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“Fuck,” he protests, digging his fingers into the longer hair on the top of his head as he walks the length of his dad’s office. “Really? And you want to drag me into it? No. No fucking way, Jasper.”
“Riley,” I murmur, attempting to stop his rant before he gets too loud.
His pacing doesn’t falter, but his voice doesn’t rise above a harsh whisper.
“No. Are you trying to start another war? Because that’s where this leads. Do you want to rot in an unmarked grave in the middle of nowhere? Because I sure as fuck don’t.”
It’s… a reasonable assumption, but shit is worse than he knows. It always has been.
“I feel like you’re blowing this a tad bit out of proportion,” I confess, holding my thumb and index finger millimeters apart.
He makes a frustrated growl in the back of his throat, his wild blue eyes glaring holes in me. I hop down from the desktop, striding to him so I can wrap my arms around his lean waist. He’s a foot taller than I am, but his ire is endearing, not intimidating.
“Look. The Maldonados and the Estradas have been at war longer than we’ve been alive. He’s encroaching on our business, and pretty soon he’ll be fucking with the club’s, too. We both know it.”
He hums under his breath, nodding as he leans down to skim his fingers over my bare thighs, lifting me up and setting me on the desk once more.
“I’ll go, but I have two conditions.”
“Okay,” I drawl.
I know what’s coming.
He’s looked me over in the dim lighting of this office long enough to spot the bruising on my neck.
“First, we leave when I say it’s time to go. If I’m watching your back, trust that I’m pulling you away for a damn good reason.”
“Agreed. And the second?”
I try to hold the wince back when he brushes my hair behind my shoulders. I’m sore, and he knows it. His earlier reaction wasn’t to what the biker said about me or how he was checking me out.
“I want to know which of the other assholes you see left these bruises on your neck. They aren’t from your snitch, Jasper. They aren’t from a rough fuck. This isn’t the first time you’ve had them either. Who left them, when, and why didn’t you have a weapon on you?”
His voice is tender as he peels the neckline of my hoodie down, but his hands have a fine tremble in them. He closes his eyes so I won’t see how belligerently furious he is.
I still feel it as he tucks me into his chest. It’s not just his hands that shake. His entire body is quaking with repressed rage, seeking an outlet, a victim, my abuser.
“I’ll take care of it, Ri,” I mumble. “I need to get my shit back from him first. He has the laptop.”
His teeth grind together as he moves my hair back to cover my neck, but he doesn’t let me go. “Who?”
“You never ask for names,” I warn. “That’s one of our rules.”
“Tell me who the fuck hurt you,” he snarls.
I sigh, pressing my forehead over his heart as I weigh the pros and cons of telling him.
“David. His name is David Arlington,” I confide, only because I don’t lie to Riot.
But I am lying.
How can I tell him that being with him hurts me, too? Not physically, but emotionally. The only time that I don’t want to drown myself in heartbreak is when I’m with Riley Barker.
Or when I’m with Kane Lawson.
Those two pieces of my life and heart don’t collide. There’s a deep rift that splits the useless organ in half, so I lie to him and myself.
I tell myself that I can’t have them more than I do now. I can’t let the feelings get stronger. It’s safer this way.
