His hand closed over mine, flattening it against his chest.
"About us."
"Us? There is no us."
"Maybe there should be."
Gut. Punch.
And while it should have been a relief, since I was clearly wondering about an us as well, my body did something unexpected.
It surged with adrenaline.
But not the good kind.
Not the kind like when you were at the top of a rollercoaster and about to surge downward.
Oh, no.
This was the kind that you got when you were in traffic, and someone ran the red, and you didn't know if you could brake in time. The kind that jolted through your system, making your blood seem to rush faster, your skin feel like it was crawling, your heart speed to bursting.
Panic.
This was what people meant when they said they had panic attacks.
I was having a panic attack.
Me.
Of all people.
And it was terrifying.
And fear made me angry.
"No," I said even though it seemed impossible with the pressure I felt on my throat, a tightness that was nothing like the excitement of being choked. This was suffocating.
"Stop being so fuckin' stubborn, and think about it for a minute."
"No," I said again, pulling my hand from under his. I needed to get away from here. Before I made a fool of myself. And passed out. It sure felt like I could possibly pass out. Or cry. Because my stupid body was bouncing from one overwrought emotion to another seemingly all at once. God, I really could cry. That would be completely humiliating. I didn't cry. I mean, maybe only a handful of times in my entire life. I certainly couldn't do it in front of Sugar. "Move," I demanded because he was in the way of the door.
"Peyton..." he tried, tone patient.
"What kind of badass biker wants to have the talk anyway? You're supposed to want to fuck bitches and drink whiskey. That's it. Not look for commitment. Why are you trying to ruin a good thing?" I asked, shoving at him, catching him off-guard until he moved to the side so I could yank the door open.
"Seriously?" he asked, voice raised, following me into the hall. "That's your move? Walking away. Don't be such a chickenshit."
"I'm not a chickenshit. I'm not interested," I shot back, not able to face him while I lied. All I could think of was getting out of there.
"Bullshit."
"It's not bullshit!" I maybe, sort-of, possibly shrieked as we made it into the doorway of the common room. "I was very clear about this, Sugar. Right from the beginning. Don't be mad at me because you can't follow the fucking rules."
"Don't be mad at me," he said, getting close, his voice lower as he ducked his face closer to mine. Lower, but no less angry. "Because you don't have the balls to admit what is happening here."
That hurt, actually hurt.
And that was the final straw.
I needed to go.
Now.
"Nothing is happening here," I insisted, choking on the words as I turned and became the epitome of the chickenshit... and ran. Literally ran out of there."Whoa, what's the matter?" Jamie asked later when I walked in from work.
While the panic attack had let up sometime between leaving the compound and parking at the library, the mood had stuck with me. And, horrifically, the urge to cry.
"Stupid fucking men," I growled, throwing my purse on the chair and reaching for the bottle of wine, uncorking it in warp speed.
"Okay, never mind," Jamie said, taking back the cup she had been getting me when I tipped up the bottle to drink straight from it. "Are we talking the sex as a whole, or one in particular?"
"He tried to have the talk with me," I said between chugs.
Drunk.
Drunk sounded good right now.
I had made it through a shift of answering questions Google could have easily answered, shelving books with embracing couples, and shooing making out teenagers from the corners of the library.
Without screaming at anyone.
I earned all the alcohol.
"There are a lot of talks, babe," she said, head tipped to the side. "The safe sex talk. The 'it's time to start using toys' talk. The it's over talk..."
"He wants more," I said, feeling my belly twist.
"Figured that was coming. And the problem is?"
"I don't."
"Okay. I love you," she said, giving me her serious voice. "So, you know I am saying this because of that. But cut the shit already. It's fine to be scared, to feel unsure. It's not okay to lie to yourself and everyone around you."
"I don't do commitment, Jame," I said, shaking my head, feeling the wine seem to settle heavily inside, the way alcohol always did when you used it to try to drown an emotion you didn't want to feel.
"Remember when you gave Savvy a bullet and she said she wasn't someone who used toys. What'd you tell her?"
Damn Jamie and her elephant memory.