“Aren’t you?” I demand, pulling up my jeans.
“No,” he says. “Not for me. But you’re making me afraid for you.”
He climbs off the bed and pulls on a pair of dark bootcut jeans, doing that little bounce to get his junk situated, and I have to tear my eyes away because somehow even that looks hot on him. His bare feet on the warm tile, bare arms with just one tattoo from the secret society we both once belonged to, bare torso with a scar that might as well announce that he’s mine, those thighs in those jeans… It’s enough to make the strongest man cave.
“Don’t worry about me,” I say, crouching to look under the bed for my shoes. “I just like to know there’s somewhere close, just in case.”
“I’ll make you coffee,” Duke says, padding out of the bedroom and into the open floor plan of his swanky apartment. I sit back on my heels and watch him go, my throat thick with some unnamed emotion. He looks so good here, so at home, in his own place, in his element. He looks like he belongs here, and it kills me a little because I know that means he never belonged in Arkansas with me—that he never will.
He belongs in this modern apartment in a glamorous city, in the black silk sheets and black tile kitchen that’s not gloomy because the floor-to-ceiling windows let in enough light to shine off everything, to make it look chic and tasteful, with his luxury espresso maker and heated floors and fancy little soaps.
He looks up from where he’s standing at the island, making our espressos, and smiles at me, and I can’t breathe.
Fuck.
This is so not good.
I quickly look away, remember my shoes are by the front door with my coat, and leave the bedroom. I keep my eyes ahead as I pass him, pretending I don’t feel his gaze on me.
When I’m ready, I turn back.
He’s still standing there, back to me, his hair sticking up in a cowlick in one spot. Overcome by a sudden tenderness, I join him in the kitchen, wrap my arms around him from behind, nestle my chin into the crook between his neck and shoulder.
He makes a sound that’s somewhere between moan and growl, leaning his head into me, pressing his cheek to mine. We stand there for a minute, and then I run my palm down the flat plain of his hard abs. He catches my hand, covering it with his, keeping me from making the moment into something sexual.
Something bearable.
I pull away, and he turns, holding up the little espresso cup like a question. I want to tell him I don’t have time, but my hand reaches out instead. He widens his stance, then hooks afinger into the top of my jeans, pulling me forward, between his knees.
“You’re so damn sexy,” he says, a smile spreading those fucking perfect lips.
I think he’s about to say more, but instead, he turns and picks up his cup, then brushes past me and around the counter to sit on one of the sleek, tall barstools. I join him after a second.
“I understand why you think you have to be near your rehab. When you know you’ll never need it again, you’ll change your mind. And I’ll be here with you when you do.”
“How can you know for sure, though?” I ask, hating that I can’t be like him, so certain of everything. That it’s still affecting my life, my decisions, even when I’m clean.
“You just do,” Duke says. “You can’t live in fear forever, Colt.”
“Easy for you to say,” I mutter. “You’ve never relapsed.”
Duke sips his espresso. “Maybe that’s why I never did. There was a rock bottom. I almost died, and I knew I didn’t want to anymore. I did once. I almost ended it.”
“Really?” I ask, feeling shitty for being a dick about it. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“Yeah.”
We’re quiet a minute.
“Remember the last time I texted you?” he asks.
“Not really,” I admit. “Remind me?”
“It was the night I got shot,” he says. “That’s what everyone remembers. A drive-by shooting in a good part of town. No one talks about what happened before that. I guess Baron’s the only one who really knows. I was with him and your sister in that fucked up relationship, and I was so damn miserable. I didn’t see a way out, so I was going to make one. I probably wouldn’t be here if Baron hadn’t found me. He talked me out of it, said that whatever I needed to do, I could do it, even if thatmeant leaving him and Mabel. And he didn’t go back on his word later, when I was out of danger. I’ll never forget that.”
“You texted me before you were going to commit suicide?” I ask, the espresso turning sour in my stomach. Of course I heard about him being shot, but I barely remember him texting me—he did it a few times. I don’t remember the last time, except that later, I realized he didn’t text anymore.
“I’m not laying any of this on you,” he says, holding up a hand. “It was my shit. I take responsibility for that. I couldn’t seem to get clean, and I felt like I never would, and I’d never get to have the life I wanted, and I was scared your sister was going to convince Baron to kill me… It was a lot. I had a lot in my system too. So much that when I went to the hospital, they said I couldn’t survive recovery from the surgery and detox at the same time. They literally gave me drugs while I was there so I wouldn’t stroke out.”
