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She hated police stations. Goose bumps had prickled her skin since the moment she’d walked in. The smell of the place the same as all the others—old paper, stale coffee, and astringent cleaning products. Phones ringing. Lights that were too bright. All of it brought back memories better left buried. She’d been in stations like this one far too often as a kid for minor shit—shit that got her kicked out of homes over and over again. But she’d also spent the longest night of her life in one. She glanced down at her hands, almost expecting to see the dried blood on them. She shivered and rubbed them along her jeans, even though the only thing on them was smudges from the finish she’d used on the chair.
“Sam?”
She jumped at the sound of the voice and then spun around to see Gibson sauntering through the door that led to the back. His cheek was swollen on the right side near his eye and he had a taped-up gash on his forehead, but other than that looked to be all right.
Good. Because she was going to kill him.
He reached her and put his hands on her arms. “Hey, baby, you okay?”
She shrugged out of his grip. “Are you done here?”
He frowned. “Yeah.”
“Good.” She spun on her heel and strode out, not looking back to see if he followed. She pushed open the door and took a deep breath, letting the damp night air wash away some of that police station stench, trying to get her nerves back in order.
“Sam.”
She didn’t pause, and Gibson’s heavy footsteps sounded behind her.
He grabbed her elbow. “Hey, wait up. What’s wrong?”
She kept walking. “Nothing. I’m just ready to get home. We’ve already wasted the whole night.”
Gibson stepped in front her, blocking the sidewalk. His confused gaze searched for answers on her face. “You’re shaking, Sam. Tell me what’s going on.”
She glanced away, focused on the handicap parking sign behind his right shoulder.
“Come on, Sam,” he said softly.
She pinned him with a look, letting the fire well up and take over. “You want to know what’s wrong? You acted like a goddamned idiot in that store. I told you to leave it be, and you had to go all Mike Tyson. You ruined the whole night, got yourself hurt, almost got arrested, and made me spend time in that godforsaken police station because your precious pride got dinged.”
He frowned. “I was looking out for you. What he said . . .”
“No.” She held up a finger. “No, you didn’t. Don’t even. I had it handled. That fight was so not about me. That was about you. You proving that you’re not . . .” She made air quotes. “‘A pussy.’ Which, by the way, pisses me off even more because I have one of those. And they’re spectacular. And being called one shouldn’t be some ultimate insult.”
His lips parted. “I—”
“Or maybe what set you off was being called my bitch. Well, guess what? You’d be fucking lucky to get that spot. You know how many guys at the Ranch would happily, proudly volunteer for that role?”
A thundercloud of an expression descended over his features. “I’m doing the best I can, Sam. This . . . what we’re doing is private.”
“Secret.”
He grimaced.
“Yeah, I get it,” she said, words clipped. “I know all about being someone’s secret. One of my foster brothers introduced me to the concept.”
Gibson’s angry expression fell.
Fuck. Where the hell had that come from? She never talked about Jesse and their screwed-up relationship. The revealing words seemed to scream between them. “Sam . . .”
She shook her head. “Just don’t.”
She skirted around him and headed to the SUV, her shoes slapping hard against the pavement.
Gibson followed her, getting into the driver’s side and sending her a sidelong glance as he turned the ignition. But no way was she in a place to talk right now. As soon as the engine roared to life, she reached over and dialed the volume knob of the radio to earsplitting. Hard rock blasted from the speakers.
She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.
