Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148220 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 741(@200wpm)___ 593(@250wpm)___ 494(@300wpm)
“Nah, there ain’t no telling Gunner’s brothers apart. So listen. You seem real determined to blame yourself for this. But let me share my part of the blame, too. We’d have made it out of there if I hadn’t lost my temper and stopped listening to you.” Already she’s shaking her head, saying something about how of course I’d trust Gunner over some strange girl, but I pull back, make her meet my eyes. “See? You did your best with what you knew. I did my best with what I knew. Now you tell me: what more is anyone supposed to do?”
“I don’t know.” She wipes her face again. “There’s probably an answer. But I’m too drunk to think.”
Nah. Her drunk side runs a little silly and a little sad, but doesn’t slow her thinking much. “That’s what you wanted tonight, yeah?”
She nods. Then says in a whisper, “You don’t have to be sorry, either. For the cabin. I liked making you feel good.”
And she was also carrying a whole load of guilt over something that wasn’t her fault. But I can’t say that because it’s my brain that’s suddenly working damn slow, my cock hard as fuck and all I can remember is how she felt. How she tasted. Because making you feel good is a hell of an understatement about the effect she has on me.
That effect means I can’t risk dwelling on how she liked it. Not while I’m still wrecked, knowing she’d have sacrificed herself for me. Not while I’m aching so bad and need’s clawing me up inside. Because I just might ask her to make me feel so damn good again.
While she’s drunk and grieving. And while feeling a guilt that she shouldn’t be feeling.
Her waxing philosophical is a whole lot safer. So I tell her, “I figure that if there really is someone up there, they’re telling me I ought to be sorry. But they aren’t waiting to punish me. They’re doing it now.”
She scowls. So damn cute. “Punishing you how?”
“By letting me be so close to you.” But not having her. It was only yesterday that I was last inside her but feels like forever. But it hasn’t been forever. Instead, forever is what’s stretching out ahead of me. “And getting a real clear look at how I don’t deserve you.”
Her chin wobbles. “Being with me is a punishment?”
Ah shit. Me getting philosophical is a big mistake, if that’s what she comes away with.
“No, Maxine.” I catch her face in my hands. “You’re the best thing.”
She pulls in a trembling breath—then goes utterly still, gaze fixed on mine. The flush drains from her skin, leaving her deathly pale.
“Maxine?”
She begins shaking. “Can we leave? Right now?”
“Yeah, but—what’s got you spooked? Did you see someone?”
“No.” Her eyes are wide, her pupils huge. “I don’t know. I just want to go. I need to get out of here.”
“Then we’re going.” Not trusting those whisky legs to hold her, I haul her up into my arms, gaze sweeping the bar. No one that wasn’t here before. Yet she’s shivering and her breaths are shallow, panicked as she buries her face against my neck.
Then I hear it. That fucking jukebox. Playing one of Elton’s greatest hits.
“It’s just the music, angel,” I murmur against her ear as I’m carrying her out. “Just the music. You’re safe.”
Maxine lifts her head, listening. Then buries her face in the crook of my neck again, half crying and half laughing against my throat. “That stupid tiny dancer.”
Tension easing, I ask her, “You want me to go back and get the rest of that bottle?”
“That’s okay.” Her reply is a laughing shudder against my skin. “I think I’m done.”
Yeah, she is. Nodding off by the time I cross the short distance to our motel room, and fully asleep before I put her to bed—then lay down with her, because I’m still watching over her. I shouldn’t still be holding her, too.
But I can’t fucking help myself.
33
Maxine
Okay. I’m done crying. Mostly.
Stone is so wonderful, I don’t know if that makes it easier or harder. If it was just me, alone, I would have no choice but to buck up and get through. But he’s here taking care of me, giving me someone to lean on…and maybe I’m letting myself cry more than I would otherwise. Because I know he’s here to hold me when I need him to.
But no more. Crying’s over.
My head’s a fuzzy mess when we ride out in the morning, my stomach full of the greasy breakfast that Stone swore would help with a hangover. I don’t know if the food helps anything, but holding him does—and so does sitting on that rumbling, powerful bike with the scenery flying by. For the first time since leaving the Cage, I feel both safe and free. And even though the hurt and grief are still a dull and constant ache in my chest…just being here with Stone—and knowing that we’re doing something about Papa—makes it all so much easier to bear.