Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 91507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91507 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
The absence of their new connection shouldn’t hurt so much. He definitely shouldn’t feel so troubled by the loss of something that had never really been his in the first place.
Rafe combed a hand through his hair. “I’ll, uh, I’ll drive you home then.” His voice was off. It had zero confidence.
Hop didn’t seem to notice. “No,” Hop said, zipping up his pants and sounding as lost as Rafe felt.
“It’s cold as fuck outside and it’s late.”
Hop backed away toward the door, still not meeting Rafe’s eyes. “No.” Like that was all there was to it.
“Hop...”
Another step. “No.”
Fuck, Rafe despised that word. He threw his hands into the air. “What the hell? Is that all you can say?”
Cold blue eyes finally met his. “No,” Hop said. The corner of his lips tipped mockingly.
Rafe’s fist tightened. He’d liked it a whole lot better when Hop had whispered, yes, sir. But there was also something about his defiance that fired Rafe’s blood. The challenge of it made him wonder how much sweeter it’d be when he bent Hop to his will again.
Because he would.
There was no doubt in his mind.
“Funny,” Rafe said without any humor.
Hop looked away, body tense and distant.
“At least let me help you clean up before you go.”
Hop rubbed at his mouth, smearing his lipstick. There was a box of tissues on the end table near him and he pulled one out to wipe the stain. It hardly helped at all.
He still looked ravaged.
“Is it bad?”
Yes. “No.” Rafe closed the distance between them, ignoring Hop’s eye roll. He swiped two tissues. “Let me help, pet.”
“Don’t.” Hop jerked his head away just as Rafe reached out.
“Why?”
“I’m not your pet.” Hop spun on his heels and crossed to the door. “I’m not your anything.”
Then he swept the door open and slammed it behind him.
* * *
Hop unlocked the apartment door as quietly as he could, but it still echoed like a gunshot in the quiet of early dawn. He pushed it open, not bothering to flip on any lights. He’d already caught a glimpse of himself in the dressing room mirror as he’d left the club. He didn’t want another.
But as soon as he shut and locked the door behind him, the kitchen light came on.
“Are you just getting in?” His mother stood in the archway lit from behind in an ominous silhouette.
“Yeah, sorry if I woke you.” Hop ducked his head and did his best to hide in the depths of his hoodie and scarf.
He should have known it wouldn’t work. Marla Lovette had eagle eyes, especially when it came to her only child. He heard her shocked gasp before he registered that she’d moved enough to allow the light to spill across his face.
“Oh God, what happened to you?” Then her hands were on him, pushing the hood away, tilting his head this way and that.
Hop pulled his head out of her hands. “Nothing.” Okay, that sounded a little too defensive. She was not the one he was mad at. He needed to remember that.
“Don’t tell me nothing, when you look like you’ve been crying. There are bruises on your neck and your lips are...oh.” All of a sudden her hands dropped and she stepped away.
Hop rubbed his hands over his face, partially to hide the tremors but also to cover the evidence.
“I...uh...” She sounded weary and scared. Scared for him. Because of him. “Again?”
“I’m tired, Mom.” He did not have it in him just then to try and convince her he was fine. Not this time, when he was still so shaken. He headed toward the hall, but she grabbed his wrist as he passed.
“Honey, please.”
“Mom.” Hop sighed. “It’s not the same.”
“How can you lie so easily? You think, after twenty-five years, I can’t tell the difference? I raised you.” She beat her chest to emphasize her point and it just about killed him.
He took both of her hands in his. “I’ve told you this before. It’s consensual. Can’t you just trust that I’ve got it under control?”
Her eyes, so similar to his own, wandered his face, no doubt cataloging each and every streak and smudge and bruise. “I want to.”
“But?”
“I just keep picturing you in that hospital bed, pale and lifeless—the wounds and the blood.”
“Fuck, Mom.” He hugged her. “I’m so sorry I put you through that, but it was seven years ago. I’ve changed. You can see that right?”
He felt her nod against his chest.
“I’m being careful.” Her arms tightened around his waist. “I’m sorry I keep letting you down.”
“You haven’t.”
“I have, a lot, but I’m not running anymore.” Except he had twice now. When things had gotten too real, he’d fled.
With a resigned sigh, she said, “I guess that’s all I can ask, then. I raised you to be yourself and live life your own way.”