Page 81 of Luck of the Draw

Brennan waved his hand dismissively. “The guest beds aren’t as comfortable as mine, and those rooms can get noisy from being right next to the street. If you feel weird about it, I’ll move into a guest room.”

She looked at him incredulously. “I can’t let you do that.”

He lifted one eyebrow coyly. “Then it looks like we’re having somewhat of a standoff, aren’t we, baby doll?”

She looked away. “I think you should just let me leave.”

His features fell into a deadpan stare. “Where are you planning to go, Skye?”

She shook her head. “I have a few ideas.”

“Which are?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Then I can’t, in good conscience, just drop you off somewhere.” Brennan nodded at the tub. “You can barely walk. You don’t have full use of your arms. Even if you just tripped over something, you’d land yourself back in the hospital. Please don’t ask me to do that yet. Not until you’re at least healed up. I’m not trying to hold you hostage, Skye. I’m just worried. I just care.”

Her throat pulsed with a swallow, and she pressed her lips together. “I wish you didn’t. It would make this a lot easier.”

Anger whooshed through him. “Yeah, well, I’m sure it would.” He stood up and turned to leave the bathroom. “It’s pretty clear that having someone care is a completely foreign concept to you. I’ll do my best to keep it to a minimum so I don’t traumatize you further.”

“Brennan—”

“Holler when you need help getting out.” He looked over his shoulder. “And at risk of you thinking I’mcaringtoo much, please be aware that I’m taking you to work with me tomorrow. It would be unsafe for you to hang around this old house all day by yourself, so just think of it as me keeping you out of the hospital and making sure you’re able to get away from here as quickly as possible. Which is what I know you really want.”

Brennan left the room, marched to the living room, and collapsed on the couch.

God damned feelings.

Feelings were stupid. Feelings were pointless. And yet, Brennan had them, and there was no getting rid of them.

20

FRENCHMEN STREET, NEW ORLEANS

Skye sat on a large couch in the back living room of the old house that served as Frenchmen Street Records’ headquarters. Brennan had set her up in one corner of the sectional sofa, pillows packed around her ankle and knee, another pillow under her bad elbow, handed her a remote control, and left her a coffee and a bag of beignets within her good arm’s reach. He’d told her to holler if she needed anything and assured her anyone in the house would be more than happy to help. Then he disappeared down the hall behind her and into one of the rooms that served as an office, and she hadn’t seen him since. It was now late afternoon.

She’d obviously hurt his feelings the day before, he was mad at her, and that was just as well. It was better than him caring too much and having feelings ofanykind because that would lessen the blow when she had to eventually drop the bomb on him.

The major thing that stood out about Brennan—among all his extremely appealing characteristics—was her knowledge that this was a man with a battered heart. This was a man who had selflessly loved and lost. Given how selfless he was about everything, how kind he was, how generous he was, how much he cared about her even while she was a perfect stranger, the idea of him getting hurt like that again added a whole other brand of stress and anxiety to the stress and anxiety that was already drowning her.

The window had perfectly cast a warm sunbeam right across Skye’s body, wrapping her in a toasty hug of sunlight, and she nestled against the side of the couch. Her pain meds made her drowsy, and she hadn’t slept very well the night before. She and Brennan shared his bed again, but this time there was no delicious sex that left her incoherent and satiated. They’d both been awake for most of the night; both aware of it, but neither of them said a word.

The warmth of the sunbeam combined with her already tired state, caused her eyelids to slowly lower, and she drifted into a nap.

She suddenly back in her typical life. Pulled, and pushed, and struck with hard objects and fists, and forced into humiliating physical positions of limbs splayed while people leered at her with looks that were equal parts lust and disgust. Slaps and kicks and punches and strangling hands while she tried to scream for help, only to have no voice. The inevitable surrender to the pointlessness of struggling, and she simply went limp. After all, if you didn’t resist, it wouldn’t hurt.

Just relax, Isabel. If you relax, it won’t hurt.

If you relax, it’ll feel good. I love you. Why don’t you trust me?

If you can’t relax, I’m going to knock some sense into you.

I love you, Isabel, and I’m doing this for us.

I love you, and you know I’d never hurt you.

I’m not hurting you because I love you, and this is for your own good.

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