Page 131 of Lawton

I skimmed my hands lower, over her panties, front and back. The feel of her skin made everything worse. I thought of the nights I'd held her in my arms. I thought of the times she'd trembled under my touch. I thought of the ring I'd wanted to put on her finger.

After tonight, I'd never touch her again.

I hated her. And damn it, part of me still loved her.

Fuck.

When my search came up empty, I pulled away. My fingers burned from the feel of her skin. I flexed my hands, wanting to dip them in ice, anything to purge the feel of her.

"Well?" she said. "You happy now?"

Happy? An image of that poster flashed in my brain. Before I knew it, I'd lunged for the table. I lifted the thing with both hands and sent it crashing into the nearby wall. I whirled to face her, and I felt myself freeze.

Her eyes were wide, and her face was white. Her lips were clamped as if holding back a scream. At the fear in her eyes, I should've been happy.

I wasn't.

I cursed under my breath. I wasn't going to do this.

Working hard to keep my breathing steady, I walked slowly to the opposite wall. I leaned against it, facing Chloe. I stood, utterly still, fighting the urge to go for the chairs.

Chloe met my gaze head-on. She didn't flinch, and she didn't look away. She gave me a snotty smile. "Feel better?"

Why lie? "No."

"Good."

"Whatever."

Her voice rose. "Are you gonna tell me what the hell's going on?"

As an answer, I only shrugged.

"I deserve to know," she said.

Now, that was funny. I tried to laugh, but it came out wrong. I motioned to the basement, the chair, the whole setup. "You talking about this?" I made a scoffing sound. "You know, it's a lot better than you deserve. So if I were you, I'd shut up while you're ahead."

"Shut up?" she said. "You asshole."

"Takes one to know one."

She glared up at me. "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

"Like you don't know."

The way I saw it, it was confession time – for Chloe, not for me. Somewhere in my pockets, I still had Bishop's cell phone, along with hers. I could call her bluff and show her the proof.

But for some twisted reason, I wanted the story straight from her. So I crossed my arms and waited.

But all she gave me were a load of questions. What's wrong? Why are you doing this? And then my favorite. Have you lost your fucking mind?

Why yes, Chloe, I have lost my fucking mind. So fucking what?

The way it looked, I wasn't the only one who was losing it. She was ranting now, cursing and struggling, and cursing some more. The language was surprisingly creative. I had to give her that.

Funny, I didn't know she had it in her. Then again, it shouldn't have been a surprise. The whole nice-girl routine had obviously been an act. I recalled the douchebag that I'd met at the fence.

He'd offered me party girls of the paid variety. WasthatChloe's gig? Did she entertain at home? It might explain the weirdness with the house. Or not. Who knows?