Page 27 of Bound by Vengeance
Even when Shawn and I left, I watched Ryker as his eyes never left the car.
All I wanted was for Ryker to take my hand and lead me wherever he wanted me to go, but that didn’t happen.
Now, he’s living with me. On the couch. In my apartment. I see him every freaking day. My old self would love this. Relish in it and hook him with everything I had inside me.
Unfortunately, life has a way of screwing people, of twisting plans and making them unreachable, unattainable, and crushing at the same time. It throws what you desperately want in your face like splattered mud. Yet, you still can’t have it.
Even with him here, in my space, protecting me, I can’t.
It’s all because of one man who decided I was an easy target one night and went in for the kill. He tore me from the inside out, making me damaged, used, and disgusting. To this day, the shower still doesn’t clean the filth he put all over me. It doesn’t erase the phantom feelings I get from time to time. It doesn’t clean me. Nothing will clean me and take me back to my old self.
I rub my belly as the emptiness inside consumes me like it does every other time I think of my baby. The one he gave me that I couldn’t keep.
It’s a mixed place to be—this piece of you created with a monster—and a hell you can’t imagine ever surviving again.
There is still a longing inside me, though turning back time isn’t an option. Even if I could change things, how? There isn’t anything that could’ve been different in my eyes. I just know there is this piece of me, no matter the circumstances of its conception, that’s dark and empty, devoid of life. It eats at me every moment, every breath, feeding and growing.
I groan, wiping the thoughts from my mind, just as there’s another noise from the living room.
Looking at the clock, I see it’s only ten-thirty. Going to my room for alone time has been my regimen, but this is getting ridiculous.
Pulling off the covers and clambering out of bed in my pajama shorts and oversized T-shirt that I stole from Nox a while back, I make my way to the living room. The sounds of the television filter through the hallway as gunshots echo and words are said that can’t be made out.
Ryker lies on the couch, his boots on the floor in front of him, his feet up on the cushions. His arms are behind his head, and his focus is on the TV.
As if he can sense me, he turns and our gazes lock. My pulse spikes as the hairs on my arms prickle at the fierceness of his look. We’re lost in each other for a brief moment in time, and it’s glorious.
I give a slight cough, breaking the connection, and turn toward the kitchen. “I’m hungry. You want anything?”
I hear rustling and know he’s getting up from the couch. His pattered footsteps tell me he’s coming my way.
Sucking in a breath, the refrigerator jingles from the condiments on the door as I open it. Nothing looks good to me. Left over spaghetti, Chinese, cheese—blah.
His stare is on me. I feel it zapping me in the back, and my body begins to heat. Ignoring this, I check out the freezer and, low and behold, mint chocolate chip ice cream. Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner.
“I’ll take some of that,” he says, leaning his shoulder against the doorjamb.
It takes everything I have not to allow my jaw to drop to the floor. He’s wearing basketball shorts that ride low on his hips and a tank top that’s showing all his muscles and tattoos. Going to bed early means I’ve been missing out on this view for the past week and a half. Shit.
Tearing my eyes away, I open the drawer and pull out two spoons, then point them toward the couch. His soft chuckle fills the space as he moves, sitting on the right side of the couch. I move to the left, pull the top off the ice cream, and then hand him a spoon.
“What are you watching?” I dig into the ice cream then take a bite. The taste of mint explodes on my lips. Holding back a moan is difficult.
“Die Hard. Nothing else looked good.” He digs into the mint chocolate chip while I try to hold the carton steady for him.
My arm shakes at his movements, or maybe it’s just being this close to him.
We sit like this for a while, both watching the movie, eating and not speaking.
Why does this have to be so strange? We are friends, right?
I lick the spoon then hand him the rest of the container.
“I’m good.”
Nodding, I take it to the kitchen and put it back in the freezer.
Taking a seat back on the couch, I ask, “Aren’t you a little tired of this every night? You have a life; surely, this is imposing on it.”
