“He wanted you,” he growled and that cold crept deep.
“I know,” I whispered.
“Dixon had a thing for you,” he told me.
“I know.”
“We fought about him,” he reminded me.
“I know,” I repeated.
“You told me it was only me.”
Oh God. Oh shit. What the f**k was this?
“It was only you.”
“You bled for me.”
Oh God. Oh shit. What the f**k was this?
“Creed –”
“Did he lie or was it you?”
I shook my head. “This is… we’re not going over this. This shit is history.”
“Can’t fake blood,” he told me. “You gave me your virginity.”
“Yes,” I snapped. “What is this shit? Of course I did. You know that. Jason Dixon? What the f**k are you talking about?”
He didn’t answer. He asked, “Who did it to you?”
“You know. You told me you knew,” I reminded him.
“He told me it was Dixon.”
“It wasn’t Jason Dixon.”
“He told me it was Dixon,” he repeated.
Jesus, God, what was this?
“It wasn’t Jason Dixon.”
“Then who was it?” he demanded.
“We’re not doing this, Creed,” I fired back.
He leaned forward and roared, “Who did it to you, Sylvie?”
“Richard Scott did it to me!”
He stared at me a beat, two, three then he turned and I watched in fascination as the muscles worked in his back while he threw a powerhouse punch to the wall, his fist going clean through the paneling, the drywall, everything.
He pulled it out and twisted back to me as I deep breathed.
“Do not make me waste my f**kin’ time diggin’ for it,” he growled.