The question is so loaded, I nearly laugh. If only he knew the half of it. "The way he treats me? You met him for five minutes, Miles. You don't know anything about him," I say, yanking free.
"Do you?" he fires back. "Because I don't care if it was five minutes. I was in that office, Brielle. I saw the way he looked at you, the way he talked to you. The way he—"
"Are you kidding me right now?" I cut in, scowling at him before he can remind me that I had Asher's dick down my throat while he watched. Shoppers stream around us, some glancing, most not. As far as they're concerned, we're just two people having a discussion. That's the beauty of Rodeo Drive. No one gives a shit if you're famous, infamous, or if you live in obscurity. If you're on Rodeo and you dress like you belong, they assume you do and mind their business. "You wished it was you in my mouth the whole fucking time. Don't act like you're any better than him when you were practically jerking off the whole fucking time."
"Maybe I'm an asshole," he concedes. "But there's a difference between an asshole and an abusive prick, Brielle."
"Whatever." I roll my eyes at him. "We both know you aren't here now because you actually care about my well-being. Before you saw the bruises—bruises I enjoyed every minute of receiving, by the way—you were fully prepared to try to worm your way into my bed. Well, take the hint, Miles. Unlike half the continent, I don't want you. I'llneverwant you."
His mouth works, opening and closing, and then he blinks like I've said something shocking. "Jesus Christ. You're in love with him."
The air goes out of me all at once, leaving me floundering, desperate to deny a truth I know damn well I can't deny. I want to slap him for reading me so well. Hell, maybe I want to slap myself for being so easy to read. I don't know. Instead, Ijust laugh, which is more snarl than actual amusement. "What's between us is none of your business."
He steps closer, his tone suddenly gentle. "Do you really think he feels the same way about you? You aren't that naive, Brielle. Men like him don't fall in love. They use. They own. They control. And when it stops being fun, they move on to the next."
The words crack something inside me, something I didn't know was still capable of cracking. It hurts a hell of a lot more than I want to admit.
I open my mouth to tell him that he's wrong, but nothing comes out. I hate that he's gotten under my skin. I hate that a tiny part of me is afraid he's right, and that once our agreement ends, Asher will move on like I never mattered at all, while I remain stuck on him the same way I've always been stuck on him.
"You don't know him," I finally manage, my voice raw.
Miles shakes his head, looking genuinely sad. "Maybe not, but I know plenty of men just like him. You might not be willing to admit to me what he is, but we both know you know. It's written all over your face."
I want to tell him to go fuck himself because Asher is nothing like anyone he knows, but the words tangle and die because he's right, damn him. I know exactly what Asher is. I know because he's spent years doing every awful thing he could think up to me. He weaponized my feelings for him, wielding them like a sword until love and hate felt like the same damn thing.
But Miles is wrong, too. Because Asher didn't do any of those awful things in a vacuum. The whole time Asher was tormenting me, trying to make me hate him, I was doing the same damn thing to him, trying to force him to admit that he loves me.
Regardless of what Miles thinks, I'm not some helpless little girl who needs to be protected. I'm not innocent, and I never have been. Asher and I are two sides of the same destructivecoin. We always have been. We hurt each other because, sometimes, pain is the only way we feel anything. It's the only thing that makes us forget the fucking guilt. And it's the only thing that's just ours, carved out of each other's flesh and bones with our own hands.
But that isn't for Miles to understand. It has nothing to do with him at all. And it wouldn't change his mind about Asher or my place in his life even if I did say it, because guys like Miles will always see women as helpless and inferior. So I don't bother trying to explain. Instead, I shove past him, moving so fast I don't look where I'm going.
"Brielle, look out!" he shouts from behind me just as I step off the curb, but it's too late.
A horn blares and tires screech as the startled man in the white Mercedes tries to stop in time, his wide, fearful eyes locked with mine through the windshield. He does everything he can to avoid me, but there is no avoiding fate. There never has been.
The car slams into me, and the impact is like being hit by a fucking train. My body flies sideways, then I'm tumbling across the pavement, nothing but screaming pain and terror.
Everything goes black before I even hit the ground.
There's a moment right after you come back from the dead, when you aren't sure if you're actually alive or not. Maybe you're stuck in some dream, your mind too broken to admit thatit's over for you. Maybe this is what death is, just a painful, confusing roar.
But I've been here before, and I know better. Death is silent. Only life hurts like this.
It takes me three tries to get my eyes open. The world is blinding white, so bright I almost convince myself I really am dead. But there's something tight on my arm, and a shrill beep that sounds like it's keeping time with my heartbeat.
I'm cold, then hot, and then cold again. My teeth chatter so loud I'm sure it's audible all the way back to Rodeo.
Someone is crying.
No, that's not crying. It's breathing. Heavy, choked…the kind of breathing that says more about pain than tears ever could.
I turn my head, which sets off an explosion in my skull. I fight through the pain, squinting until the blob beside me slowly takes shape.
Asher.
He looks worse than I feel. He's pale, stone-faced, his suit rumpled, his hair wild, his hands twisted together in his lap as if the way he clutches them is the only thing keeping him together.
"Asher," I croak.
