“Yeah,” Whip says, accepting a beer. “Life’s pretty fucking grand, ain’t it?”
In that moment, I feel as close to normal as I’ve been in months. There’s only one thing missing. And while we’re eating pizza and arguing whether Dean’s ’67 Impala is the best muscle car ever, I slip my hand into my pocket and curl my fingers around my phone. I don’t pull it out and text her.
But I want to. I’m aching to. And that’s not good. She’s already dangerously close to becoming an addiction. Add all these tender, protective feelings she’s bringing to the surface, and I’m just asking to have my heart stomped on. I’m not going to become a shadow of my mother, always wanting someone who doesn’t want me in the same way. Not going to happen. I refuse to go down that road with Brenna.
The fact that she’s considering leaving Kill John hit like a hammer to my chest, cracking it open in a way that’s far too exposed. If she leaves, nothing will be the same. And I have this ugly, twisting feeling that she will. That part of her wants to go.
For my own good, I have to keep my distance. Somehow. Some way.
Good luck with that, man. You’re already screwed, and you know it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Brenna
“You’re visiting LA, aren’t you?” the woman in the seat next to me asks.
If you fly enough, eventually you’ll be seated next to a talker who insists on engaging in conversation no matter how deep your nose is buried in an eBook.
I set my e-reader down. The woman next to me appears to be in her early thirties and sports a tan that, short of using chemical sprays, I’ll never hope to achieve.
“How’d you guess?” I ask.
She shrugs, flipping a length of silky blond hair over her shoulder. “You’re all Sex and the City high fashion—love the boots, by the way.” She gives my knee-length floral print boots an appreciative glance. “Whereas if you were from LA, you’d be wearing couture loungewear and sneakers on the plane.”
I can’t help but smile, given that she’s wearing pale pink couture loungewear and pristine Pumas. “I’ll have to go shopping for some good loungewear while I’m there.”
“I have a boutique on Melrose.” She hands me a card that conveniently appears in her hand. “Stop by, and I’ll hook you up.”
So, this is a sale. I tuck the card beneath the protective cover of my e-reader. “Thanks…” I move to read again, but she keeps talking.
“You visiting someone? I’m Valerie, by the way.”
“Brenna. I’m going for business.”
Valerie sighs and takes a sip of a now-watery pink cocktail resting on her seat tray. “I went to New York to visit a guy. Thought he might be the one, you know? The sex was off-the-charts good.”
I nod, not wanting to talk about sex but not knowing how to end this conversation without coming off as totally rude. It never fails to amaze me how some strangers will tell you anything about their lives.
“We’ve been going back and forth, visiting each other for a couple of months. We started talking about maybe picking a coast and making it permanent. But when I got there this time, he was like a totally different person, all distant and cold. He insisted nothing was wrong, it was all good.”
Her eyes go wide as if she’s imploring me to understand. And I do, because I’ve heard some version of this story before. I’m beginning to think almost every woman has lived it at least once.
“Last day, he’s all, ‘hey baby, I’d love to cuddle, but I’m not feeling so good, you think you can run on down to the pharmacy and get me some aspirin?’”
“He told you he had a headache?” I find myself asking in rising outrage.
She nods, her nostrils flaring in remembered annoyance. “And like a sap, I was so sympathetic. Of course, I’d get it for him. Only the fucker insists that I have to go to this one pharmacy twenty blocks away.”
“No.”
“Yes. Oh, and he wanted soup from a specific deli too.”
I turn in my seat, leaning in so Valerie can speak her pain without being overheard. But she doesn’t seem to mind anyone else hearing. In fact, her voice rises. “Took me nearly two hours, and when I got back?” She pauses, lifting her hand as if to say she needs a moment. “That fucking fuckface was kissing some skank goodbye at the door.”
“That was…” I struggle. “Fast. And…wow.”
Valerie sits back with a huff and toys with the toggle on her hoodie. “He wanted to get caught. I swear, they all want to get caught. It’s the easy way out for them.”
“I’m sorry.” I don’t know what else to say. I’ve seen the wreckage of too many failed relationships, and nothing anyone says seems to take away the pain. This is why I avoid them. Why risk the hurt when the majority of people out there are total assholes?