Page 32 of Full Out Fiend

I close the employee door behind me, then turn right into the alley.

My body senses her before my eyes adjust to the dark. She’s there. Feet away. Waiting for me.

She’s facing the opposite direction, probably expecting me to come out the front door. I clear my throat so she doesn’t startle.

As soon as she hears me, she spins on her heel, her eyes meeting mine as wave after wave of emotion washes over her gorgeous face.

Surprise. Shock. Timidness. Regret.

What the actual fuck?

I quicken my pace, anxious to close the distance, to be near her again. There’s a gravitational pull between us, along with an absurd confidence on my part that if I can get closer—talk to her, touch her—I can somehow make whatever’s bothering her better.

Her face smooths into a placid frown, her somberness filling the alley and making me feel like my stomach is full of rocks. But I don’t stop. I yearn to be closer. Her eyes are wide, almost glassy. She’s very obviously fighting back tears.

This is so different from what I was expecting. I’m doing my best not to get ahead of myself as I read her body language. I clench my hands into fists to try and calm my nerves, but it’s no use.

She looks ill—her shoulders are slumped, and she has her arms crossed over her midsection protectively.

I fight back the urge to pull her into my body and soothe her. Instead, I stop a few feet away—close enough to relish our connection, but far enough away to respect her space.

“Daphne—are you okay?”

She turns her head, breaking eye contact and wrapping her arms tighter around herself in the process.

Fuck.

What I wouldn’t give to hold her and comfort her right now.

I inch closer, almost involuntarily, leaning forward and willing her to open up to me.

“Talk to me. Are you okay?” I ask again.

“I’m not,” she finally whispers.

I don’t know what to do with that. But at least she’s being honest. I take another small step forward, reaching out a hand and brushing it down her arm. She closes her eyes and shudders on contact.

“I’m so happy to see you. Listen, that night—”

She interrupts me before I even have a chance to get going. “I’m sorry I ran out on you.”

“You don’t have to apologize. You don’t owe me an explanation. But I wish you wouldn’t have left the way—”

“No,” she insists, cutting me off again. “I do have to apologize, and you deserve an explanation. It wasn’t fair of me to do…what we did… then sneak out like that. I’m so sorry. I turned my phone on when you went to the bathroom because I wanted to ask for your number. But as soon as it powered on, it blew up with texts and notifications. Anthony was tracking my device. I had to go, and I was worried you’d try to convince me to stay. I didn’t want to bring my problems to your doorstep.”

I gape in disbelief. That’s…a lot. And yet there’s one tiny detail playing on repeat in my stupid head.

She wanted my number.

“Fuck, angel,” I murmur, closing the gap between us so we’re standing toe to toe. I smooth one hand up her arm and over her shoulder before working it into the hair at the nape of her neck.

She instinctively leans into my touch, forcing me to fight back a grin.

“I’m so sorry that happened. And that you had to deal with it all alone.”

She peers up at me, tears still pooling in her eyes. I want to pull her into a hug. Get her out of this alley, take her somewhere private. I want to insist she come back to my house so we can talk, so I can properly take care of her.

But I still have something to tell her.