Pretty Perfect Toy - Angel Payne Page 0,32
I am likely to get from the man—and though I acknowledge it with a gracious incline of my head, there is no stopping the thoughts still whirling within. Nor the confusion about why we are here.
Why we are really here.
Frustration takes hold. Pushes out a breath from my pursed lips.
Finally, however secretly, I admit it.
Despite all of his confessions last night, I still do not have all the pieces of this.
Of him.
Nor should you want to…remember?
But I do. I love him. Whether fate will allow me to keep doing that for four months, four weeks or four hours, it is a thorn in my psyche not to have all of him. To have gone through all of last night, having discovered the awful secret of Turret Two, but know that part of him is still trapped in that damn tower. Is lashed down to the anger, fear, and dysfunction that drove Lily to take such a huge part of him—
But that she was not the first.
I suspected it when we were still in the turret. Had it confirmed during every moment of our passion, even after the walls tumbled from his composure and he finally exposed the complete truth of the pain Lily had dealt. Something else remained. A deeper pain, with a thicker scab to rip free. Cassian had hovered over it, longing to break it open for me—
Until he could not.
And that stiffness gripped him again. Pulled him from my body then out of the room, back into its darkness—
Until he fought back.
Railed against it by driving a fist through a giant pane of glass.
Why, Cassian?
What ghost tortures you worse than the woman who murdered herself and your child?
*
Cassian
“Good gravy. You are one gigantic chunk of stubborn, aren’t you?”
I turn over my extended left hand, adding a growl to my glower. “Just give me the goddamn shirt.”
“Mr. Court—”
“I’ve been putting on my own clothes for a long damn time. Give. Me. The. Shirt.”
She huffs. Flings the fabric at me, deciding to add an eye roll—doubling it up as an excuse to once-over my bare torso. I’d chuckle, if I weren’t so perplexed. The nurses in this place must be required to take a secret online training course: How to Give Court Shit And Get Away With It. The drill sergeant who tended my ass two months ago must have aced it. This little blonde, reminding me of the lead “Bella” from that girl acapella movie Mishella made me watch last week, must have written it.
She indulges a sweetly sadistic smirk as I fumble into the shirt—fighting rockets of pain launched by my stitched and bandaged hand. “So how’s that feeling, Cool Hand Court?”
“Awww, come on.” I grit it while noticing the shirt is inside out. Too late. Already halfway done. “No fair buttering me up with the best of King Cool.”
“You call that butter?” She adds a sharp psssh. “Cool Hand was just Newman’s warmup for Butch Cassidy. You know that, right?”
I finally jab my head out the shirt’s neck hole. “Guess I just need a Sundance Kid.”
“He’s right outside.” She nods toward the door while swiping a finger across her smart pad. Enters some information with efficient taps. “Certainly likes to play the part, doesn’t he? Strong, silent, grouchy?”
My lips quirk. “Doyle enjoys accessing his inner outlaw.”
“Hmmph.” But the flags of color across her cheeks negate it. Oh, yeah. Another female munches dust because of my friend’s brooding sexuality. Seems the best explanation—aside from the sadistic angle—for why she makes me work for the follow-up information.
“Is there…anyone with him?”
The hmmph gets a repeat—accented by another smirk. “Well, listen to you, mister. Trying to keep it smooth with the hotshot businessman vibe while panting for your woman?”
“She’s not—”
But hell, how I savor the words.
My woman.
As if on cue, the door opens. Mishella’s worried, wonderful face appears.
My woman.
It hits me harder than before—sounding just as right. Feeling even better in my head.
Just as quickly, she retreats back by a step. “Désonnum,” she murmurs to acapella queen, before quickly translating. “I am so sorry. They told me everything was finished—”
“And it is.” I extend my left hand. “Come here, armeau.”
I need you.
I pull her close, inhaling the rich vanilla in her hair. “I…missed you.”
But you know what that really means, right?
She tilts her head up, her tiny smile confirming that she does. Smooths a hand over my chest, flattening it above my heart—which passes at least ten seconds in double time, drawn at once to the magic of her touch.