Page 95 of Resist

It’s fitting, though, because as strange as it sounds given the circumstances, he seems to be the first man who my feet are tripping over so that I don’t fall for him.

But I think it’s too late.

That’s why this hurts so damn much.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Ryker

“Goddammit, Vaughn!”

I clench my fist, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to throw it into the wall.

You fucking begged, Ryker.

Begged like a man with no shame. Like a woman who was desperate to keep a man.

Like fucking Roxanne.

I slam a fist down onto my kitchen table and sit there with a clenched jaw and an awful fucking pain in my chest to match the one in my hand now that won’t go away.

Something is wrong with you, Lockhart.

Something is very fucking wrong.

You don’t let them in. You don’t let yourself care about them. You don’t hire Stuart to chase down GPS signals so that you can make sure she is all right and then fabricate bullshit reasons why she left in your mind and accuse her of them.

“Fuck!” I shout it out into the empty room and then lean back with a sigh as I think about those first few frantic moments I had when I woke up and she was gone.

The fear when I saw the balcony door open and then later the relief when I realized we’d never closed it the night before.

The goddamn woman got to me. Got to me when I swore off women. When I swore that after Roxanne, I was going to put aside crazy for a while.

And yet here I am.

Sitting here pissed off that she’s pulling away when normally I’d thank my lucky stars for that. Sitting here with a glass of whiskey in my hands instead of behind my desk looking at all the angles of the senator’s situation and seeing if I want to take him on as a client.

That idea just makes me want to pour another drink.

That idea makes me think of Vaughn and try to figure out their connection and then just get more pissed off.

Guess I found my exception to the rules.

Christ if I know what to do about her.

The bar is empty.

The Thursday-night crowd has left already, and only the diehards and the drunks remain.

I don’t fit in here, and that’s exactly what I want. To slink into the corner by myself and wonder what it is about this woman who’s gotten to me.

“Hey, handsome. I’m Sandy. What’ll you have?” The bottle-dyed blonde with dark roots and lipstick painted wider than her lips slides onto the stool across from me. She has her notepad in hand to take my order, but I’m pretty damn certain she’s not here to figure out what drink to serve me.

“I’ve got one, thanks,” I say and lift my half-full glass up.

A slight giggle that I’m sure is a practiced move to make her tits jiggle with the motion. “I know something that can make you feel a whole lot better than a quick buzz.”

“Is that so?” I ask, nowhere near interested.