Page 86 of Pulse
“I know all about how hard it is to live with things that you probably caused.”
I storm across the room, shoving my finger in his chest. He’s a blur through the tears that won’t stop. “You did not cause that.”
He stiffens, reverting to the Troy I know at work—the one that puts up a shield when emotions are involved. The only sliverof the man I’ve known over the past few days is a softness buried in his eyes.
“Don’t do this to me,” I say, dropping my finger.
He ignores me, making sure my phone is off, and throws it on the bed. “Who was on the voicemail?”
I wipe my face with the backs of my hands. “My dad.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know. That this will be over soon, and that something’s going to happen and I need to keep my head down.”
His anger at me slips. “What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
“What did he say? Say it again as close as you can remember it.”
I sit on the bed, my shoulders sagging.How did this day turn so quickly?
Just an hour ago, we were in the gym laughing and lifting weights. I was trying to barter blow jobs for fewer reps. He was promising orgasms for extra repetitions. And now, we’re here.
Oh, how quickly things can change.
“Dahlia.”
I typically like to screw with him when he says my name like that—demandingly. But I’m not in the mood for one. And I have a feeling this isn’t going to end in moody sex.
“Okay,” I say, gathering myself. “He said he hopes I’m okay and that something will be happening very soon, and I should keep my head down for a while. Um … something about he’s spent his whole life trying to keep me safe and he doesn’t want tofail younow. And it’ll all be over soon.”
Troy stands tall, his eyes dark. “I need to make some calls. Please don’t put out an SOS or anything while I’m gone.”
“Troy…”
For the first time, he doesn’t look back.
Chapter Twenty
Dahlia
Rain pelts the roof and bolts of lightning crack through the sky almost continuously. A chilly breeze blows through the room, causing the floor-to-ceiling curtains to dance. It’s the perfect day to curl up with a book and nap the day away. I’ve tried. After Troy disappeared from the bedroom and didn’t come back, I fled to the third story and tucked myself away in the screened-in room.
A soft blanket covers my legs, and a book lays on my lap. I found it on a shelf in the living room. It looks good, a sports romance of all things, but I can’t get into it. My real-life hero is somewhere in this house and isn’t talking to me.
I don’t blame him.
Calling Burt was reckless. I understand my emotional response, and I give myself grace for it, but I can’t excuse putting us both in danger—no matter what.
If something were to happen to Troy because of me …
I take a deep breath to steady myself and to offset the panic rising quickly inside me. I can’t go there. I can’t think about something happening to him.
Not when we’re just getting started.
My instinct is to find him and apologize and to try to make things right. I know I was wrong. But I don’t know him well enough like this—not yet—to know if he needs time to calm down, or if he needs me to go to him.
