Page 90 of Tight End

His eyes open. When I kiss him, he turns away.

“Sorry, my knee. I just need to get up and…move around…” He struggles to get out of the bed.

“You need help?” I ask, jumping up after him.

“No,” he says without even looking at me. “I have to get ready.”

I furrow my brow. “For what?”

“Rehab,” he says shortly. Not that he so much as turns his head toward me.

I follow him and grab his arm. “Hey.”

He stops but doesn’t turn around.

“Sam, what the hell is up? I thought we had a great night. What changed? Did I do something?”

That’s when he looks at me. His dark eyes harden, and I recoil because I’ve never seen such disgust in his gaze.

Not even when I was being a complete prick a couple of weeks ago. There was frustration and anger, yeah. But nothing like this kind of disdain. It stings, I’m not gonna lie.

“I can’t do this.”

“Can’t do what?” I ask.

“Look, Brixton. I know yesterday was really hard for you. And I’m glad I couldbe there for you.”

His scathing tone makes me take a step back.

“But I’m not in this. I can’t be. I just…” He lets out a frustrated sigh.

My back stiffens. “You’re not in this? Are you fucking kidding me? When did you decide this? After which fucking orgasm last night?”

“This isn’t about sex. You need to work on yourself. I can’t help you with that. I can’t be…” He sweeps a hand through his hair, biting off his last words. “I’m sorry.”

My jaw drops but I can’t even think of the words to say.

And before I can speak a single syllable, he disappears into the bathroom and closes the door.

If that wasn’t an exit cue, then I don’t know what fucking is.

I stand there for a long minute and push back my hair.

What fucking alternate reality did I just step into?

How the fuck?—?

I drop my hands and glare at the bathroom door.

No.

Hell to the fuckingno.

I’m Brixton goddamn Scott. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone.

Rage gathers force in my gut, rushing to my chest. My shoulders shake, fists clench tight.

“You know what, Sam? You’re not so goddamn perfect, either. Running back to your pretty puckhead boyfriend because you’re afraid of what might happen if you took a risk. Listening to your parents because you’re too much of a pussy to make your own choices. You’re pathetic. At least I owned up to my shit. How about you? Or maybe Jackie boy will be there to make excuses so you don’t have to. Fucking pathetic,” I roar.

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