Page 65 of Just Come Over

The trees below were a patch of dappled green darkness like jungle camouflage. Beyond them, lights shone gold from houses and streets, until you reached the strip of absolute black that was Manakau Harbour. And he was burning with a fury that couldn’t be denied anymore. At Zora, for saying it, for believing it, even though it was what he’d told her to believe. At himself, for not telling her, and not being willing to live with the consequences, once he’d made his choice. And, above all, at Dylan, who’d taken a laughing, excited, beautiful girl of twenty and turned her into a woman who couldn’t believe.

He wanted to hit his brother, to shout at him, to let him know exactly what he thought of him. But Dylan was dead.

I’m not going to take you with me when I get rich and get out of here. I’m going to leave you alone.

Go in the house, baby. You’re useless.

He lowered his head to his hands and rested it there, pressing his forehead into the darkness, and breathed. He breathed because he couldn’t hit anything, and because he couldn’t have the one thing he needed most, and he’d needed it for so long. And then he stood up, arched his back, opened his mouth and let the pain out.

“Aaarrrrgggghhhh.”

The howl reverberated in the night. Two doors down, a dog barked, and another joined in. Rhys wanted to bark, too. He wanted to bay at the moon until the frustration and the fury and the pain were gone.

A musical chime. Not his phone. The doorbell.

Wonderful. He’d sounded like he was dying, probably violently, and the neighbors were checking. He stood still and waited. If he didn’t answer, maybe they’d think it had come from another house. The last thing he wanted to do was open his door, show them who he was tonight, and have them see him, his shirt damp, his hair unkempt from where he’d grabbed it, and think it was about the loss. That he was wallowing in it, that he couldn’t take the learnings and apply them to the next time. That he couldn’t pick himself up again.

That he wasn’t a winner.

Another chime. Doorbell again. He didn’t move.Go away. I can’t. I’m at the bloody, bitter end. I can’t.

Another. Then three more.

Bloodyhell.He shoved off the acrylic railing, raked his hand through his hair again to smooth it, went to the door, got his Polite Face on, and opened it.

Zora.

Her hair was tousled, and she was breathing hard. Her hand was on her chest, and her other hand clutched her keys, the same way she’d done when he’d left her.

She said, “You could... answer your door. And it’s uphill to your house. I didn’t realize... how much. Also, my feet hurt.”

He looked down. Chocolate-brown suede shoes with a strap swooping from the outside of the pointed toe, crossing the arch of her foot, and landing at the inside of her ankle, at that soft, sensitive spot where her pulse beat.

“Did you walk?” he asked.

“I ran.” She had her arms around herself. “Can I... come inside?”

He stepped back, let her in, and shut the door, and she said, “Judge the man I see.”

He wasn’t sure that was such a good idea anymore. “Yeh.”

“I judge him, then. I see him. And I want him.”

She couldn’t breathe before he kissed her. After that, shereallycouldn’t breathe.

A second, and then she was tipping, and off her feet. Because he’d picked her up.

“Rhys,” she said, and he said, “Yeh,” and headed down the stairs with her in his arms, past the kitchen, into the bedroom, where he got onto one knee on the bed, somehow while still holding her.Bloody hell, boy,she thought hazily,you’re that strong,and then he was setting her down. Gently.

“Hang on,” he said, then turned and hit a switch, and a light came on from above the padded headboard, directly onto the spot where she lay.

She said, “That might be too much.”

He was frowning, his black brows drawn down, and she was swamped by a wave of pure lust. She wanted to put her tongue into the dimple in his chin. She wanted to lie over him, hold his head, and lick into his mouth. She wanted him totouchher. “Too much what?” he asked.

“Light.”

“Oh.” He smiled. Slowly. “Nah.”