Page 8

Are you freaking out? I am! You’re probably freaking out because it’s still morning and I’ve already committed a felony and attempted vehicular homicide, if that’s an actual crime.

While it takes me a minute to calm my nerves, it takes me longer to focus on the fact that Iknowthe dickbag I nearly killed. You remember earlier when I mentioned I may or may not have only loved one man? And I told you that was probably a lie?

It was. There was this boy, not a man, he was fifteen when he ripped my heart out, and I told myself I’d be careful with it from then on out. I’d never give it willingly, it’d be earned.

Well, look where that fucking got me.

To fully understand my situation, the complicated part, I’m going to take you back in time to a night that changed my life. Maybe not for the better either. It was the summer before I turned sixteen and I only knew the touch of a sinner.

My eyes moved over the expensive black leather as I shifted around in the seat. “Whose car is this?”

Ridge doesn’t have a driver’s license yet. How would he get this car? A Mercedes on top of that?

Twisted toward me, he ran his hands over his face, shaking it back and forth. “It’s not mine,” he mumbled. “I’d never own a Benz.”

My mouth gaped open. “You stole it?” I shouldn’t have been surprised. This was the kind of thing Ridge did for fun.

“No, it’s Madalyn’s. She just bought it.”

He stole his mom’s car? Holy crap.

I hated the feeling that drew me to him. It was like an addiction to get lost in his harshness and his smile that demanded my attention even when he didn’t deserve it.

I breathed out, long and slow, wishing I could hide my emotions around him better. I knew the type of guy he was. Everyone did. But then there he was in moments like this, vulnerable and confused.

“Are you okay?”

“Maybe you should go,” Ridge said in a low voice, sitting back in his seat, looking straight ahead with his hands on the steering wheel again.

I looked over at him. He was crying, slowly, quietly.

“Ridge?” I reached out for him and clutched his shirt. I’d never seen him cry before. I wasn’t sure he could. Surely someone as bad as him didn’t have tears.

He took control of my wrists, holding them in his hands and looking at me with red-rimmed eyes and a quivering chin. “You should go,” he whispered, again, closing his eyes.

“Why?” I moved closer but said nothing. “What’s wrong?”

Keeping his grip on me, he turned his face away, his voice shaking. “Nothing.”

Taking in his appearance, his eyes were swollen, his left one worse than the right, bruised and bleeding from a small gash above his eyebrow. He’d definitely been in a fight.

Biting his lip nervously, the tears mixed with the blood.

Wanting to comfort him, I forced myself on his lap, making him to look at me.

Kissing the side of his face, he kept his grip on my wrists, trying not to let me too close. Then I kissed him, despite the blood.

When he gave in, his shoulders sank, and his breathing sped up. Part of me understood I shouldn’t have led him on because just being this close to him scared me.

His kisses were messy and out of control, moving from one spot on my body to the next.

It was then I sensed where this was going. “Ridge, I’m worried about you.”

And though he was hurting, wrestling with thoughts he wouldn’t share, he couldn’t stop himself, his breathing uneven against mine.

He pulled me forward until our chests were touching. Closing his eyes, I closed mine, too, and reassured myself this was what I wanted.

The hardness between my legs scared me and I gasped, pulling away. I wasn’t ready for this.