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The buzz was back, encroaching around the edges of her hearing so that he sounded as if he were speaking through cotton. But she could see just fine. The sharpness of his expression, the hard planes of his face. The truth at the heart of all his lies.
“And this store,” she whispered, the accusation tearing from her already aching throat. It was swelling with the tears she’d never shed in front of him. He didn’t deserve them. He’d been given so much of her already, parts of her she’d never shared with another. Ones she’d never get back.
Now he was flinging them in her face.
“And this store.” He closed his eyes and scraped his hand over the back of his head. The prickle of his hair against his palm cut through the hum in her ears and made her wince. “Goddammit, I hate the way you’re looking at me. If you’ll just let me explain, if you’ll hear me out, I promise I can make this right. It’s not what you’re thinking. I care about you. So damn much. If you’d just—”
The laughter bubbled up inside her before she even suspected it was coming. It left her mouth on a sob that was closer to a dry heave than tears. “If I’d just what? Stand here and listen to more of your lies? You broke down every one of my walls, you bastard. They were so strong that no one ever got through. No. One.” She lunged forward and beat her fists against his chest, barely registering the way he stood there and took the blows. Her face was wet, smeared with the hot fluid she refused to acknowledge was tears. They dripped off her chin, sneaked into the collar of her shirt. Imprinting her with her shame. “You were the only one I trusted. I shouldn’t have. It didn’t make any sense, how this could happen when I’d almost given up thinking it ever would.”
“But it did. You feel it too.”
“Too? Fucking too?” She raged, clawing at his shirt. “You’d dare lie to me even now? How can you pretend to even know what a genuine emotion is when you’re nothing but a goddamn fake?”
“What I feel for you isn’t fake. It’s real. It’s the most important thing in my life.” His voice was hoarse, but not hoarse enough. Only if he spat out glass would she be satisfied he hurt enough. “God, just give me a chan
ce—”
A tear glinted on his cheek, stark and full. It stopped her dead, until he blinked and she saw his eyes were dry. Ravaged, maybe, but bone dry. That tear belonged to her, an exact match to the dozens swarming her vision.
Are you going to crumple at his feet? Or are you going to stand up and tell him to go to hell?
“Princess, please.”
The nickname goaded her into action. Finally. She drew back and stared at him, wanting him to see that she wasn’t some broken doll. She’d cracked a little tonight, but the seams would hold. She wasn’t going to break, no matter what.
He’d helped her to learn that, and the lesson wasn’t one she would forget.
“I’m not your princess. I’m not a fucking princess, period. I’m a fighter, damn you. And I won’t give up. For that, I owe you. You gave me the tools to get here, and now I’m going to use them to get you the hell out of my life.” She pointed to the door, her finger miraculously steady. “Your tool belt’s in the back. Get it on the way out. And unless you plan on seizing this property from me, don’t ever fucking come back.”
“Alexa.” Her name was a sound of pure anguish. She relished it, like a boxer savoring his opponent’s wounds.
He lifted a hand toward her and she shrank back, her finger still extended. “I never want to see you again.”
For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of the rain pelting the windows and his harsh breaths. Hers had steadied, her heartbeat settling into an even beat. She could fall apart later, after he’d gone.
If he ever left.
“This isn’t over,” he bit off finally, stalking into the back room. Then he walked past her and out the door, slamming it with a cheery tinkle of bells that signaled the final curtain on what was supposed to be the best night of her life.
Chapter Ten
“You make a piss-poor drunk.”
“Yeah, well, you’re ugly.”
That established, Dillon and Cory bent their elbows at the same time and drank.
Cory slapped down enough money to pay for another round of beer. Shady’s Pub might not have much going for it, atmosphere-wise, but the brew was ice-cold. After a few beers and a lot of moping, he even kind of liked the place.
“If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be here,” Dillon mumbled, though he’d already said as much several times before. Easier to keep talking so his misery had no chance to fill his head as it had his heart. If he breathed in too deep, his chest ached. “You caused all of this.” Definitely not all, but his drunk brain insisted his brother was to blame for taxes, death, and everything in between.
“Lex’s delinquent. Not my fault she hates me. Also not my fault that Met—” Cory stopped, shook his head. “That Melinda isn’t interested in me.”
“What?” Dillon stared. In the blue-washed light of the bar, Cory looked drunk and morose. And unkempt. His hair stuck straight up and his tie hung limply, as if he’d tried to undo it and failed. “You’re serious?”
“Yes, well, she’d be perfect to attend events with, but she’s dating someone. Then Victoria told me Melinda would never date me because I don’t know how to have fun.” Cory banged his bottle. “That’s crazy. Look at me now. Fun all over.”
“Oh yeah.” Dillon laughed. Croaked really, but it was something.
