things. Just kicked him out. Ended it all. Right there.
And when he’d realized how badly he’d fucked up, he hadn’t bothered to fight back.
What else could he have done? Stayed there and listened to her trash him? Watch what she’d felt for him grind to dust in her eyes?
Nope. He couldn’t do it. Didn’t want to watch that happen.
So he’d left. Flown back to Miami. Come here. Licked his wounds, had a few beers and gotten good and pissed. Time did that. Reduced the pain to duplicity. Alcohol helped.
Six months of trying to go straight, down the toilet because of one mistake. One major-ass, fuck-up-your-life mistake he didn’t have a clue how to fix.
Go back and tell her the truth.
He grimaced at Lauren’s words. Lifted the third beer—or was it the fourth? Drank long and deep.
Didn’t really matter what the count was up to. He was on the road to getting good and wasted tonight anyway. Go back? After everything Kat had said to him, and the way she’d looked at him like he was nothing more than gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe that she couldn’t wait to scrape off? Going back would be the equivalent to slicing open a vein and bleeding out all over the floor. Of course, the fact Lauren was right, and that it was the only thing he could do, only made him want to speed up that whole get-shitfaced-drunk-and-forget-the-whole-nightmare process.
Then his cell rang.
He glanced at the display—unknown number—and considered letting it go to voice mail. He wasn’t really sure why he answered. Only knew he regretted it the moment he flipped the phone open.
The rest was a blur. Him rising, his beer bottle hitting the ground, shattering at his feet to spill cold, golden liquid over his shoes. Lauren rushing out of the house to ask what had happened. Slade’s voice—of all people—echoing in his head. And a blinding pain right beneath his sternum.
It was the pain that brought his eyes open now. He felt it as sharp and real as he had then. Staring up at the water-stained ceiling, he gasped in a breath and rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest to ease the sting.
And then had a major-ass moment of confusion.
Not Lauren’s house. Not the blue sky he’d looked up at when he’d finally opened his eyes on that cold, stone patio after going under like a pansy.
No, now he was in a room. It was dark. A sliver of light formed a crescent shape on the wall straight ahead. A poorly painted beach scene hung at an angle directly in his line of sight.
He lifted his head, eyed the headboard that should have been behind him but was now near his feet. Then remembered the dive motel he’d paid cash for. The shower. The sheets. The bedbugs. The sex.
Kat.
Warmth spread through his whole body, slid down his chest. Pooled in his groin until he was hard all over again. He tipped his head, noticed he was alone and shot a look toward the bathroom. The door was closed, but he could just hear the hum of the fan running and saw light burning where wood met worn carpet.
Bathroom break. Smart. He needed one, too. When he could move.
He eyed the clock and noted it was almost six a.m.
Last night had been a really bad idea. Monumentally bad. The last thing he needed was to get twisted up with her again. Six years ago it had nearly killed him. Except, lying here now, with her scent all over his body and the taste of her still lingering on his tongue, it didn’t feel half bad. It felt…oddly right.
He kicked his foot out from beneath the sheet, absently wondering when he’d had the sense to pull the damn thing up. Wondered if she’d done it for him, or if he’d just used her body as his blanket until she’d finally climbed out of bed this morning.
Shiiit. Really bad idea.
He rubbed both hands over his face. Then looked back at the closed bathroom door. She’d been in there a long time.
Reaching out a hand, he touched her side of the bed only to find the sheets were already cold.
Something in his stomach tightened as he sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He really didn’t want to surprise her if she was on the toilet, but he also didn’t like the direction of his thoughts.