Page 83 of Caught from Behind

Ignoring him—it—I pull on my tee and sweatshirt, sit down to tie my boots.

“So,” he says as I get to work on my second lace.

I flick my eyes to his. “So what?”

“So,” he drawls again, “are you going to tell me why you’ve spent the afternoon being extra growly and grumpy Riggs?”

I straighten and shrug. “I’m tired.”

Not a lie. But not nearly the truth either.

“Bzzt.” He shakes his head as he yanks on his pants. “Liar, liar pants on fire.” He leans around me, pointing at Lake. “That man is grumpy. You’re the steady and even, but quiet one of our trio.”

I scowl.

He points at my forehead. “And to support my case, I present growly, grumpy frown lines.”

Lake snorts from next to me.

“Hilarious,” I grumble.

“I know I am.” Knox collapses onto the bench next to me, sweats hanging low on his waist, expression light, but his eyes are serious.

And I know he puts on the effect of everything being a joke, but the fucker doesn’t miss a thing.

“Now,” he orders, “spill.”

I should talk to him. Ella’s his sister and he knows her better than anyone except maybe Nova. But something stops me from actually spilling my guts, from telling him what went down.

Maybe it was the look in her eyes, the sadness that bottle of vodka did nothing to hide.

Maybe it’s fucking cowardice because divulging what went down means admitting to the shit that happened to me because who wouldn’t want to have wild, drunken sex with the woman they’ve claimed as their own?

A man who worried that she might wake up in the morning and regret what happened.

Like I had all those years ago.

I clench my teeth together so tightly that pain shoots through my jaw.

A man who is weak, useless?—

My phone buzzes and I yank it out of my pocket, nearly tearing the material in order to get a view of the screen.

So, imagine my disappointment when I see that it’s not Ella calling.

It’s my dad.

“And yeah,” Lake mutters from next to me, “that’s a normal reaction to a phone call.”

I grit my teeth together again, ignoring the pain this time. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck you right back,” he says, shoving his feet into his boots.

A hand on my shoulder, clenching tight enough to leave bruises.

I look up at Knox.

“What’d you do?”

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