Page 5 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

“You deserve all the good things,” I say honestly, with all my heart.

“All the happy things. It’s the least the universe can give you, right?

After everything you and your family have endured.

All the abuse, the tragedy. All the ways fate tried to break you.

You didn’t though. You and your siblings didn’t break.

In fact, you rose up from it. You came out on the other side and…

I know it’s just a story for the world. A tale of woe and triumph but…

You lived through it and I can’t even imagine how.

All I know is I couldn’t have done it myself.

No one could have. No one in this town or anywhere else. ”

I can’t believe I said all that. I know I did it without thinking. I did it without provocation or any segue. But I’ve wanted to say this for a long time now. For years. Since the first night I snuck over to their house.

I wanted to say it because this is the exact reason why I haven’t told them the truth.

I could’ve told Callie back in high school.

I could’ve told her any number of times over the last few years we’ve been friends.

But I didn’t because I didn’t want to dredge up the past. They have built a life for themselves, a good life, a happy life.

A life they all fought for. A life away from the monster their father is, and I can’t drag them back.

They deserve to move on from him, from the past.

He deserves that.

Sometimes I think he deserves it more than any of them.

Mostly because a lot of people would disagree with me on this.

Their first choice would be either Conrad, who gave up everything to raise his siblings.

Or even Stellan, who became Conrad’s right-hand man from a pretty young age.

Not Shepard though, never him. They’d dismiss him without a second glance.

Because at first sight, he doesn’t look like the kind of guy who’d take care of anyone other than himself.

He doesn’t look like someone you could depend on.

Yes, he’s the captain of his team, a disciplined athlete, but other than that, it doesn’t look like he’s the guy—who loves to party and have fun, who loves to be the center of attention and provocative—to offer anything meaningful to anyone.

But what they don’t know is, growing up, Shepard had been the only one who could calm Ledger down.

The youngest Thorne brother has always had anger issues, and it was Shepard who always stood by his side while the others condemned Ledger.

It was Shepard who got him drafted to New York City FC, when no team would touch Ledger.

Even now, years later, Shepard is the one who comes back home more than any other Thorne brother.

In fact, Callie let it slip that Shepard is now the sole owner of their childhood home. Conrad wanted to sell it off, but Shep bought it from him and now it’s his house. Something about that tugs at my heart. That’s where I saw him first. That’s where I felt that intense connection with him.

Something about his dichotomy tugs at my heart too.

How people see him as a carefree soccer superstar and a playboy; someone they shouldn’t bother digging deeper with because he seems so open and fun.

In fact, sometimes I think that’s what he wants people to believe, so he goes out of his way to pretend to be that.

But that’s exactly what it is: a pretense, a facade.

Underneath, I think he has so much more to offer.

“Is that why you came out here?” he asks, breaking into my thoughts.

“I-I’m sorry?”

He waits a beat to answer, and I realize his grip on my bicep has gotten harder. So much so that it’s painful, and I can’t help but flinch. Although I don’t know if it’s from his fingers or his words. “Because you’re so happy for me.”

My heart starts pounds in my chest. “I?—”

“Because I gotta tell you, you didn’t look so happy back there.”

“What?”

“In fact, you looked a little”—he pauses to take me in once again—“red. All flushed and breathless. Like all the air rushed out of your lungs. Like your heart wasn’t beating right. Or maybe beating too much.”

“I—”

“Like you’d been sucker-punched.”

I’m starting to feel the same again and I struggle in his grip. “I have to go. I have?—”

His eyes, pitch black and penetrating, turn hard as he says, “You looked like you wanted to be the girl I kneeled for.”

I draw back then, my spine hitting the tree with a thud. “I didn’t.”

“No?”

I shake my head, trying to twist out of his grip. “No. I don’t. I’d never…”

He flicks his eyes over my face as he murmurs, his tone soft and low, as opposed to his harsh features and mean grip, “It’s always nice to meet a fan. Especially when they claim to admire us for our tenacity. When they wax poetic about our strength and how we overcame tragedy.”

I flinch. “I didn’t mean it that way. I?—”

“ Especially ,” he cuts me off, his grip turning meaner, if possible, “when they’ve got no fucking idea what they’re talking about.”

“I—”

“And usually, I just let it go. I even sign autographs if they want me to. Or take a picture with them. Like my life is a fucking reality TV show, but as I said, I move on. But”—he clenches his jaw for a second, his eyes flashing—“for some mysterious, unknowable reason, I can’t move on from you.”

“M-me?”

He shakes his head, slowly. “No, not you.” Then, still studying my face, “And I’m wondering why that is.

Actually, I’ve been wondering ever since Callie started to bring you around.

What is it about you, what the fuck is it about you that bugs me so much.

” He pauses, his eyes narrowed slightly before continuing, “And I think tonight, I finally realized why.”

“Why?” I ask even though I know I’m going to regret it.

I know it down to my bones. I know it more when he leans over me, his dark stare, his dark grip, all pulsing sharply. “It’s the way you watch me.”

“I don’t?—”

“I know you do,” he speaks over my lie, making my heart pound in my chest. “I also know you try to hide it. But you’re not very good at it.

In fact, you’re really fucking annoying with your little secret glances when you think no one is looking.

But I am. I’m looking, and every time you stare at me with stars in your eyes, I want to punch something.

Every time you go all breathless around me like you’re going to goddamn faint just because I’m close; like I’m going to one day look at you and realize you’re the girl for me and the longer I don’t, the sadder you become.

I can’t stand it. I can’t fucking stand the way you look at me.

“I couldn’t fucking stand that that’s how you looked back there.

Devastated and wrecked and fucking ruined, because I got down on one knee for someone else.

” He pauses to move his jaw back and forth.

Then, “And normally, I’d let you suffer.

But you’re my little sister’s best friend and you could practically be my sister, so?—”

“I’m not your sister,” I say.

Or rather, I snap. My voice is much louder than I thought it was going to be. Maybe it’s the force of all the secrets I’ve been keeping from him, from everyone. Maybe it’s the shame of it all.

Whatever it is, my loud voice pisses him off even more and his voice dips so low that it sends shivers down my spine.

“No, you’re not. You’re fucking nothing.

Which is why I need you to get over it. Whatever it is.

Crush, obsession, sick fascination you have with me.

Bury it and get a life. Get a fucking boyfriend and forget I exist. Because next time I catch you looking heartbroken because of me, I’ll let you walk on this broken glass and bleed all over it. ”