By the time I forced my feet to leave his floor, back down to my apartment, my head felt like it was splitting. The jacket weighed more than the envelope in my hand.
I dropped the cash on the counter without looking at it, almost flinching away. It didn’t matter. I was going to give itback one way or another. I had to. I didn’t want to owe him anything.
The jacket, though…
I should’ve hung it on the back of a chair. Left it by the door so I wouldn’t forget. Tossed it straight out if I had any sense.
But when I came out of the shower, hair damp and face bare, it was there on my bed. Sprawled across the blanket as if it belonged there. Like it had always belonged there.
I froze.
It wasn’t Miles’s jacket. It wasn’t soft familiarity or the memory of someone who cared out loud. It was heavy, dark, suffocating in ways I didn’t understand. And yet, my hands reached for it anyway.
Before I knew it, I’d slipped under the covers with it pulled to my chest. The sleeves tangled in my arms, and the collar pressed to my face. It smelled like him.
I didn’t mean to hold on. I didn’t mean to let my eyes close. But the weight of it anchored me…
I fell asleep with Joshua Lockhart’s jacket in my arms.
Chapter Seventeen
Joshua
Sleep didn’t come.
I’d shut the door, locked it, and told myself I was done. That was supposed to be it. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw her standing there. That damn envelope stretched out in her shaking hands. Her still in that uniform, practically drowning in it. Looking at me like—like I was one of them.
Like I’d bought her.
My stomach twisted.
Why the hell would she think that? After tonight. After I—
I paid because I could. Because it kept her away from them. Because she deserved to breathe for one damn second.
Not because I wanted something back.
But she’d come all the way here. At midnight. Just to shove the money at me like I was another bastard with my hand out.
What does she think I am? What the fuck does she think of me?
I turned onto my side, restless, dragging a hand down my face. My chest felt too tight, my head too loud.
Why’d she knock again? Why didn’t she just leave? And why did it feel worse—so much worse—that she thought I wanted her body in return, than when she actually hated me?
Because at least hate was clean. Simple. But this?
Bullshit.
How the fuck could she think that?
After everything, I sat upstairs with her; I kept her safe; I spent the kind of money most people wouldn’t see in a year just to anchor her there.
I wrapped her up, for fuck’s sake. Covered her. And she still looked at me like every other bastard waving bills in her face.
My fault.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Yeah, that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? My fault. From day one, I made her life hell. I made her feel like she didn’t belong. Like she was nothing. So why the fuck would she believe me now? Why would she believe I could be different?
