Page 18 of The Last Good Man

“Forget about that Thomas guy. He’s not for you. His food is not even that good because he lacks passion. His dick won’t make you happy, and you’ll keep coming back to your shrink until you’re old and bitter.”

His eyes fly to the name stenciled on the door.

“She’ll make a ton of money off your fears,” he says, teasing my lips with his.

His words are thoughtful, bearing the edge of truth.

“I can do whatever I want with my money, including seeing a therapist in perpetuity,” I say softly, my breath colliding with his.

“You can surely do that,” he says, straightening and curling his fingers around my neck while reading my eyes. “But it won’t give you the answers that you need.”

Sober and overly serious, he searches my eyes.

“Thomas isn’t your guy, babe,” he says as if he knows something I don’t.

He brings his lips to mine again while I wait, fearless and powerlessat the same time.

His parted lips press against mine, and for a secondtherehis tongue touches mineanda flicker of electricity rams through my body, a gasp lifting off my chest.

He gallantly leaves my lips alone while my fingers sink into his arms.

“I almost killed my father,” he says evenly before freeing me for good and leaving me with my mouth open and my eyes wide.

He steps back, his focus entirely on my phone.

He punches a few numbers on the keypad and places a call before a quiet sound wafts from the back of his dark jeans.

Satisfied, he hands me my phone.

“You have my number, and I have yours. Don’t let that guy touch you, or he’ll regret it,” he says, not entirely joking, and I don’t know what to believe.

My hand is sticky from sweat around my phone while he reaches inside his jacket, scoops out a cigarette, and lights it.

I watch him take a drag and blow the smoke up, a smile creasing his lips.

“It was nice meeting you,” he says, gripping the door handle.

“Same here,” I mumble, watching him push through the door.

Eventually, I open my mouth and speak.

“She doesn’t like the smell of cigarettes in her office,” I toss in his wake.

He glances at me over his shoulder, his hand still on the door.

“She’ll need to get used to it,” he says, winking at me before the door closes over his handsome face.

And I begin to wonder.

Is Aretha safe?

Am I?

Should I change my phone number?

Forget about Thomas?

A few seconds pass before I dismiss everything with a flickof my hand. How can I be so silly?

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