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Which I do, and I think I have a breakthrough with my issue. I’ll have to test it more, but . . .
I sit back and breathe, cricking my neck.
While I solved that problem, my subconscious worked out another one. Why I’m so all over the place? Why I’m so upset?
It’s not because he doesn’t want me. It’s because I think he treated me badly. I’ve had men who’ve been mean when we broke up or just used me for sex, and I’ve also done that too. I’ve had them let me down gently.
It’s not how he told me straight up it was a one-time thing.
It’s worse than him using me, treating me badly, or any of the rest.
He wants me. I know that.
Tizio just decided I’m not worth the effort of dealing with more sex with me. The complications like my brother’s feelings on it—which, if you ask me, aren’t an issue—aren’t worth his battling them.
I get it, Fallon can be scary. He’s overprotective. He’s also in prison, and Tizio can hold his own against him.
He doesn’t want to.
And me?
Tizio’s worth it to me.
I want more.
Chapter Thirteen
TIZIO
I’m the fucking worst, and I know it. If anyone saw my less-than-stellar performance outside the fucking arts building with her, I’d be berated, and for good reason. Prick doesn’t begin to cover or excuse my behavior.
“All good?”
I don’t lift my gaze from the iPad to Diego. “Fucking dandy. Wendy’s there.”
“We ready to roll?” Nicolo asks.
We’re wearing all black, suits and T-shirts. It’s an asshole look, but that’s what we are right now. A kind of notch between De Luca business and totally private. Douche sometimes works wonders and plays into fucking expectations that do all kinds of heavy lifting.
Most people expect heavy muscle to dress like this and use their fists over their brains. It’s harder to reason with that, and seemingly a lot more scary.
I want scary.
“Yeah, we are.”
He puts the SUV in gear and pulls out into traffic.
I also want to spill some fucking blood.
It doesn’t take away from my being an ass to Karlee, who most definitely didn’t deserve it. I don’t do this shit wrong. Whether it’s letting someone down, ending it, or just setting up the rules and managing expectations, I don’t do it wrong.
Until Karlee.
With her, I’m about as eloquent and put together as a fucking budding men’s rights teen.
I’m embarrassed for me.
“You all right there, man?” Diego asks. “Only Karlee was out for blood and?—”
