Page 55 of The Bronze Garza

I press my hand over my mouth and fight hard against the impulse to go in there and make it all real. What did he call me last night?Self-absorbed.How embarrassed I’d be if I went in there and realized I’m wrong.

With a frustrated noise, he lets go of himself and falls back onto the bed. Covers his face with his hands and growls an aggravated “Fuck!” into them.

Nodding to myself, I back away slowly.

Every ounce of excitement and hope and desire seeps out of me like vapor as I skitter off down the hall.

I was right not to go inside.

Lyra Henderson just doesn’t do it for Torin Garza.

Not even in his fucking fantasies.

ChapterFifteen

“What’s her name?”

Lyra

I lug my bags down thestairs.

They’re heavy, but I’ll be damned if I ask Mr. Assface for help with them.

I’m itching with impatience to get out of this house. My attraction to him is suffocating me. And his revulsion for me is doing nothing for my self-esteem.

Patrick is on his way to pick me up. I’m not too keen on being at the house without Dad there, given everything, but it’s better than being here. Withhim. Choking on unrequited lust that’s slowly morphing into hate.

He’s in the recliner in the living room, watching TV, a lowball glass of amber liquid in hand. Light from the television flickers through the darkened room.

With an exaggerated grunt, I haul my bags to the front door, making obvious strain noises with each step to see if he would volunteer to help.

He doesn’t.

Not even a glance in my direction.

Dickwad.

Leaving my bags by the door, I head to the kitchen for a bottled water.

On the television, the movie he’s watching transitions to an intimate scene. Lips touching, hands pawing, clothes shedding, all to a smooth, sexy soundtrack.

Ah, yes, the overrated recreation that causes men to rape, women to be sold and enslaved, husbands to cheat, families ruined and lives to end.

That over-hyped act that makes women, likeme, stupid.

I take a sip of water as I pad to the living room and jut my hip against the back of the couch, attention on the flat-screen. “What’s that like?”

Without turning his head, Torin flicks just his gaze to me, as if I’m not worthy of his full attention. “What’s what like?”

“Consensual sex.”

His gaze lingers on the side of my face for one beat, two beats, three beats, then shifts back to the TV. “Depends. Can be anywhere along the scale of bad, meh, good, great, and mind-blowing.”

“What part of the scale do you usually experience?”

“Between meh and great.”

“Well, that’s unexpectedly honest.”