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His gaze turned hard. “No. That’s part of foreplay; it’s off limits.”
“And what you just did isn’t foreplay?” I knew I was being cruel, but I also knew the fastest way to get him to retreat was to remind him of his profession. And he needed to retreat, because I was pretty sure I couldn’t.
“That was a friend comforting another friend.” His eyes sparked with anger as he clenched his teeth.
“I see.” With a nod, I asked, “So, you weren’t about to kiss me—mouth to mouth—just before you discovered my scar?”
“Jesus,” he railed, swiping his hands through his hair and taking a big step back. “Yes, okay. I almost kissed you. But I didn’t. Mistake averted. No harm done. We’re good.”
“Are we?” I charged.
He stared at me, his mouth slightly fallen open. His expression looked wounded. “What’re you saying, Reese?”
I closed my eyes and groaned. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. We can’t ever kiss or anything else because you sleep with women for money. End of story.”
He rumbled out a sound of utter frustration. “Why do you always have to remind me of that? Trust me, I haven’t forgotten.”
“I’m not reminding you,” I snapped, flashing my eyes open to glare. “I’m reminding me.”
God, I was such an idiot. I cannot believe I just stood there and pretty much confessed I cared about him as more than a friend, and the only thing holding me back was his…job.
Understanding dawned in his eyes. They sparked with interest and joy. He took a step toward me.
I darted a leery leap back. “We’re just friends, Mason.”
He stopped in his tracks, turmoil swirling in his gaze. Then he closed his eyes. “Right.” When he opened them, the desire was gone. He reached out, tugged the book I’d forgotten I was still holding out of my arms, and waved it once. “Thanks for loaning this to me…friend.”
Brushing my hair to one side, he tipped his head so he could lean around and kiss my scar one last time with a brief but warm peck. Once he straightened, he said nothing and barely held my gaze before he turned away and walked from my apartment.
I waited until I heard the door close before I strayed back into my living room to lock and bolt it behind him. Then I collapsed onto my couch and buried my face into my hands.
What the hell had I gotten myself into?
CHAPTER TWELVE
I had been fourteen, barely a freshman in high school, when Jeremy Walden approached me for a date. He was a junior and so much more experienced and sophisticated than I was. He was also popular, good-looking, and came from money. Being with him had been exciting, and sure, the vain part of me can admit I liked what being his girlfriend did for my image.
For a year or so, things coasted along, not perfectly, but okay. Since he was a little older and had been the one to draw me into his crowd of people, we naturally started our relationship with him being the more dominant, controlling figure. And that didn’t bother me.
For a while.
Okay, it bothered me. But I didn’t do a whole lot about it at first.
When his senior year started, and his dad began to pressure him more about picking out the perfect college, the not-so wonderful side of him grew more defined. He’d always had a cruel streak. He could bully with the best of them. But when he turned his bullying on me, I wasn’t impressed.
The occasional slaps he’d given me before and bruises he’d left from grabbing me too hard grew to be not so occasional. It was embarrassing to think I could be one of those abused women who put up with that kind of crap. I convinced myself his small acts of totally minor violence here and there were no big deal. He’d never actually hurt me, hurt me.
But it still got to me.
As I matured and my personality developed, we began to argue more. He didn’t like me standing up for myself, and I didn’t like him manhandling me and dictating to me every little thing he wanted me to do. The sad part was, it wasn’t even his violence that broke us apart the first time. One of his friends told me he’d seen Jeremy making out with one of the skanky cheerleaders.
I confronted him about it, of course, and after I said something snide and sarcastic—yeah, imagine that—he whirled around with his hand out. He caught me in the cheek and ended up cracking my jaw.
I broke up with him while he drove me to the hospital.
After our split, my friends he’d isolated me away from during our time together were wonderful and returned to me, nursing my wounded ego back to health.
But Jeremy came sobbing back to me—literally. He fell on his knees before me, hugged my legs, and begged me to take him back. Somehow, he managed to convince me the whole broken-jaw thing had been a complete accident. He hadn’t purposely hit me that hard; I’d just been standing too close when he’d swung around. And he insisted his friend had lied about the other girl.
