Page 35 of Breaking You Open

“Please,” Sparrow whines. “I need you, Louis.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. And I think you need me too.”

Erection pressed to the swell of his ass, I snake my hand up his torso, finding the frantic, birdlike beat of his heart. I tip my head to his neck, just holding my lips there, just inhaling his scent. We can’t do this, and least of all here. Not with my painful past welling up in my chest along with the knowledge that I’ll never be what he truly needs. If we do this, I’ll be his greatest regret, his gravest mistake, his destruction, and for what? A few minutes of pleasure? It’s just like Ravi said: Pleasure is temporary.

My hand sneaking up the hem of his shirt is temporary.

My aching erection pressing against the swell of his ass is temporary.

My breath hitching against his throat is temporary too, and so are the kneading motions of his narrow hips against mine.

But regret is forever.

Sparrow turns around. My heart shoots to my throat as he leans in, and our lips are moments from touching when there’s a knock.

“Louis?” Maurice—the fucker—calls from the other side of the door.

Sparrow parts his lips to speak, but I slam my hand over his mouth, stopping him from making a sound except for a pained gasp as the back of his head hits the wall.

“I know I said you should get laid, but I didn’t mean right now,” Maurice says. “You know I don’t like people fucking on my couch.”

“We’re not fucking,” I growl.

“Well, if not, then come back out and do your job. A group of students just came in, and Ravi is working his ass off pouring them their ridiculous fucking four-ingredient drinks.”

Maurice’s voice fades away, and I withdraw my hand from Sparrow’s mouth.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask, nodding to his head, which slammed against the wall in my eagerness to shut him up. When my emotions are high, I sometimes can’t control the force of my hands or my violent reflexes. Advantageous at work maybe, but the opposite is true with someone like Sparrow in the same room.

“No,” he says in a thin voice.

“Well, then. Let’s go back out there.” I walk ahead of him without a glance back, and behind me, I hear the sadness dripping from his words.

“Okay, Louis.”

Anger I can deal with. Drunken screaming, violent outbursts, and death threats I can deal with, but not sadness. Sadness reminds me too much of my mother, and I can’t think about her. I can’t think about how my father beat her. Can’t think about how I just let it happen, frozen in my terror and the worry of my father’s wrath turning on me.

I used to stand at the other side of the door and listen to my mother’s pleading, her sadness, and my father’s anger that he graciously gifted to me. Whenever I hit someone, I see my mom flashing before my very eyes. I imagine myself taking revenge for her, the way I failed to do before it was too late. Unsurprisingly, the men who resemble my father are the most satisfying to beat up, but Justin…Justin didn’t look like my father at all, so why did I do to him what I did?

I’ll never understand. And since I’ll never understand, I can’t let myself be with Sparrow for much longer. He has to be free of me, and I have to go back to my numb, lonely life, where I’m satisfied only by the smash of my fists hitting flesh. I have to go back to trusting no one and loving no one. Least of all myself.

The rest of the evening passes without incident. Good—I’m not sure I’d be able to handle any more men flirting with Sparrow, and I don’t think I can handle another go with him in the back room either.

He sits primly at the table I indicated, sipping a Coke this time. Head down, one foot up on the chair, expression sullen and forlorn. Missing my attention, is he? Well, he can hardly expect me to be by his side the whole evening, not even with that enticing outfit of his and his sad puppy eyes following my every step. Sooner or later, he must learn he can’t have everything he wants, even when what he wants happens to beme, which is a rare compliment if I do say so myself. I’m hot, but am I hot enough to bag a fucking twenty-year-old? Especially one as cute and sweet as Sparrow? I doubt it. Besides that, hot is not enough, and Sparrow ought to look elsewhere for what he wants. Soon enough, he’ll come to the same conclusion.

We close up shop at twelve thirty. Cleaning is next, but Ravi stops me in my tracks.

“You go ahead and go home,” he says, nodding to Sparrow. “That one looks like he needs some rest.”

He’s right; now that the music is off, Sparrow looks like he’ll nod off at any second, eyes half-closed and shoulders slumping.

I snap my fingers at him and point a thumb to the exit. “Let’s go home.”

“Home?” he asks, blinking. “Okay.”

He barely has enough strength to clutch onto my waist as I straddle the bike.

---