I didn’t move. He didn’t move. The light over the stove hummed.
“I’m too old for you,” he said.
“I know that too.”
“And you’ve been through enough without me adding to it.”
“You’re not adding to anything.” My voice came out steadier than I expected. Clearer. Like this was the one thing I was sure of in a life where I wasn’t sure of much. “You’re the only person who’s ever looked at me and seen me. Not what I’m worth, not what I can do for someone, just me. So don’t tell me you’re too old or too complicated or too whatever the thing is you’re about to say, because I don’t care about any of it.”
His expression changed. The control he kept so tight I sometimes forgot it was there buckled, just for a second, and what came through was heat and want and the effort of holding both back. His hands tightened on the edge of the counter behind him.
“You don’t know what you’re asking for,” he said. Like the words had to fight their way out.
“Then show me.”
He moved. Fast, deliberate, his hand coming up to the side of my face, his palm against my jaw, his fingers sliding into my hair. He held me there for one second, his eyes on mine, giving me the chance to step back, to change my mind, to be the sensible one because he clearly couldn’t be.
I didn’t step back.
He kissed me.
He kissed me like he’d been thinking about it for every day I’d been here and the thinking had used up all his patience. His mouth on mine, hard, certain, the taste of beer and something underneath that was just him, his hand in my hair tipping my head back, his other hand finding my hip, pulling me closer until my body was flush against his and I could feel the counter behind him and the heat of him through his shirt and the way his breath came ragged when I opened my mouth against his.
I grabbed the front of his shirt with both hands. Held on. Because my legs weren’t working anymore, and the sound he made when I kissed him back, low, rough, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, went through me like a current and turned every coherent thought I had to static.
He pulled back. Barely. His face an inch from mine, breathing hard, his hand still in my hair, his grip shaking.
“Fuck,” he said. Quiet. Almost to himself.
My hands were still fisted in his shirt. My mouth felt swollen. My entire body was humming at a frequency I’d never experienced before, a full-system overload that made the two fumbling college encounters I’d had feel like they’d happened to someone else in a different lifetime.
“Bed,” he said. His voice was wrecked. “Your bed. Alone. Now.”
I let go of his shirt. Stepped back. My legs held, barely.
“Goodnight, Doc.”
“Goodnight, Evie.”
I walked down the hallway to my room on legs that felt like they belonged to somebody else. Closed the door. Leaned against it. Pressed my fingers to my mouth, where I could still feel him, and stared at the ceiling and tried to breathe.
The world had cracked open and I didn’t know how to put it back together. But I didn’t even want to.
FOUR
DOC
I lasted two days after the kiss before I stopped pretending I had any control left.
Two days of avoiding the kitchen when I knew she’d be there, of finding reasons to be in the workshop or the office or anywhere that wasn’t within arm’s reach of her. Two days of sitting at the bar during her shift and not meeting her eyes, which was a special kind of torture because she kept looking at me with that expression. The one that said she knew exactly what I was doing and she thought it was bullshit.
She was right. It was bullshit.
Meanwhile, the club had problems I couldn’t ignore. Angel called church on a Tuesday morning, the table full, coffee instead of whiskey because it was early and the mood was business.
“Second inspection in two weeks,” Angel said. “Licensing board wants a full review of the premises. Someone’s leaning on the county.”
“Who?” Razor.
