Oh, God. Oh, Christ.
A wave of panic washed over her. She'd tricked herself into coming here by deluding herself that she was in control. But that was bullshit. She wasn't in control. She wasn't even close to being in control.
She couldn't do this. She really couldn't do this.
She'd walked away from Spencer five years ago, and she should have stayed away. Far, far away.
"On the bed, baby."
She opened her eyes to see Spencer leaning against the doorframe, studying her. She tried to keep her expression neutral, but it was hard, so damn hard to fight the panic that was rushing up, threatening to spill out in tears and wails to please, please, please let her go home.
No. She could do this.
She had to do it.
"On the bed," he repeated, and she nodded, then took a tentative step that direction. She would not cry. She would do it. She owed him this. After all, this was the bargain they made.
She pressed a hand to the mattress, intending to climb onto the bed, but then his voice stopped her.
"Wait. Stand up."
She did as he said, standing stiff as he came closer. She flinched a little, expecting his touch, but he stood arms length away, those dark eyes once again raking over her, undoubtedly imagining all the things he was going to do to her when she was tied to that bed and helpless.
"Get dressed," he said, and for a moment she saw the Spencer she used to know reflected in those eyes.
"I--what?"
His expression cleared, unreadable once more. "The meeting's at nine tomorrow at The Fix, right? I'll see you there." Then he walked out of the room without waiting for her to answer.
Brooke didn't remember her knees giving out, but the next thing she knew she alone in the room, her butt planted firmly on the plush, carpeted floor as her heart pounded with relief--and her head wondered what the hell it could mean.
Chapter Eleven
He was a shit. A heel. A goddamn horrible person.
He'd been so fucking angry with her. Had he actually believed that torturing her would make it better? All it had done was make it worse because he'd seen her pain and it had just about ended him.
Do you really hate me that much?
Her words echoed in his mind, each syllable like a fucking knife to his heart. Because no, he didn't hate her. And maybe that was the trouble. He wanted to hate her--Christ, he'd wanted to hate her since the day she walked away--but she was too far under his skin, too deep in his system.
He loved her--at least he had once. Maybe he still did. He didn't know anymore. All he knew was that he damn well didn't deserve her. Never had.
Fuck.
He scrubbed his palms over his face and leaned back against the Drysdale Mansion's moldering wood paneling.
He shouldn't have come here tonight. Honestly, he wasn't sure why he had. He should have known it would only make the craving worse. A longing for the home he'd never have, the past he couldn't fix, and the wom
an who'd never be his.
With a sigh, he tilted his head back, wishing for another time, another place. Another set of goddamn circumstances.
But he knew better than to believe in hopes and wishes. They so rarely came true.
Sometimes they did, though.
He thought of Richie, so close to the surface of Spencer's thoughts, as he always was when Spencer was in this house. Or feeling lost and angry.