Page 19 of Judge's Mercy

“You gotta hold on tight,” I croak out.

“What?”

My voice fails me as I reach back, holding my hands open. She hesitates but finally understands and places her palms on mine. I wrap her arms around me, pressing her body tightly against mine. Suddenly, I feel like my brain has lost its ability to differentiate between real and phantom pain, so my skin feels like it's on fire, every scar and wound reopening and throbbing with unrelenting agony as I release her hands and start the engine.

We eat the miles between the ranch and her house, and it’s all I can do to focus on the road and keep us safe. Sweat drips down my hairline, soaks my shirt under my arms, and trickles down my back. Thank God for the leather cut between us, or the front of her shirt would be drenched. God, if she knew the ugliness that’s only millimeters from her face, she wouldn’t be okay being this close. It’d make her sick like it makes me.

Then she rests her cheek against my back, and I’m tormented for a whole new reason. Despite the phantom pain from her touch, I don’t want this moment to ever end. Fighting against my own mind and its lies, I cling to the fact that my scars have healed and that her touch feels good. Because damn, it feels incredible to have her this close, and for the first time in my life, I revel in physical contact instead of recoiling from it, and it's exhilarating in a way I never thought possible.

Too soon, or not fast enough, I pull into the parking lot of her apartment complex. I cut the engine and am surprised at how much I don’t want her to let go. Now that I’ve experienced her touch, the thought of it never happening again is a new and worse torture. Unable to delay the inevitable, I climb off and see a sleepy-faced Myla, who stretches wide and produces a big yawn.

“Did you fall asleep?” I ask.

“I must have.” She blinks. “That can’t be safe.”

“I’d have to agree with you there,” I say, dumbfounded. The woman was flying down a highway going fifty-five miles per hour and passed out cold. Either she’s exhausted, or her concussion is affecting her more than we know.

“Thanks for the ride,” she says. I help her off the bike and follow her to her apartment. “Oh, you don’t need to come in. I’m okay, I promise.”

“I need to take a piss,” I lie because she’s definitely not okay.

“Fine, but then I’d like to be alone.”

Once inside, she disappears into her bedroom, and I see myself to the bathroom. The adrenaline from the past half hour has worn off, and now all I want is a moment to collect my thoughts. Leaning against the vanity, I take a calming breath before looking in the mirror and laughing. It’s an almost hysterical sound fueled by a giddy excitement. I’m in utter disbelief. Had she been anyone else, I would’ve wanted to crawl out of my skin, unable to steer straight. But Myla seems to be the exception.

Not that it matters. She’s not mine, which is sobering. What if she’s the only person in the world my psyche decides is safe, and I can’t have her? Even more than that, what makes her so special? She’s only been in my life for a few short months, and we spent most of that time arguing. She hasn’t once given me any sort of kindness or reason to think the feeling is mutual. If anything, I have every reason to believe she despises me. Well, that’s not exactly true because occasionally, her body disagrees with her mouth. What happened on the bike was the second time in as many weeks that she’s fallen asleep on me. Surely, that means she subconsciously feels safe with me, right? Could she be keeping me at a distance because she feels this connection too and it scares her?

I splash cool water on my face before leaving the bathroom and seeking out Myla. She isn’t in the living room or kitchen, so I take a seat on the sofa to wait for her, having no intention of leaving. I already know she won’t tell her sister about what happened today, and she shouldn’t be alone after such a bad episode.

Minutes tick by, and my eyes catch on her bag one cushion over from where I’m sitting. The top is open, and there are haphazardly folded pieces of paper hanging out. Looking over my shoulder to where her bedroom is, I notice the door is shut. Maybe she went to lie down. If that’s the case, then she won’t know if I take a peek. I scan the spreadsheets full of names I don’t recognize, plus a bunch of information about each: date of birth, address, phone number, and legal charges. I read through that column, disgust washing through me. Each man is more despicable than the last, and I can’t help but wonder why Myla has this list. Maybe it accidentally got tossed in there in the rush to get her out of the ranch?

“Why are you going through my things?” Myla bites out, ripping the papers from my hands.

Fuck.

CHAPTER SIX

MYLA

Startled, he jumps to his feet. “It was hanging out of your bag, and I didn’t know what it was.”

“It’s none of your business is what it is.” Fucking hell. In all the chaos, I forgot about the list. My brain flitters through possible explanations, coming up blank. How will I explain this?

I shouldn’t have left him alone, but I needed to scrub off today’s events. So, while he used the half-bath in the hallway, I closed myself off in my en-suite to shower. With water so hot it turned my skin redder than a tomato, I used half a bottle of body wash trying to feel clean before I realized it’s my mind that feels slimy and dirty, and soap can’t fix that.

“Myla, why do you have those?”

“I’d like you to leave now.” I fold the papers into a small square and palm it before crossing my arms.

“Not until you tell me why.”

“Maybe I just wanted to know who I should avoid.” My tone holds no confidence, but it’s all I could come up with.

Silence hangs between us, neither of us budging. He knows I’m full of shit, but he also knows he can’t force me to tell him. With my jaw set, I stare him down, not wavering an ounce. My gaze is hard and determined while his is concerned and unsure. I’m being an asshole, and of all people in my life, Judge deserves this treatment the least. Ever since I met him, all he’s done is try to be my friend, while all I’ve done is erect thicker walls to keep him away.

The standoff ends when he sighs. “I wish you could trust me. An island is a lonely place to live.”

My nose stings, and I dig my teeth into my trembling lip, but I say nothing as he walks out and silently shuts the door behind him. Sniffling, I rush over, flip the lock, and turn around. I thunk my head against the door before slowly sliding to the ground, drawing my knees to my chest. The rumbling of a motorcycle sounds, and I listen as it pulls away, growing more silent with each second.

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