Page 71 of Reluctantly You

It makes me hate him so much more.

How can one man have such an effect on me?

“What are you feeling? Right now?” he asks, his hand sliding down my arm and curling around my fingers. It’s almost like we’re holding hands, and goddamnit, my throat tightens.

“I’m…” I can’t admit it. I can’t. “I’m angry. At you.”

“And why is that?” Gideon asks, no frustration in his voice, just curiosity.

“Because.”

It’s a terrible answer, and yet I give it all the same. I’m angry because he makes me want things I can’t have.

He makes mefeel.

“Because why?”

He won’t take that as my excuse. He wants more. He always wants fucking more. Why can’t what I am be enough? Why am I never enough?

I shove at him, my anger bubbling over, but he grabs me in a hug, pulling me against his strong chest, his hand moving into my hair, cradling me.

“Not here,” he says softly, his arms tightening around me. “Not here.”

I let out a shaky breath and nod, my lips brushing against his neck, feeling the pounding of his pulse against my mouth. My muscles slowly relax against him, my anger ebbing away the longer he squeezes my body to his.

He’s right. Now isn’t the time or place.

Later. I can get angry later. When no one else can see.

“Hello, bitch,” a familiar voice says from behind me, and I peer over my shoulder at Emery, who is loudly drinking another large smoothie at the gym. “Sorry, that wasn’t nice at all. But your name does rhyme with bitch.”

He sighs and then takes another long slurp of his smoothie. How does he manage to make it so loud and obnoxious? Not that he notices.

“I’d say you could call me a name, but nothing rhymes with Emery. Bemery? Cemery? Celery? God, I don’t like that vegetable…or is it a fruit?”

Good fuck.

I turn around and focus back on the punching bag, tuning him out. His brain is a weird place. Kind of overwhelming, actually.

“Anyway, can I join you? I want to try boxing again. I think I’d make a really terrible one in real life. My therapist told me that. He says I’m a big marshmallow. Although, I’d like to think I’m more of a cherry lollipop.”

I peer at him and then lean over to my bag, grabbing some cotton to wrap around his hands and knuckles.

“Gotta put the damn smoothie down,” I say, and he mumbles an apology as he nearly trips over his feet to set the drink on a small stool in the corner. When he comes back, he holds his tattooed hands out and wiggles his fingers. He’s near-constant movement. It’s almost hard to get the wrap situated on his hands properly.

“So, you have a therapist?” I ask, and he bobs his head.

“Oh yeah. I have been seeing one for ages. I have all sorts of things going on in this brain of mine. Need to talk to someone to sort it all out. I’m on meds too.”

I finish wrapping his right hand, then move to the other. “Do you like it?”

“Meds, yeah. Therapy, totally. It’s pretty cool when you find someone you gel with, you know? You don’t want to be spilling your life story to some boob.”

I snort softly and then meet his stare.

“I may go,” I say. Everything seems to be getting worse, more confusing. I don’t know how to process it all. I need help. I need professional help.

“Oh, to therapy? You totally should. Therapy club mates,” he says and swings up his hand, trying to high five me, but only ends up unraveling all my work. I have to start over and Emery looks contrite.

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