Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

I'm crying in earnest now, and I tug off the beautiful ring and press it into his palm.

"Sugar, no--"

"You need time, Lyle," I say. "I can't help--I don't know how to help. You have to get past this."

"How?"

I shake my head. "Deal with it. Own it. Jump over it, swim under it. I don't know. I wish I did."

I brutally wipe the tears from my cheeks. "All I know is that I love you," I whisper. "But your fight is inside you, Lyle, not with the world. And right now, I really have to go."

27

The phone kept ringing, and Lyle didn't give a shit.

He wasn't interested in talking to the reporters who were intent on hounding him any more than he wanted to talk to his friends.

All he wanted to do was get lost in his misery. And, frankly, he was doing a damn fine job of it.

He'd been sitting in the condo for two days, drinking Scotch, eating Bugles, and listening to country music with the blinds closed, the only light coming from the small fixtures underneath his kitchen cabinets.

He had the script for M. Sterious on the table in front of him, and right beside him was the script for Arizona Spring. And the only reason he had his phone at all was because Sugar's picture was on the lock screen, and every time someone called or messaged him, the screen flashed and her picture popped up.

And he had the ring. Hell, he was wearing the damn thing, although it only fit the tip of his pinkie finger. He had to keep it close. Had to keep her close.

Because he wanted her.

That was the bottom line.

He just plain wanted her, and he wasn't sure if it was too late. Wasn't sure if he had the strength to do what it took to get her back.

A key rattled in the lock, and he scowled. "Dammit, Nat, I told you to stay the fuck away this week."

"She follows instructions," Riley said. "I don't."

Lyle closed his eyes, then rubbed his temples. He really didn't need this shit right now.

Then again, maybe he did.

"I'm a fucking mess, man."

"You got that right," Riley said as he took in the scene. "You look like some alien spawn settled in to nest."

Since Lyle couldn't really argue with that, he just flipped his friend the bird.

"Seriously, man, Laine's worried."

"Did she tell you that?" A flicker of hope sparked in his chest.

"I take the Fifth. I don't think she wants you to know that she called me."

"Right." Fuck.

"You want to tell me why I'm playing go-between? You had a good thing with her. How'd this bullshit with the press screw that up?"

"It didn't," Lyle said. "The screwing up was all done by yours truly. Every good thing in my life, and I drove a skewer right through it."

Except even as he spoke, he knew that wasn't actually true. He screwed up his reputation--which was his own damn fault--and he screwed up his lucrative thing. His popular thing.