Page 40 of Hide From Me (Chaotic Love #3)

I don’t look at him again until I’ve got a slice of pizza halfway in my mouth, cheese threatening to fall off the edge. And, of course, Moe shows up just in time to whisper, “You’re acting like that was as hard as I get around you—but we both know that’s nearly impossible.”

I nearly choke.

“Jesus, why do you do that?” I cough, grabbing a skee-ball.

He shrugs like he doesn’t know he’s a walking sex joke factory. “Force of habit.”

“That,” I wave the ball in his face, “That’s what I mean. You always have something to say, even when someone’s being an arse. ”

There was that one time he snapped—really snapped—and the memory sends a chill down my spine, but I don’t bring it up. Not yet. I will. When the time’s right.

“Force of habit, I guess,” he mutters again, kicking the toe of his boot into the floor.

“Come on, you can do better than that.”

He hesitates. “I like seeing others happy. It’s like… I get to live through them for a second. Like it’s me feeling it instead.”

“Like a mask,” I whisper.

“Exactly.”

“Why not just be happy yourself?”

“I was once.” He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the red strands until the darker brown beneath starts to show through. “But that only led to the people I loved being taken from me. When I stopped being happy, they stopped dying.”

“That makes no sense.”

“It does to me.” His voice is quieter now. “I was happy with my mother—she got cancer. I was happy with my father and he got shot. But when I stopped trying to chase happiness and started giving it to others... People who deserved to die did and I got to keep what mattered.”

“You don’t actually believe that,” I say, heart aching. “Even if you do… you said it yourself. Everyone is safe now.”

“So why not keep doing what works?” He laughs, and it’s not the kind that makes me smile—it’s the kind that makes my skin crawl. “Why would I change that?”

“Because you deserve more.”

“I don’t.” His voice is steel. “I was handed everything—education, protection, family—by people who didn’t have to do shit for me. The least I can do is be useful. Be selfless. ”

“But you’re not,” I say, and when he turns to look at me, I grin.

I don't know what demon has suddenly possessed me but I can't keep hearing it–the self hate laced in his words, the fight he seems to have thought he's lost in his head, the fact that he actually believes for a second he doesn't deserve more .

“I'm not?” He murmurs, wrapping his fingers around my wrist, and pulling me closer until our chests brush and our mouths are almost touching.

“You’re selfish. Especially with me.” I whisper.

“You're right.” His gaze is on me, like he’s studying every flicker behind my eyes as he leans in.

“I’m selfish as hell when it comes to you. And I won’t apologize for it.” He says softly—so fucking soft I almost don’t realize what he’s doing until his breath hits my lips. It's so sudden how close he's gotten in such a short period of time that it catches me off guard enough to make me freeze.

He’s so close that I could bridge the distance with a sigh, but instead, I pull back.

His lips hover where mine just were, his breath caught in his throat, and something shifts behind his eyes.

It’s not anger. It’s not even disappointment.

It’s hurt . Before I can blink, that look is gone, disappearing behind the mask he always seems to wear—the one he claims he never has to put on around me.

“I thought we were past kissing being too intimate for us, sunshine,” he says with a crooked grin that doesn’t reach his eyes.

God, that smile breaks something in me. Not because it’s fake, but because it’s so familiar. I’ve worn it myself. I know exactly what kind of ache you have to feel to wear that expression.

“Moe…” I whisper.

“No, it’s fine,” he shrugs, stepping back like the moment didn’t just bruise him. “I get it. I'll think to ask before I kiss you next time. Better yet, I’ll only kiss you when when we're fucking. That's how you want it, isn't it?”

My jaw clenches. “That’s not fair.”

“It definitely feels fair. You let me get close, only to push me away so quickly that I’m surprised I don’t have whiplash. But still, I thought maybe, after everything we’ve been through, you’d trust me enough to let your guard down,” he replies, keeping his tone surprisingly calm.

“You think this is about trust?” My voice rises just slightly, tight and shaking. “I am trusting you, Moe. I got on a fucking plane for you. I signed a contract without knowing what it was for. I’ve let you see more of me than anyone else ever has—”

“Except your heart,” he cuts in, quiet now. “You’ll fuck me, sleep beside me, cry on me, but you won’t let me kiss you without it feeling like I’m asking for too much.”

“It is too much,” I snap, even though I hate the way the words taste. “You don’t get it—”

“Then make me,” he interrupts. “For once, Ray. Just say what the hell’s going on in that head of yours instead of hiding.”

I look away. My throat feels as if it's closing in on itself. It’s all too much–the lights flashing around us, the kids yelling as tickets shoot from the machines, all the smells mingling in ways I thought was appealing but now make my stomach turn.

“This was never supposed to be serious,” I say, my voice barely audible. “You were never supposed to matter this much.”

He doesn’t answer. God, I don’t want to look at him. I don’t want to see if those words hurt him just as much as they hurt coming from my lips, but I force myself to meet his eyes. Big mistake because the pain hidden in those stormy irises is nearly enough to buckle me.

He shakes his head once and mutters, “Forget it.”

“I had someone once,” I say before I can stop myself. “Someone who...”

He stops, stiffening like a statue making me pause, but I’ve fought worse battles and survived so I clear my throat and force myself to keep looking at him even though all I want to do is run and hide.

“He wasn't you Moe.” I say quietly expecting him to soften at least a little like he usually does for me but instead his chin tilts and he looks down at me like he’s waiting for me to hit him.

“Lance didn’t tell me I was pretty or stand too close to me in public.

He didn't let me get mad or hold me when I cried.

He didn't touch me like he loved me. Everything was wrong all the time. My hair. My clothes. The fact I couldn't always cover the bruises with makeup–” My voice breaks and I hate that it does. It's even worse that Moe doesn’t speak. I’m almost fucking positive not a single breath escapes him.

“So yeah, maybe I hesitate when you try to kiss me. Maybe I flinch. It’s not because I don’t want it, but because every time something feels real, I remember what it cost me last time.” I rasp.

His hand lifts again, slow and deliberate, brushing his knuckles over my cheek as if I might shatter.

“I’m trying, Moe. I really am. But letting you in… it scares the hell out of me.”

“I’m already in,” he says softly with the damn grin I knew I needed, but didn't want to ask for. “You just haven’t let yourself notice yet.”

I blink hard, trying to suppress the heat rising in my throat.

He opens his mouth as if he’s going to say more—like something massive and irreversible is on the tip of his tongue—but all that comes out is, “Let’s go win you some damn tickets, sunshine.”

“Thank you.” I say quietly with a furrow in my brows. It's not what I expected him to say, but somehow it was definitely what I needed to hear.

Moe starts to snicker as I pick up our cup of coins and lead us to the next game. He has to have the worst timing because what the hell could he find so funny right now?

“What's so funny?” I grumble, shooting him a sideways glance.

Of course he's grinning at me like I hang the moon and stars.

“Look at us having our first argument. We’re fucking adorable.”

“Oh my God, you’re insufferable.” I groan .

Despite myself, I can't fight my grin, so I turn and slide into the leather racing seat as he slips a token into the slot. The arcade machines buzz and flash around us like nothing’s changed.

But everything has.