Page 23 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

Eleven

Raylen

My Stupid House

I lean over my kitchen counter, scrubbing the surface as if it has personally offended me. No matter how many times I wipe it down, it never feels clean enough. Nothing is clean—my house, my clothes, my mind, not after tonight.

Where the hell is Moe?

I grab my phone, checking for a call, a message, anything. But the screen stares back at me, blank and silent. Typical. The one time I want him—need him—around, and he’s nowhere to be found.

I drop my phone onto the counter and march to the bathroom, yanking the cabinet open to grab my toothbrush for the third time tonight.

The bristles scrape against my teeth, hard enough to make my gums ache.

My mind replays the kiss again and again—his hands on my face, my body frozen in shock, the nausea curling through me like poison.

I gag, spit, and brush harder. Rinse. Repeat. If I scrub long enough, maybe I can forget his mouth on mine. Maybe the memory will rot away and leave me feeling clean. But it doesn’t.

It clings to me, just like everything else.

All I wanted was a night. Just one night to go out and feel pretty and get my mind off everything–the things Laura said to me, the fact the man who tormented me for so long is still haunting me.

I needed to remind myself that there were others out there besides Moe–that I could not only protect myself but feel safe with others as well.

For a split moment tonight I didn't look over my shoulder to see if brown eyes were tracking my every move, I didn't check my phone to make sure I had full access to call 999. I even chose a damn cop as a date for fuck’s sake.

For a sliver of time I thought I was okay—safe—but I was proven wrong.

He cornered me like I was prey, just like Lance used to. No matter how polite, distant, or careful I tried to be, I always end up back here. Men always take what they want. And apparently, sometimes even a punch to the face isn’t enough of a “no.”

I don’t know if I want to cry or scream. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe I want to go back in time and not feel anything at all.

The knock on the door nearly rips me out of my skin.

I bolt down the hallway, not bothering to turn off the water, and yank the door open as if I'm ready for war. Moe’s grin falters the moment he sees me.

His hand lifts instinctively, reaching across the threshold like he’s trying to soothe a spooked animal.

“Whoa, baby,” he says softly, lowering his voice as if he's speaking to something wounded. I’m not wounded. I’m not fragile. I’m not afraid. I swore I would never feel this way again, yet my body shudders, as if it doesn’t believe me.

I do believe it, but I take a step back anyway, needing the space. His tone is too gentle. Too comforting. Too much of everything I swore I didn’t need. I don’t even have it in me to tease him or poke fun to pull a smile from him. I just want—

He takes a step closer, gently easing the door shut behind him, never once letting his eyes stray from mine.

I don’t know what I want.

Do I want him to hold me and let me share how I felt cornered, similar to how my ex used to make me feel? Do I want to jump up and down and tell him how I finally defended myself without the fear of repercussions? Do I want him to leave so I never have to look at another man again?

My breathing becomes shallow as I rub my hand against my chest, trying to ease the sudden constricting feeling .

“You have the prettiest eyes,” Moe says softly, grinning as if he's trying to coax me out of hiding.

It almost works. My lips twitch, and my breathing eases.

“And that smile…” He whistles and steps closer. “Don’t even get me started on that damn smile.”

He closes the distance between us, surrounding me with his presence, his scent, the familiar warmth of sandalwood, and something smoky—something distinctly him .

“I’m going to put my arms around you now, okay, sunshine?”

I nod, unable to trust my voice, and then I’m enveloped in him—his arms, his warmth, his strength. His hands move slowly, gliding over my arms and back, firm yet gentle, and I melt against him.

“You always smell the same,” I mumble into his shirt, and he laughs softly, the sound vibrating against my cheek.

“Yeah? What do I smell like?”

“Sandalwood. With a hint of smoke. Like a bonfire in autumn.”

He hums in response. “Do you like it?”

“I do,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.

His hand brushes through my hair, and I close my eyes, inhaling his scent as if it could ground me. His touch isn’t demanding; it’s steady, patient, and safe .

“You’re worrying me a bit, sunshine. What’s wrong?”

I pull back just enough to look up at him. “I went on a date.”

His expression doesn’t change right away, but something flickers behind his eyes.

“Mm.”

That’s it—just one hum and no words. You’d think that with how clingy he is, he would at least demand answers, stake some kind of animalistic claim. But instead, he simply shifts his hand to my jaw and brushes his thumb over my cheek.

My jaw grinds under the tender glide of his fingers, and my eyes narrow.

“He kissed me.”

There. I say it, blunt and bitter. I don’t care. All I know is that I need some type of reaction to let me know he cares; that I’m not just something broken that he’s hyper-fixated on fixing.

The muscle in his jaw tightens, then releases, then tightens again.

He doesn’t explode. He doesn’t rage. He doesn’t storm around the house like Lance would have. Instead, he goes quiet—too quiet. And that silence terrifies me more than yelling ever could.

Moe's eyes track mine before he shifts his focus, staring blankly at the wall as his thumb continues to trace my cheek.

“Are you not going to say anything?”

His eyes flicker to mine and then away.

“I—I don’t know what you want me to say. I know I’m just your friend. I’m trying to be supportive…” He trails off, his jaw clenched, and I can see it—the struggle. The vulnerability he always tries to hide under jokes and flirtation.

“But I’ll be honest, baby… I don’t like hearing that another man has had what you won’t give me the chance to have.”

In an instant, his touch is gone, and he rushes towards the door.

I don’t know where my sudden wave of panic comes from.

Maybe it’s because it feels like he’s leaving me to deal with this on my own, like somehow this is my fault.

That’s until I hear him growl under his breath, “I swear I’ll fucking kill him. ”

“Wait—”

I rush in front of him, my hands pressing against his chest as I desperately try to push him away from the door.

“Raylen, move,” he growls, and I freeze, raising an eyebrow.

I’ve heard him frustrated and agitated before, but this is different—this is pure anger.

It’s not the type I expected–the type to be directed at me–instead, it’s anger aimed for my sake.

If that doesn’t stir something pathetic deep inside my abdomen, I don’t know what will.

“You don’t even know who it is! ”

“I’ll figure it out.”

I take a step closer. “What are you going to do? Fight air? Are you going to punch every man in town until you find the right one?”

“I will if that’s what it takes, or you can just tell me who it is.”

I shake my head. “Why? So you can go play the big bad man for me? I already handled it, Moe. I don’t need you to fight my battles.”

“I’m not fighting your battles. I’m fighting mine . Like I said, if you won’t tell me, I’ll figure it out.” Something in his tone makes me feel like he already knows who it is, but that would be impossible. He tries to step around me, but I keep my feet tracking his.

“Goddamn it, I should’ve…” Moe lets out a frustrated growl, pushing his hand through his hair as he turns away and pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?” I quickly try to sidestep around him, but he jerks the other way.

“Nothing.” As if just realizing that he’s in my home for once, he looks around, gripping his phone so tightly that the metal groans beneath his grip.

“Moe…” I mutter as softly as I can. I’ve always wanted to see him crack–show me the monster underneath and cause the chaos I know he’s so desperate to create–but right now I can’t help but yearn for those grey eyes to go soft like a puppy dog and that little grin that crinkles his crinkles to be turned on me.

He lets out a long breath, shoving his phone into his pocket. Then, he rushes towards me, his palms quickly cupping my cheeks, prompting my hands to wrap around his wrists in response to the sudden invasion of my personal space.

“Are you okay?” he mutters, leaning his forehead against mine.

“I punched him in the nose,” I reply, hoping it'll make my chest swell with pride, but instead, it sinks, knowing I had to defend myself in the first place….that I had to defend myself again.

“That’s my girl.” His fingers try to slip from my cheeks, but I hold onto him tighter, not ready to feel the coldness swallow me whole when he’s not close.

“Make it go away.” I whisper and his brows furrow. I swallow as my eyes dart between his.

“Sunshine—“ Moe starts to shake his head glancing at my lips and they part from the heat in his stare.

I don’t know how to describe it, it's as if I know he’s the only thing that can scare all the bad things away. Maybe he can spook the lingering taste of vodka and licorice away too.

“I can still taste him.” I hate the way my voice cracks with the words. I don’t want to break–I don't want anyone to witness as the days pent up of fear and panic come spewing out in the form of tears and screams.

“I don’t know what to do, sunshine.” It’s so hard to read the furrow between his brows and the softness in his frown, but the storm brewing in his squinted gaze says it all. He’s lost. Just as much as I am, if not more.