Page 85 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

Chapter Thirty-One

With his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, he stands at the floor to ceiling window of my hotel room, looking over the city skyline.

He has a light gray t-shirt on and his freshly showered hair’s dripping water on it, making the neck all damp.

I don’t think he knows I’m watching him where I stand at the bathroom door, having taken a shower myself.

Just for the record, we didn’t take a shower together.

After what happened at the maze, he carried me out in his arms while I almost dozed off against his hot, cozy chest. He drove me back to the hotel and escorted me back to my room before leaving me without a word.

Although he did kiss me on the forehead, all light and soft, tender that made me weep in the shower.

I wanted to ask him where he was going and when he’d be back, but I didn’t.

I was too afraid. While the big realization that I had at the party felt like a joyous moment, like all my dreams coming true, even the ones I didn’t dare think about, I’m thinking differently now.

My adrenaline rush is gone, and I’m left shaking in its wake.

It’s not going to be easy, making him see the truth but I have to try.

I have to do more than try. I have to convince him.

And the fact that he’s back gives me hope.

At least, he’s not disappearing on me like he did after the first time we had sex. Progress.

“Hey,” I say, my voice soft, a little bit shy.

He stiffens at it, his shoulders going taut. I notice his jaw clenching in his profile and my heart starts to slam really hard in my chest. Yes, he may be here but that doesn’t mean he’s here to readily accept whatever I have to say. Still, I hold on to that little piece of hope.

He takes his time turning around, as if he doesn’t want to and when he does, my little hope only gets…

littler. It’s nothing on his face per se.

As in, he isn’t angry or something similar.

He isn’t annoyed or irritated or any number of things.

It’s the fact that he isn’t anything . He’s completely and absolutely expressionless and I don’t think it has happened before.

Even when his expressions are a mystery to me, I still know something is happening beneath the surface.

In this moment though, it seems like there is nothing. He’s empty. Hollow. He’s dead.

My heart starts to slam really, really hard in my chest. As if I’m compensating for his lack of heartbeats. And I take a step toward him. “Shepard?—”

And for the first time ever, ever , he takes a step back. “It’s over.”

I didn’t expect him to say that but still, I’m not surprised.

And I don’t know what scares me more, my lack of surprise because I somehow knew this was going to happen and I was still holding onto false hope or him saying these strange words that I never thought he would.

Not after everything. Not after I know this is not him at all .

“Why?” I ask, taking another step toward him.

He drops his stare to notice my movement before lifting his eyes. “Because you’re in too deep.”

I raise my eyebrows and keep walking toward him. “ I’m in too deep?”

His chest finally moves with a breath, and I see irritation flickering through his blank features. Good. I want him irritated. I want him angry. I want him alive and feeling and running on emotions, not the stone statue that he had somehow turned into.

Shifting on his feet, he says, “Yes, you are and it’s time you took a step back.”

“So this is for my benefit? You’re doing me a favor.”

He moves his jaw back and forth, his eyes belligerent. “Yes.”

“Why does it look like you’re dying then?” I ask because that’s the reason, isn’t it? That’s why he looks like that, all emptied out and hollow because he thinks he needs to do me a favor.

He sucks in a breath. “You need?—”

“And all of this because I let you fuck me in the ass and called you Sir?” I cut him off and snap, proud of myself that I didn’t let my voice crack.

I didn’t let it show how those words affected me.

I know I said it in a tone that makes everything sound casual and kinky fun.

But it wasn’t that. It may have been kinky, but there was nothing casual about it.

It was meeting of our souls. It was our connection finally sliding into place. I’ve always wanted a connection with him, something that I made myself, not something thrust upon us by our dysfunctional parents. But even I couldn’t have imagined something so deep. So primal and raw. Visceral.

God, does he not see how lucky we are? How fortunate to have found each other in this world of billions of people.

To not only have found each other but to also stand on the verge of something so big, a world full of possibilities and an even deeper connection.

A purposeful connection where we’re both each other’s safe spaces.

He gets to be whoever he wants to be and I let him.

Where I be his in every way possible, mind, body, heart and he takes care of me.

Making it sound cheap cuts into my soul and squeezes my heart, but I have to do it.

I have to jar him and I think I have. Because it takes him a second to recover from it.

He draws back and his hands in his pockets curl into fists.

I can clearly see the outline of them. Then, “Yes. It was all fun and games and you?—”

Coming to a halt a few feet away from him, I stab my finger at him.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare , Shepard Thorne.

” He grates his jaw, but I keep going, “Say what you will but if you insult what happened between us, if you try to twist it or poison it in any way, I will fucking scratch your eyes out. It was beautiful and you know it. It was meaningful and you know that too.”

Finally, I see anger flickering through his features, hot and fuming.

It makes his chest expand with a sharp breath, his jaw going back and forth before he growls, “I told you. I fucking told you. What this was supposed to be. What we were doing. I thought you understood. Jesus, fuck .” He shakes his head, finally ripping his hands out of his pockets and raking his fingers through his wet hair.

I notice a tremor in them that makes my heart clench, despite my anger at him right now.

Then, gripping his own hair in anger and frustration, he growls again, “How the fuck could you let this happen? How the fuck could you fall in love with me and fucking fuck everything up?”

My chest heaves. “ I fell in love with you?”

His chest follows mine and shudders as well as he lowers his hand and accuses, “Yes, you did.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You fell in love with me too.”

My words come out as an accusation as well that hit him the center of his chest. And for some reason, I’m once again reminded of that soccer ball he used to shatter my window, to break all the barriers and get to me.

I can’t kick a ball around. I’m not a soccer superstar like him but I have to find a way to break this barrier between us.

I have to because I don’t want to do this.

I don’t want us to fight. I don’t want us to argue or accuse each other of falling in love with each other when it’s supposed to be a good thing.

When it’s the culmination of both our dreams.

“You love me too,” I whisper, my throat full of emotions and my eyes stinging.

And he flinches. His eyes flare a bit and a tremor passes through his body, making me think once again that my words hit him in the center of his being.

And I can’t resist any longer. I can’t take this distance between us so I close the gap and press my body to his.

He’s all still and hard but I hold on. Grabbing the sides of his t-shirt, I say, my voice still wobbly with emotion, “You don’t love her.

Not anymore. You love me. You do, Shepard.

You… All the things that you do. The way you get all jealous and agitated when you see another guy coming close to me.

The way you take care of me, think of all the little things to make my life easier.

The way you miss me. I thought you did those things because we have a connection, and we do.

God , we do. But our connection is so much deeper than I thought, Shepard.

And… And the fact that you want me to have your baby … ”

At this, he flinches, his abs flexing and I press myself into him even harder.

“I thought you wanted that because you were lonely. Your family’s moved on.

All your siblings have a family of their own, a person of their own.

And then, your person chose someone else and…

So I thought you were acting out of pain and heartbreak, but you weren’t.

You were acting out of love. You wanted me to have your baby, you want me to have your baby, just me and no one else, because you love me .

I don’t know when it happened but somewhere along the way you fell in love with me.

And I know this is hard for you to hear. I know that.

“I know you think love is poison and toxic and it hurts. And yes, it does. But it feels good too. It feels so, so good when you’re in love with the right person.

And please just let me show you, okay? Just…

Let me show you how good it feels. How good it feels to feel , Shepard.

I know you’re used to burying things and numbing yourself to everything, and I know you do it for your family and while that’s the most noble thing anyone can do for the people they love, I want you to know you don’t have to do that anymore.

Not with me. I’m yours, Shepard. Every inch of me, remember?

Every single inch. I belong to you in every way possible.

I’ll take you however you come. Good and bad and angry and biting, loving .

Because that’s what you are. You’re loving.

You’re made of love. Every single inch of you is made of love and I know that because I’ve felt it.

And please know, you are safe with me. Your emotions are safe with me.

Just please let me show you how much, okay?

Just… Let me in and let me love you and let me show you how good it all can be. Please .”

By the time I’m done, I am breathing so hard that instead of giving him any support, I’m probably using him as one.

I should probably calm down. Check my emotions, take control of them so I can give him strength.

Because no matter how strong his body feels, like a tree, a mountain, a freaking house made of stone and bricks, I know he must be going to pieces on the inside.

No matter how impassive his features look and clear his dark eyes appear, he must be falling apart.

I open my mouth to say something, to tell him we should talk about it.

His least favorite thing to do but we need to, if we’re going to navigate this together.

But maybe he senses that’s what’s coming because suddenly, my hands aren’t gripping his t-shirt because he’s pried them away and I’m not pressed into his body anymore.

Suddenly, my body is away from his because he’s pushed me back from him.

And while I contend with that, with trembling knees and a spinning world, he’s already striding across the room.

I turn around and call out, “What are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer as he stalks to the door and I rush toward him.

I grab the back of his t-shirt just as he’s pulling the handle and stop him.

I pull at the fabric, trying to get him away from the door but he doesn’t budge.

Standing at his side, I look up at him, at his still impassive profile.

“Where are you going? We need to talk about this. I know you hate talking but?—”

Finally, he looks down at me, his eyes narrowed. “Yeah, you know everything, don’t you.”

I want to flinch and maybe on the inside, I do jerk but on the outside, I keep my eyes firmly planted on his intimidating form. “Yes, I do. So you need to?—”

“What you need to do is get the fuck away from me.”

“No,” I state, twisting my grip in his t-shirt. “I won’t. I won’t let you ruin this. I won’t?—”

“It’s already ruined,” he says, his eyes harsh as he reaches down to shake my hold off. “Just stay away from me.”

I don’t know what it is that makes me stumble back because it’s not as if he hasn’t gripped me painfully tight before or hurt me with his words before.

But something in his demeanor right about now compels me to move back.

It seems so…final. Like it had the night he came to the club with the intention of exacting his revenge.

But somehow this is worse because last time it was my lie that shattered everything but this time it’s his truth that I’ve forced him to see.

And where do you go from there? There’s nothing beyond the truth. No hiding from it. No sugar coating. No turning it around and making it something else. Truth is wrecking. Maybe even more than love.

I watch his long fingers clutching the handle and pulling it down and I say, “I won’t be here when you come back.”

And I mean it. This time, I absolutely fucking mean it.

But either he doesn’t get it or doesn’t care about it, because after an initial pause on his part and a tight flex of those fingers I’m still watching, he breaks into action again.

He opens the door and walks out of it, slamming it behind him. Hard.