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Like I said, Karma.
I clamped down the urge to be snarky and replied with a cold, “That’s fine,” instead. Kylie flinched, not that I blamed her. My tone was glacial enough to put icicles on the ceiling fan.
She turned to me and my pulse stumbled when I looked in her eyes. Gone was the sexy, smoldering heat, the enthusiastic passion, the woman who, not five minutes ago, trusted me enough to let go of her inhibitions and follow me down the rabbit hole. In Kylie’s place sat someone else, a stranger, and, from the closed-off expression and guilt-ridden eyes, she held more secrets than Jimmy Hoffa. You didn’t need to study kinesics to read Kylie’s body language. The unspoken, “get me the fuck out of here,” may as well have been scrawled across her forehead in black Sharpie.
Stranger-Kylie glanced in the direction of the door.
Fists at my sides, I had to force out, “I’ll get dressed and take you home.”
The words sounded foreign, like someone else spoke them. Hell, I felt like someone else. Self-doubt wasn’t familiar to me. Neither was the overwhelming desire to drop to my knees and beg K
ylie to stay. To strip her clothes off, pull her into bed, wrap her up in my arms, and never let go.
So what did I do? Did I speak up? Did I confess my desires to the woman who banged a hand on the plexi and into my life, only to flip my world upside down? Did I ask her to stay, or try to talk to her about what she was thinking?
Of course not. I’m an asshole. At least I’m consistent.
The drive passed in complete silence and, despite wanting to grimace, I maintained a detached, unaffected facade, as if I weren’t fucking dying inside. When I stopped in front of Kylie’s building and put the truck in park, she glanced up at me from under her lashes. She got a look at my emotionless features and winced. I almost felt bad. Almost. The ache in my chest along with my unwavering assholiness, kept my mouth shut and my ass in the seat.
Kylie mumbled so low I strained to hear. “I guess I’ll, um, talk to you later?”
Seriously?
I wanted to yell. To shake her senseless. To insist she tell me what was wrong. But I refused to let her see how much the knife to the gut hurt. I didn’t respond with words. I couldn’t, afraid my voice or my willpower would snap like a twig. Instead, I answered with a sharp nod.
Kylie’s eyes shimmered with tears, but to her credit, not a single one fell. She scrabbled for the latch and flung open the door. I wish I could say didn’t watch her walk into the building and continue to stare until long after she disappeared from sight, but when it came to Kylie, I was weak. I didn’t know why, but she was the chink in my armor. My Achilles heel. My soft spot.
I scrubbed my jaw and cursed myself out; not just for indulging in stupid fantasies about a relationship I would never have and certainly didn’t deserve, allowing them to invade my thoughts, but for not taking that leap of faith. Grabbing on to what could very well have been my one and only chance at true happiness.
It was probably for the best. A guy like me didn’t end up with a woman like Kylie. There was no doubt in my mind, if I pursued her, I would break her heart and ruin her life.
That’s what I was good at. Ruining things.
It didn't stop me from spending the rest of the day plotting a way to see Kylie again. Because deep down, I was a selfish prick. I’d go after her, despite the risk to her well-being and with total disregard for how it might affect her.
That was how I lived. With the exception of Rémy, everything I touched turned into a shitshow. Despite my best efforts, even my own brother ended up with a heaping load of issues that rivaled mine.
There was no reason to expect anything with Kylie to turn out different.
I was a wrecking ball and, unfortunately, someone was going to end up smashed. Whether it was Kylie or me, I didn't know.
I plugged my phone into my sound system and swiped until I found the playlist I wanted. Loud, thumping music reverberated throughout the condo as I made myself a late-night snack. Immersed in my thoughts, I ate, cleaned up the kitchen, and made sure the door was locked.
Was there a chance Kylie and me could somehow work out?
My personal experience shouted a resounding, “fuck no,” but hell, I wanted to cling to that sliver of hope, no matter how unlikely. I mean, how much shit did one person have to go through before he was due to catch a goddamn break?
That was my last thought right before I went over to the stereo and reached out to turn off the music.
“Son of a—”
I managed to yank my phone free as a power surge fried my very expensive, state-of-the-art sound system. Sparks shot out of the receiver and it let out a blast of whiny, high-pitched, ear-splitting feedback. Tiny flames erupted from the receiver. I stuck a finger in each of my ears to make they weren’t bleeding.
“Motherfucker!”
I ran and grabbed the fire extinguisher from under the sink and sprayed the flames before the sprinkler system came on. Disheartened, but wholly unsurprised by the sequence of events, I sagged in resignation and stared at the charred remains of ten thousand dollars with of equipment as the sharp scent of melted plastic and electronics singed my nostrils.
Me? Catch a break? Yeah, right. I had a better chance of becoming the Prime Minister of Canada.
