“I need a drink,” I announce, before he asks anything else.
He follows me out of the bedroom and watches me open the fridge and grab two beers, then head to the couch. Rebel drops next to me, close enough to reach out and touch my thigh if he wanted. He will not leave, and he is going to ask questions. Might as well fill in the blanks before he asks.
“The day I…” I pick at the label on the beer bottle. Shit, I’m not usually this nervous. I don’t talk to people about my issues. “When you came back here the first time.”
“And you were angry as fuck.” He not so helpfully points out.
“Yeah, that.” I give him a dirty look, but it doesn’t bother him, in fact, he seems amused. “I’d been to see my uncle. He has dementia. Very advanced. He doesn’t remember Colt.”
“Shit.”
“Bet you feel bad about how you treat Colt now.” I shift sideways, pulling my legs up onto the couch, and kick his thigh with my bare foot.
“How do I treat him?” He lifts a brow.
“Probably the same way you treat everyone else,” I snort.
Rebel grabs my foot, stopping me from nudging his thigh again, and a bolt of electricity runs up my leg.
“He doesn’t remember me either. But he… He thought I was my mom.”
No need to explain, his expression tells me he gets it.
“So that’s why you came home and jumped my bones.”
Even with him holding my foot, I dig my toes into the meat of his thigh, enough that he moves his hand and grabs my ankle. When he lifts it and rests my heel on his leg, I stop breathing.
He knows what he is doing when he strokes the skin just above my instep, circling his thumb slowly.
“Why’d you leave LA?”
The abrupt topic change has my guard snapping back into place. I attempt to tug my leg back, but he doesn’t let me. His eyes bore into me, waiting for me to answer. My stubborn tendencies are emerging again.
“Why did you come here so pissed?”
“Shit’s going down at the club.”
“What kind of shit?”
“Why’d you leave LA?”
“You get to ask me hard questions, and I have to acceptshit going down at the club?”
“Now you’re getting it.”
“You’re a dick.”
“That’s not the worst thing I’ve been called by a woman.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”
“It’s dangerous, and I’m not about to drag anyone into that.”
“Why come here then? You want to work off some steam because you and theclubhad a bad night? I'm just some chick you want to fuck and don’t matter enough for you to be worried about dragging me in?”
I try to pull my foot away. His grip on my ankle tightens, but he turns his hand and slips it under the baggy pants I’m wearing, running it up my calf. He pauses behind my knee, stopping me from moving.
“We had a bad night,” he shifts sideways. “And I need something to take me away from all the shit going on. But no one ever said you don’t matter.”
