"But areyoureligious?" I press.
He lifts a brow at me. "You wanna know if I believe in God?"
"Yes." I tuck my hand under my cheek. "Do you?"
He thinks about the question for a moment. His hand meets my waist, stroking the curve up to my chest and back down to my hip. "The word 'no'is on my tongue, but... then I've had my tongue inside you, so maybe He does exist."
I giggle again and bat my lashes at him. My smile disappears quickly when I think about my response to the same question. "I don't."
His big hand is hot on my skin. "Why not?"
"I don't want to believe that such a powerful presence exists and yet, such terrible things happen to innocent people."
He exhales slowly through his nose. "Like Konnor."
"Yeah."
There are several seconds of silence in which Max's eyes narrow and fix on me in contemplation. "I have a picture of Butch," he finally says, "holding me and Bronson when we were babies. He's got boxing gloves on. One of us held up by each big fucking bicep. Blood and sweat all over his face, grinning from ear to fucking ear."
I'm surprised my mouth doesn't drop open from him willingly sharing something personal with me. "He was proud of you?"
He scoffs a little. "He'd just won a championship... The guy he'd fought that day died. Brain injury."
My throat rolls. "Oh, Max."
"God doesn't do terrible things to people, Little One. People do terrible things to people."
My face falls. I struggle with the words for a moment before admitting, "I worry about you."
"You don't need to," he assures me.
"Do you mean that?" I study his face. "That I don't need to. You're not gonna get hurt?"
He grins. "It's cute you're worried about me."
"I'm always going to be." My chest tightens and I'm suddenly picturing him stomping on someone's head. "You're a gangster, Max."
"You weren't gonna ask questions," he says, his tone low and smooth.
My pulse begins to race. "That was a statement, not a question."
"What is a gangster?" he bites out. "It's a fucking Hollywood word. We don't use that term."
"Okay." I swallow for courage and mutter, "What term do you use?"
He removes his hand from my waist and the absence of it affects me deeply. Leaning up onto his elbow, he glares down at me. "That's a fucking question."
"Do you hurt people?"
"That's another!"
I feel the backs of my eyes burning and I stifle a little whimper.
He exhales slowly, his jaw working as he reaches for the words. "Only people like me," he states. Stroking my cheek, he adds, "Not people like you."
And my heart sinks and he can see it in my eyes. Unease and disappointment curdle together in my belly and he sees that too. His face gets tighter, his eyes dilate, and I get smaller, crushed beneath his glare.
I sniffle and touch his arm. "But people like you have people like me that love them."
