Play Rough (Black Rose Kisses 2)

I sit back down and poke at my food, taking a few bites but not really tasting any of it.

Several minutes later, Sloan shoves his plate away and finishes his water. He doesn’t make eye contact with me for the rest of the meal, and when the waiter comes over to offer dessert, we both decline in unison.

“Just bring me the check,” Sloan says, and it’s civil, but just barely.

If the waiter thinks it’s a strange departure from how he acted before, he doesn’t say anything. Instead he nods and hurries off, coming back just a bit later with the black check book and dropping it off.

We don’t really talk again.

Sloan pays, we get up and leave, and I know it’s going to be a very awkward ride back to the house.

15

The car ride back to the guys’ house is as quiet as the one to the restaurant, but it’s a heavier silence this time. Neither of us even so much as look at each other, and Sloan seems to shift between being sad and being pissed off every five seconds. I can feel the tension filling the car, but there’s nothing sexual or flirty about it.

This is just fucking uncomfortable.

We get back to the house and head inside, and I debate with myself about what to do now. I know I should try to fix whatever it is that happened. Maybe try to seduce him so some progress gets made, and maybe he’ll tell me some things I can use.

But I don’t know if I can. With the others, it’s so much easier because I can still hold out hope that they don’t know what happened. That they had nothing to do with it.

With Sloan? I saw him pull the fucking trigger.

And even if it might help me on my path to vengeance, I’m not sure I’m physically capable of sleeping with his murderer, no matter how strong the chemistry between us is.

I turn to head upstairs, and Sloan follows me. When we reach the second floor, I expect him to slip past me to head to his own room, but he seems to be dragging his feet.

His demeanor is intense—not that that’s anything new. It’s usually intense, but this seems like that sadness from the car instead of the usual anger and surly rage he gives off most of the time.

I stop in front of my door, and he stops too, coming to stand in front of me. He doesn’t speak for a long moment. He just stares at me, unreadable thoughts churning behind his eyes.

I look back at him, not sure what else to do. When he reaches a hand up to stroke his fingers down my cheek, I don’t pull away, even though my pulse picks up.

“Maybe if we’d met in other circumstances,” he murmurs, half sounding like he’s talking to himself. “Maybe things could have been different. I don’t know. But I think something amazing could have happened between us.”

I want to tell him to fuck off, that there’s no way that would ever have happened, but he’s right, and I hate it. I would have totally fallen for him if things were different. If he hadn’t done what he did, and I didn’t know what he was capable of.

He’s exactly my type at his core. A little intense, handsome as fuck, capable and confident. Even the fact that he’s strong-willed and stubborn would’ve appealed to me under the right circumstances. I would have been crazy about him.

I’m not even sure what to say in response to his words, so I just step back, putting some distance between us. Sloan gazes at me for a moment longer, then turns and heads to his room, closing the door with a firm click.

I sigh and go into my own room, standing there with my back against the door, still feeling the phantom touch of his hand on my cheek. Whenever he gets gentle like that, it’s so strange, and even stranger is how it makes me yearn for him even more.

Strange and stupid.

Giving myself a little shake, I push away from the door.

I take the dress off and leave it in a pile on the floor. I half want to kick it under the bed so I don’t have to see it or think about the date anymore, but I don’t. I’ll pick it up in the morning.

My pajamas feel like a blessing when I pull them on, the tank top and shorts well-worn and comforting. It’s late enough that going to bed isn’t that weird, so I do, pulling the covers up around me and bundling myself into a little cocoon.

Of course I can’t sleep.

I lie there, trying to shut my brain off, trying to think of nothing, but it doesn’t work. Every time I close my eyes, I see things I don’t want to see, and my mind is racing in a constant loop, making me feel restless.

After about two hours of this, I give up, flinging the covers back with a grumble and getting to my feet.

The house sounds quiet from upstairs, so I creep out of my room and head for the stairs, going down to the living room to turn on the TV. I slouch low on the couch and turn the volume way down so it doesn’t wake anyone up, falling back on my old habit of watching infomercials and random late night ad spots to calm my brain down.