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Fucking him up would require leaving my house.
Sometimes I hate how messed up I am in the head. A normal boyfriend—is that what I am to him or at least want to be?—would be able to handle this situation for his guy. As it stands, I can’t do shit.
I could destroy his ex via online means, but that’s not as satisfying as ramming my fist through that violent prick’s face.
“I guess it’s time to finally put cameras up on your shack,” Dempsey says. “Maybe have your porch redone while you’re at it. One of these days Grandpa is going to crash through his ramp.”
Fuck.
Because of my issues, I’m endangering others. Tate, Violet, Grandpa.
“I’ll set something up,” I vow, voice fierce.
Dempsey nods, seemingly pleased with my answer. It’s pretty sad a seventeen-year-old kid has more sense about the right thing to do than I do. And that’s saying something since he’s the family fuckup.
MaybeI’mthe family fuckup.
All of this could have been potentially avoided had I not invaded Tate’s personal space, serving him up on a platter for his enemy. At the time, digging into the new stranger in our lives felt warranted. I was protecting my family. But at what cost? Now Tate’s important to me and I put a target on his back.
Tate nods at Sloane and then starts back toward the house. Dempsey trots back over to Sloane and whispers something that makes her tense. He can fill me in later on their conversation. Right now, I have to fix me and Tate.
I will fix us.
“Tate,” I call after him as he storms into the house. “Wait.”
Ignoring me, he stomps up the stairs. I charge after him and then pass him by. He growls something unintelligible to me, but I’m focused on my new mission.
Make. Him. Stay.
I snatch up his suitcase and then the cat carrier once I’ve made my way into his room. When I whirl around, he’s entering the space, face twisting up in anger.
“You’re not leaving,” I grunt, shouldering past him.
“What the hell, Jude?!”
Funky darts past us, hightailing it back to my bedroom. I follow after him and set his carrier by the window. Then I toss the suitcase on my bed and start unzipping it.
“You can’t do this,” Tate bellows. “I’m leaving!”
“Not if I can fucking help it.”
I start shoving clothes into drawers, pushing my clothes aside to make room for his. He doesn’t come near me but continues to argue. It reminds me of a little dog yapping at an intruder. Except he’s no dog and I’m no intruder. I’m protecting what’s mine. End of fucking story.
I locate his keys in the suitcase and bury them in my closet between my vast array of black hoodies. When I exit the closet, he’s standing by the bed, arms crossed over his chest, scowling at me.
Pissed is better than afraid.
I am not like his ex.
“Not pressing charges, eh?” I grunt as I scoop up the empty suitcase. “Sounds like you’re letting him get away with hurting you. Again.”
Fire blazes in his eyes as he watches me throw his suitcase into my closet. “I don’t let him do anything. He takes and takes and takes. Like someone else I know.”
Something in me snaps and I decide I’m done with his bullshit. I prowl over to him until I’m crowding his space. Gently, I run my fingers through his hair on the back of his head and then tug until he peers up at me. His nostrils flare and his luscious lips are parted as though he might like my proximity, but the fury in his gaze never recedes.
“I am not like him and you know it.” I lean my masked forehead against his, hating for the millionth time I have to hide the ugly from him. “I’m sorry I turned your phone on and spied on you. It was fucked up. I hate that I did it.”
His anger cools from an exploding volcano to a simmering pot. I take that as a win and quickly continue forward.
