Page 58 of Worth the Fight

“I’ll be the first to admit I’m a vain son of a bitch. If you knew how many hours I spent in the gym before the fire, you would probably laugh. I was obsessed with adding definition to this muscle group or that one, and then I’d walk around shirtless to show them off. To be admired. My ego didn’t need any stroking, that’s for sure.”

“You were proud of your body. That’s something I’ll never be, so I’m sure I’d be the same.”

“I felt like the fire was fate’s way of telling me it didn’t matter how damn perfect I was because there were other things that were way more important. It’s like I was marked for being self-centered.”

“I disagree with you.”

“Yeah, well, I used to work out because it was the way to feed my ego. Now I work out to save my soul.” His words strike me to the core. A fresh round of tears well, and I fight them back, trying not to think about him alone in the gym, struggling against some unforeseen beast in his mind. “Most nights I go late because there is no one there to watch me. I go late because when my skin tears like it did last night, it bleeds through my shirt . . . and that’s the last thing I need people to see, to gossip about, or pity me for.”

“Do you really think anyone cares what your back looks like? You’re a hero, Grady. You tried to save him.”

His chuckle isn’t convincing. “Tell that to my ex-girlfriend who broke up with me because she couldn’t handle this. The scars. The nightmares. My fucked-up head. I mean, I’m sure I wasn’t a peach after everything happened. But when I overheard her on the phone telling a friend how nasty my scars were and how there was no way she could look at them every day without cringing. How she couldn’t fake being okay with them . . . well, that tells me people do care.”

“She’s a shallow bitch.” The words are out, and I don’t care that they are because she is one. I can picture him—a man struggling to heal physically and mentally and what comments like those did to him and his psyche.

“Perhaps she is, but she isn’t the only one. This is a small town, Dylan. Everyone knows everyone, and they’re all curious about what happened to pretty-boy Malone. They all want to see how bad he looks. They all want to know if the scars are really that horrible, and then, of course, there are the assholes who question if I was selfish and tried to save myself instead of trying to save Drew.”

“No one thinks that.”

“I bet Shelby does. How could she not? Every time I look her in the eyes, I know I didn’t do enough. I know she looks at me and wonders how I couldn’t save him but I could sure as shit save myself.”

There are so many things I want to say to him. That he was trying to get to Drew to save him. That he wasn’t being selfish. So many truths I could tell him that would negate what he just said, but I know they’ll fall on deaf ears. He feels how he feels, and no one is going to change that. Least of all me.

“Will you turn around?” I ask him finally, hoping that we’re both lying here naked is enough for him not to feel like he’s the only vulnerable one.

He doesn’t respond.

There’s a momentary hesitation of indecision before he abruptly scoots to the edge of the bed. “I’ve gotta get to work on the playroom. I’m behind schedule.”

And with that, I’m left alone in Grady’s bed with the scent of him still on my skin, the desire for more of him still aching in my lower belly, and the sight of his bare ass walking to the bathroom door before he shuts it behind him.

CHAPTER TWENTY

DYLAN

You walked away.

You left me there.

You made me feel as if you didn’t care.

How can this be?

How can we love?

How can we . . .

“Grrr,” I growl in frustration and stare at the last line I’ve jotted on the page in front of me. I can’t get it right and it’s driving me crazy.

I squeeze my eyes shut as the pounding outside begins yet again.

He’s been swinging his hammer for over two hours. It’s an oddly soothing rhythm in the background to my work, which is as comforting as it is harsh.

But it does nothing to combat the sudden conflict roiling around within me. The overthinking that is messing up my creative process. Sure, what happened last night was pleasurable in so many ways I lost count. After being with Jett, who I thought rocked my world in bed, he doesn’t hold a candle to the unexpectedness of the man I was with last night. It’s enough to throw a girl for a loop.

No, not a loop—a tangled mess of rope with frayed ends that are twisted and gnarled together.

I watch him hammer another nail in place. Hating the confusion I have and wondering if he feels it, too. Is he as uncertain about where we go from here or is he already done and over it like most guys would be?