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Had Fluffy needed to tie her up to keep her at our home? Was Francis scaring her? He was a big fucking dog, after all.
Fuck, I missed her. Ached for her.
I craved the sound of her voice, her laughter. Hungered for her smell, her touch.
“And I think we’re done,” Lila said, straightening from the bed and crossing to the room’s small bar fridge. She withdrew two Millers and tossed one to me.
I caught it, twisted it open, and downed it in three mouthfuls.
Maybe alcohol would dull the pain? Numb me against the emptiness in my chest?
Lila studied me, her expression impossible to read. “You need some sleep. Get some. Now. Doctor’s orders.”
I laughed. “Do you want me to bleat now? Or wag my tail?”
She studied me, game face firmly in place. “Don’t make me drug you, Pratt. You know I will. You’ve got two hours. I’ll see you at the assigned place. Don’t forget to call Rufie before you go to sleep. This won’t be anywhere near as fun if he’s not there.”
Before I could tell her to blow me—again—she left, pulling the door closed behind her.
I dropped onto the edge of the bed, empty bottle in my hand, my stare locked on the opposite wall.
Sleep.
I needed it but didn’t dare take it.
I had no doubt if I slept, I’d dream of Ronnie.
Would they be horny dreams? Dreams of fucking her, making love to her? Dreams that would get me hard and aching for her even more than what I felt now?
Dreams where I lost myself in the curves and dips of her body, the sweet musk of her pussy, the caress of her breath on my flesh?
Or would they be nightmares? If I closed my eyes and slept, would I see her hating me? Would I see her walking away from me, my heart in her hand?
Would she look at me with icy contempt?
Or worse still, would I dream of her in Rufie’s hands? Would I be forced to endure seeing what the new head of Trinity would do to her, over and over in my dreams?
I couldn’t risk it.
I couldn’t.
So I didn’t.
Instead of stretching out on the bed, I changed into a pair of running shorts and joggers, shoved my Glock into my waistband, and left the room.
I pounded the pavement, the night air cold on my sweat-slicked skin. I ran dark streets. I ran past houses whose windows glowed with warm light. I heard laughter from some of them. I saw family members coming and going at some.
And every time I did, the ache in my soul for the life I wanted to share with Ronnie turned into a gnawing agony.
It wasn’t until I found myself staring at one well-lit house, my gut churning with hate for everything that had put me here on this dark street away from the girl I loved, that I realized I was gripping the gun.
Ah fuck, I was unraveling.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I needed to hit something. Hurt something. I needed to feel something break beneath my knuckles. I needed to feel hot blood on my fists, my shins.
