Page 71 of A Vegas Crush Collection #3

And she did look like Reagan, from a basic perspective of age, body type, and hair style, but thank fuck she wasn’t.

I will never forget the look on her face, a bullet hole clean through her forehead without any other mark on her body.

Her dead eyes sightless and dull, her head jostling slightly as her drawer was slid back into its refrigerated compartment.

God help me. That woman from the morgue will be in my nightmares forever now.

“Well, that’s both horrible for her, and only a little bit better for me, but not by much. I still owe like twenty-thousand dollars from what I borrowed through Peter.”

“You know I have a multi-million dollar a year contract with the Crush, right? I have investments. I’ll take care of your debt with that douchebag ex of yours.

Fuck him. Peter Pellton won’t be bothering you ever again.

And Sodorov most likely has a one-way ticket back to Mother Russia, because they’re gonna either indict him or deport his ass, so you really don’t have to worry about him, either.

And you can stay here with me where you’re safe.

We can go get your stuff from your apartment and move you in here tonight if you want.

You aren’t going back to your casino job, are you?

I don’t think you should work there anym—”

Reagan maneuvers her body to face me and kisses me firmly on the lips.

She lays her hand on my cheek and taps my lips with her pinky in a silent gesture to please stop talking.

I was laying it on thick with the demands, so I’m sure she’d love for me to shut my mouth.

I never talk this much, but this is fucking important, and she needs to know all of it.

Also, I know I’m not going to like whatever’s coming out of her mouth next.

“You’re the most wonderful man I’ve ever known, Mikhail Zelenka, but you can’t always be my personal savior.”

“I’m not trying to be your savior. I care about you, and I want to help you.”

“I know,” she answers softly. “And you do, by being my friend. By being one of maybe two people in this world who care what happens to me.”

“Rea-gan—” Everything I want to say to her gets caught in my throat. “But isn’t it obvious to you that I want to be more than just your friend? What we have is more than just friendship, right? For me, it is more.”

She kisses me again, which turns into her hand dragging slowly over my chest, making its way down a path to my cock. She grips me, strokes me, as I kiss her neck and work my thumb against her clit.

She moans and it brings me back to my senses. I can’t fuck her when she’s injured and traumatized. Sex is not what she needs right now. So, I pull away and roll to my back before slipping off the bed and turning on the bedside lamp.

“I want you, always, but you need time to heal. And we need to talk about this.”

“About what?”

“About all of it.” I pull on a pair of boxers from my dresser drawer. I toss her a T-shirt and she pulls it over her head. “About what needs to happen to make you feel safe again. About the fact I just said I want to be more than friends and you didn’t respond.”

Her eyes well with tears. “Mikhail, I am not your problem to solve.”

“You know that’s not what I’m saying at all.”

“You have a career,” she says with a sad shake of her head. “A good one. And you’ve earned that money. Why would you throw it away like that?”

“I don’t see it that way. I see it as freeing you from all this bad shit that’s holding you back. I see it as giving us a chance to be together without all this ugliness getting in our way.”

“And you like saving people.”

I open my mouth and then shut it again. “I can help you. I want to help you.”

Reagan slips to the floor, holding out her hand to steady herself. She manages to square her shoulders and stand upright, her chin sharp as she raises it almost defiantly. “I need to figure this out for myself, Mikhail. I have to help myself for once.”

“You have been,” I argue. “You work so hard.”

She puts up a hand to stop me. “I won’t let you do this. This is my problem. I need to be the one to solve it.”

She shuffles to the bathroom and grabs her pile of clothing, pulling on the sweatpants and balling up everything else before heading out of my room toward the door.

“Why are you pushing me away again?” I ask desperately, my feet holding me like lead weights to the floor.

“I’m not pushing you away. I’m protecting you.”

“Protecting me? From what? Why are you really doing this, Reagan?”

“Because I care about you, Mikhail, and this is what I need to do. I’ll text you—oh shit—I lost my phone. I’ll get a new one or something, but I’ll figure it out and be in touch, okay?”

I don’t respond, and I don’t look at her, the floor becoming my point of visual attention.

After a moment or two of silent tension, I hear the front door open and then close.

Sounds I don’t want to hear.

She’s gone again. I only just got her back, and now?

“I’m not pushing you away. I’m protecting you.”

It’s bullshit, that’s what it is.

And I feel my heart breaking into pieces.