Bad Wolf (Wild Men 4)

What the hell am I doing?

Crossing the street, we hurry to my building and I unlock the door, glad Seb doesn’t jump out of the shadows at us. Thank fuck for small mercies.

Uncomfortable heat spreads down the back of my neck as we ride up the elevator, and my heart is hammering. I’m so fucking pissed at myself for slipping like that. Because having her near, pretending she’s my girl, is not real.

It can’t ever fucking be.

Still, she hasn’t run away yet, I think as I unlock my apartment door and push the door open for her to enter. I eye her as she steps by me, my gaze instantly locking on the curve of her waist, on her ass. It’s not the end of the world if I let her tape that cut closed.

Then she goes. I’ll call her an Uber to take her home, and I’ll drink until I forget her taste on my tongue, or pass out, whichever comes first.

I limp inside after her and close the door, all the pains that had faded in the adrenaline rush—of saving Gigi’s friend and then walking away with Gigi and escaping in the fantasy of being with her—returning.

She’s walking in a circle in the living room when I turn toward her again. “You live here?”

“Yeah, why?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t… look very lived in.”

What is she talking about? Distracted, I glance around, trying to see the place through her eyes. A TV set. Worn furniture, a couch covered in a blanket to cover the holes, a table covered in take-out containers.

“Shit. Sorry for the mess. I wasn’t expecting any visitors.” In fact I rarely have any, and most of the mess was left behind by Sebastian, but I can’t heap all the blame on him.

Then I turn toward the kitchen, and through the door I see empty bottles huddled on the counter and wince.

Jeez.

“What? Oh no, don’t worry about that.” She shrugs. “I meant mostly, you know —bare walls, bare tables. Nothing of yours.”

“I don’t own anything,” I mutter, the back of my neck heating for a different reason this time.

Embarrassment. Just fucking great.

“What do you mean?” She’s watching me, I realize, and I start moving, to avoid talking about myself. Gigi always had a way to make me talk, even when it was the last thing I wanted. She pulled words out of me that hurt like razorblades, and she didn’t even know.

Didn’t know I hadn’t talked to anyone in years until she came along. That her appearance in my life had been my own personal little miracle.

And then she was gone, proving miracles don’t exist.

Even more importantly, miracles don’t happen twice, much less with the same girl. So I really should put the flicker of hope out before it fucking burns me down to ashes.

The sooner this is done, the better. I start to shrug off my jacket and stop for a moment, burning pain ripping through my lower back.

Fuck, ow.

Starting again, I carefully slip the sleeves down my arms, feeling blood running, hot, down my hip, soaking into my pants.

“Wait!” Suddenly Gigi is there, behind me, tugging the sleeves off all the way. “You’re making it worse. Let me help.”

Making it worse is my talent, I think but keep the quip between my gritted teeth. No, I won’t talk to her. Won’t tell her what my nightmares are about. What I remember, what I forgot, what I lost.

Or that losing her cost me most of all.

“Your jacket is ruined,” she says. “Your sweater and T-shirt, too, and…” Her voice goes all hushed. “Crap.”

“What?” I twist, trying to see. Am I bleeding to death? Can she see my goddamn liver? “What is it?”

“It’s pretty deep. But I think some butterfly bandages, and it should be fine. Do you have any?”