she woke, the sky had lightened to pearl gray, and a phone was ringing. Beckett jerked behind her and groused in a muzzy voice. She thought she heard a “What the hell?” and a “Leave me the fuck alone.” He launched a pillow in the general direction of her office. She heaved herself onto an elbow, but he pulled her against him, murmuring unintelligible words. She lay very still until his muscles slackened. As she attempted to disentangle herself, his arm tightened, and he threw his massive leg over hers.
“Beck, you awake?” she hissed.
A few mumbly words, punctuated by a distinct no.
“Beck, I need to use the bathroom.”
With a groan, he relented. When she returned, he sat upright, cracking his neck. She perched at the edge of the coffee table. His hand raked his rumpled hair, making it stick up like a rooster tail. Was that a glint of silver threaded among his nut-brown strands? His half-opened eyes fixed on her, and he w
ore a sleepy little smile. Goodness! Was it possible the man could be more attractive in this state than when he was all dolled up? It was. He was downright adorable, and her heart tugged. When she recalled how he’d rushed right over, it tugged even harder.
He stretched his long arms over his head and yawned. “You know what this means, right?”
“What what means?”
“We slept together.” He looked quite pleased with himself.
“Well, I guess we did, technically speaking.”
“Nothing technical about it. Did you know you talk in your sleep?”
Uh-oh. “I do? What did I say?”
“You said, and I quote, ‘Beckett, you handsome devil, please ravage me.’ I swear.” He held up his hand in the familiar scout salute.
“Ravage? I think it’s ravish. Are you a seventeenth-century stud now?” She threw a pillow at him, which he caught and threw back, smacking her in the face. A fit of giggles bubbled up and tore loose from her belly.
With effort, she gulped them down and swiped moisture from her cheeks. “Thank you for coming, Beck. I felt horrible about how we left things.”
“It’s spilt milk under the bridge. I’m good. Are you good?”
“I’m good.” She stood, but he grabbed her and hauled her onto his lap, encircling her in an iron-armed grasp. She pushed against his chest; she could have been pushing against a rock wall.
He nuzzled her neck, sending shivers to the tips of her fingers and toes. “Damn. You always smell so good. Can I buy you breakfast?”
“I can’t this morning. I’ll cook you dinner tonight if you want to watch a game or a movie. And I know this sounds really ungrateful after you rushed over here and cuddled me all night, but I need to kick you out before Katie shows up, or she’ll have a heart attack.”
“I’ll leave on one condition.”
“Which is?” She squirmed on his solid thighs, but he held her fast.
“T.J. just got suspended, and he’s headed back, so I’m going to the cabin after a quick trip to Chicago. Come up. Stay the night—all the nights—or not, if you can’t swing it, but at least come for a day. We’ll go hiking if the weather’s decent.”