Page 73 of Cash

That shouldn’t have caused me to feel any sort of way, yet there I was lying next to Cash with my insides feeling funny and my fingers tight around his.

I couldn’t get used to this.

Not feeling safe and protected.

Not lying next to Cash.

Not holding his hand.

And I had to wipe the memory of him being sweet to Cara from my memory.

I heard Cara giggling before I smelled the bacon.

Which meant I woke up smiling, in pain, and with my stomach reminding me I hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning.

Which further meant, I gingerly hauled my ass out of bed. Stopping twice on my way to the bathroom. The first time was to get my balance when halfway across the room I started to get dizzy. The second time was in the doorway of the bathroom so I could hold on to the frame and take in Cash’s bedroom.

It wasn’t what I expected.

Buckskin-colored walls.

Bulky, expensive-looking furniture—all of it matching. Two nightstands, two dressers—one long, one tall—and a headboard that looked like it was made out of recycled barnwood.

There were three crazy cool abstract pieces of art hung above the long dresser—you had to look carefully to see it, but in the midst of the brush strokes and blotches of paint there were three horses running, manes wild in the wind. A smaller one was perched over the tall dresser—the face of a bear snarling could be made out. However, Cash had deviated from the wildlife theme for the painting over the bed. The colors were more vibrant, including slashes of yellow in what looked to be a woman’s hair flowing off the edge of the canvas. I could also make out the silhouette of her face, the lines of her body. The longer I stared at it, the more the image came into focus. A woman lounging back on her elbows, head tipped back—no facial features. The curve of her breast hidden behind layers of paint and brush strokes. Same with her bent knees—closed and cocked to the side.

I glanced down at the bed, seeing the cream sheets and the comforter was a kickass shade of muted blue that I was sure had an equally kickass name like Timber Wolf, tangled together.

Before I dipped into the bathroom I took another slow perusal of Cash’s personal space. The room wasn’t huge, but it was big enough that all of his furniture including a leather chair positioned in the far corner fit, making the room cozy but not cluttered—a well put together cozy room, not at all how I thought a badass’s room would look. Which I had to admit made me curious about the rest of his house.

All thoughts of abstract paintings and Timber-Wolf-colored bedclothes flew out of my mind when I got a good look at myself in the mirror. I ignored my bloodshot eyes and tangled hair—though it must be noted by tangled I meant total rat’s nest to the point I might need to cut some of the knots out. But right then the angry purple-and-blue bruising around my throat took precedence over the prospect of losing chunks of my hair.

I lifted my chin, taking in the fullness of the marks. Back in the day when I was still Blair McKnight, socialite, I had a dab hand with a makeup brush. I hadn’t lost that touch as Lore when I was working a mark that required a woman’s touch. Not that I’d ever slept with a target, but men tend to get stupid around a pretty woman—one showing skin with a face full of expertly applied makeup and heavily smoked out eyes, paired with fuck-me pumps didn’t make men stupid—it made them biddable. And a compliant man was an easy mark.

But even in my heyday of makeup application, I wasn’t sure I possessed the skill required to conceal all that purple and blue. And just like the abstract paintings on Cash’s wall, if I stared at those marks closely enough, I could make out a thumbprint under my right ear, fainter lines across my throat from the webbing of a hand, and four vertical marks on my left side—a visual representation of the term ‘going for the jugular.’

I decided to stop staring at myself and use the facilities. Once I was done and back in front of the basin, I kept my eyes on my hands as I washed them. I didn’t so much as glance in the mirror when I went in search of a toothbrush. After some looking, and coming to the realization Cash might’ve tricked his bedroom out in a super cool masculine cozy way but he didn’t keep extra toothbrushes lying around. Without hesitation, I pulled his out of the matte black holder, loaded it up, and started scrubbing. I did this thinking he had a kickass bathroom. I stopped thinking about his bathroom when during my mental review I flashed to the big, jetted tub—big as in two people could comfortably fit. I didn’t want to think about Cash in the bathtub. No, scratch that, I didn’t want to remember what Cash looked like soaking in a tub. And I really didn’t want to remember all that came about after I’d caught him.

I blanked my mind of all things naked Cash, spit, and rinsed. Wiping the magnificence that is Cash from my mind was only made possible by the pain searing through my lower back when I bent to clean the toothpaste from my mouth.

After I breathed through that, I went in search of something to wear. Surely Cash had to own a turtleneck. After a fast but thorough look through his closet I found no such article of clothing. Not wanting to snoop through his dressers—I mean, a closet was one thing, opening drawers seemed like an invasion of privacy Cash wouldn’t appreciate. I pulled a hoodie out of a built-in shelf.

I had yet to figure out how I was going to get it over my head without causing extreme agony, when Cash walked in.

And stopped.

I waited for him to move father into the room, to say something, do something, but he just stared.

No, that wasn’t right—his eyes did a toe-to-top sweep, then they locked with mine.

Suddenly I was well aware I was standing in Cash’s bedroom, in nothing but an oversized shirt. A t-shirt I was avoiding thinking about—not only whose it was but who had put it on me.

Unable to handle the way his unveiled gaze was taking me in any longer, I had two choices—start to squirm under his scrutiny or break the silence.

Squirming was an unacceptable show of weakness.

I broke the silence.

“Cash?”