Page 85 of Dirty Shots

Chapter Twenty-six

Eric

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Eric had no idea how long he’d been working for when he finally looked up and realized Anya was no longer in the apartment.

He jumped to his feet, his hand locked in his hair. “Shit!”

Unable to contain the restless energy coursing through him, he began to pace, reaching one side of his apartment before turning and storming back again.

What had he said to her? He could barely remember. He recalled pushing her away, feeling frustrated and irritated that she wasn’t able to see or understand the importance of his work. He’d thought she, of all people, got what it meant for him to work as he did, but then she’d repeatedly interrupted him, and he’d started to lose his concentration, which only made him more angry and frustrated, and ...

He stopped, breathing heavily.

His train of thought had run on and on, never taking a moment’s break.

On the floor lay a broken plate, and an uneaten pastrami on rye scattered across the hardwood floor. Had he thrown the plate or dropped it? He couldn’t even remember how the crockery had gotten broken.

When was the last time he’d eaten? When was the last time he’d slept?

He had no idea. He wasn’t even sure what day it was.

Panic suddenly shot through him, his adrenaline causing his heart to race, his breath coming fast. When was the exhibition? Had he missed it already? Had he lost days to sitting at his work, trying to find perfection for something that had already passed him by?

And what about Anya? Where was she now?

Eric dropped to a crouch, both hands locked in his hair, and let out a roar of anger at himself. When was the last time he’d taken his medication? He was on a low dose now, being able to manage it mostly himself—or so he’d thought—but somewhere along the line he’d started to lose control again, and he hadn’t even noticed it happening.

Had he pushed her too far? Had he lost her?

Suddenly, all the work meant nothing if she wasn’t in his life. It was empty and soulless.

Hewas empty and soulless.

The front door clicked and he twisted his head in the direction of the sound. The door swung open, and Anya entered, Logan close behind.

Eric slowly got to his feet to face them.

He experienced mixed emotions about seeing the two of them together. He was thankful she’d come back, and that Logan had obviously been looking out for her, but he also worried he’d messed up so badly, he’d sent her into his friend’s arms. Logan was probably a much better match for Anya—his best friend didn’t have any of his own fucked-up-ness—but Eric knew it would kill him if Anya left him for Logan.

Not that he would blame her, of course. She’d dealt with more than any woman should have had to since meeting him.

“Eric ...” she said, his name hanging in the air between them.

He pressed his lips together. “You came back.”

“Of course I did.”

His heart stuttered, his gut filling with dread. “Did you come to tell me something?”

She nodded. “Well, yes, I guess so.”

He took a breath and threw it out there. “You and Logan are a far better match than you and I.”

Anya and Logan shared a glance, both with matching expressions, lines between their brows, heads shaking.

Logan spoke first. “Eric, no. You’re wrong. There’s nothing between Anya and me. She came to me because she was worried about you. You’re my best friend. I would never do that to you.”

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