Page 41 of Breaking You Open

“Did I do something wrong?”

What can I say to that? How can I possibly explain that what we just did can never happen again? He looked so happy when he leaned in to kiss me, and I’d like to give him what he wants, but I can’t. I can’t.

The further I back away from him, the more disturbed his expression gets, and when I go to the hallway, he follows.

“Louis, wait—”

I cut him off by fleeing through the door. I just wish the door to my heart would close as well, but that damn kid has cracked it open further than I ever thought possible. He’s going to be the death of me, and I of him, and no one can stop it from happening but me.

As I rev the bike far beyond the speed limits and zigzag through the evening traffic, I still can’t believe myself, but most of all, I can’t believehim.

How could I have underestimated him to this extent? I was so sure he wouldn’t do anything even remotely close to this that I never prepared myself for it. He seems so innocent in other aspects of life—at a loss for how to do the most basic things. But when it comes to sex, he was comfortable with putting on that show for me—strutting around half-naked in the kitchen with a butt plug up his ass. Well, maybe not comfortable, but certainly willing.

Has he done something like this before? With that ex-boyfriend of his, perhaps? Somehow I doubt it, and besides, part of me doesn’t want him to have done this for anyone else. Irrational as the thought is, I want it to have been formeonly.

The outcome is the same in any case, and my freak-out after the fact is still running through my veins, setting my mind on fire with the uncomfortable fact that I no longer have control over our relationship. Whatever that relationship is exactly. And when I lack control, everything is tilted on its axis and the wrong notes are playing in my head, and until I can figure out what to do, all I can think about is numbing myself with booze.

Instead of Ravi, it’s Maurice behind the bar this time, and to my relief, there are fewer customers than usual.

“Coming alone this time?” Maurice asks, eyebrows raised.

I give a noncommittal grunt in reply and order a whiskey.

“Let me guess,” he continues, “it’s that little twink that has your panties in a twist.”

My gaze flicks up to him, and before I can school my expression, I show him the truth in my eyes.

“Ha! Knew it,” he cackles. “Finally fuck him, did you?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Bending over the bar top, I grab the bottle of Jack Daniels to pour another glass for myself.

“Now, now,” Maurice says. “No need to be all secretive about it. Unless you’ve caught feelings for him, that is.”

I’ve barely allowed myself to think as far as that. Even if I had, and even if it was true, there’s no way I’d let Maurice know about it. I’m not sure why I distrust him so much; he’s never betrayed me, and he and Ravi are pretty much the only Black Claws I can stand to be around. Aside from a few snide remarks, he wouldn’t do anything to sabotage me, so why do I find myself unable to share what lies heavy in my heart?

I suppose it’s business as usual. I learned long ago to clutch my weaknesses to my chest and let no one know what plagues me.

“You know…” Maurice offers me one of his more understanding smiles. To me, it looks like a pitying one, because I know what he’s about to say. “You can’t live the rest of your life alone just because of—”

“Don’t.” The word wrenches out of me, and the death glare I spear him with would make anyone take a step back and go pale, but Maurice just rolls his eyes.

“Fine.”

We lapse into silence for a while as I sip the whiskey. I can’t talk to Maurice; he knows too much about me, and the one person I hoped to talk to isn’t here.

“Where’s Ravi?”

“Helping Tara,” Maurice says. “There’s a leak at the Outpost again.”

I groan. “Christ, that place is hopeless.”

Ever since we bought the Outpost Motel for another money laundering scheme, it’s been one problem after the other. First, it was the mold infestation, then the hopelessly outdated plumbing, and as if that wasn’t enough, the roof started leaking after one of the rainstorms this past summer.

I pour the rest of the whiskey down my throat. The liquor burns my gut, piling onto my list of recent regrets and impulsive decisions. “Any spare rooms?”

Maurice raises an eyebrow. “What’s this now? You need one?”

I nod, not meeting his gaze.

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