The fucked-up thing is that I actually woke up happy. Sugar had been beside me in bed, sheets dropped down, baring her tits as she breathed softly in slumber. She looked so fucking soft and inviting that it was almost impossible to pull away from her. But I figured after waking her up for a nice breakfast, we could get down and dirty with a second round. If the way she kept waking during the night and rubbing her bare ass against my dick was any indication, she would have been into it.
Instead, I’m sitting here in this fucking car, strangling the steering wheel as she sits beside me, still as stone.
I feel like the smallest twitch will make all of this creeping black fury inside me loose, and she’ll run. She’d be smart to. It hasn’t been this bad in months. Every second of the morning has been devoted to this shoddy charade that I’m not a hair’s width from completely fucking losing it on something.
Because I know exactly what I need to do here.
I’ll fight it. Of course, I’ll fight it. Fighting is what I do. I’m doing it right now, by just sitting beside her, taking her back home. I’m clutching onto it with a death grip, even though I don’t have a plan for keeping her safe.
I didn’t even have a plan to keep the fucking kittens safe. I’m the last person who should be surrounded with all these sweet, breakable things. That’s my problem. I don’t plan enough. I’ve spent weeks twisted up with worry about what might happen if Heston found out about her, but I didn’t chart a single fucking map through dealing with it. Now, here I am, staring down the cold reality of the on
ly thing that’ll make it go away.
I try the counting thing again.
I breathe.
As if the bridge is an invisible line, the instant we arrive on the other side, Sugar’s urgent voice rings out, breaking my concentration. “Pull over.”
“What?”
She pitches forward, hand on the dash. “Pull over. Right here, just…” She inhales, jaw clenching, and oh shit. “Pull over, please just pull the fuck over.”
I hit the brake, shooting out an arm protectively before easing the SUV onto the shoulder. She’s out the door before it even completely stops, bending at the waist and losing her breakfast.
I fumble out of my seatbelt, but she holds out a hand, stopping me as she heaves again. I crane forward to watch her, frozen with indecision. It’s not long though before she straightens, pushing her fingertips under her eyes, wiping at the wetness that’s collected there. I clumsily open the glove compartment, pulling out tissues and wet wipes.
Stupidly, I ask, “Are you okay?”
Sure, she looks fucking peachy, vomiting her guts out on the side of the road. Real fucking bright.
When she turns back to the car, she looks paler than usual, taking four small paces back to the SUV. She closes the door with a soft click, staring straight ahead.
“So, that happened.” When she takes the tissues and wipes from me, her hands are unsteady.
Distracted enough from the static of my anger to make a shitty attempt at levity, I try, “My cooking was that bad, huh?”
She fists a tissue, holding it up to her mouth. “I think it’s just… nerves.”
“Look,” I start, feeling it beginning to build again. “I won’t let Heston fuck with you. You shouldn’t—”
“Heston?” She gives me a confused look, and it suddenly occurs to me that this has nothing to do with him. It’s a startling revelation—like how could the earth possibly go on spinning when my brother is out there, ruining everything? For a second, it makes no sense to me. How could anything be worse than what happened back in that kitchen? The math doesn’t add up. Obviously, everything is about me and my bullshit.
Fuck, maybe I actually am self-centered.
“You’re nervous about being back home,” I realize, feeling like a goddamn moron.
“Being home.” She says this in a daze, like she’s testing the words in her mouth, trying to make them fit. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
Grimacing, I twist, digging around in the back seat for a bottle of water. It’s cold from being out here all night, and I watch her press it to her forehead. She hasn’t told me much about her life here. I know her dad was killed in action. I know he left her that Mustang. I know her mom remarried. I know Toby Fuckface exists.
And I know she’s absolutely fucking covered in scars.
But she hasn’t said yet how she got them.
Not like it takes a genius, anyway. The ones on her back are from being whipped. The ones on her thighs… those took me longer to suss out, but I have one exactly like it on the outside of my bicep—the result of a fight outside the Nerd two years ago.
It’s a cigarette burn.