Page 71 of Tortured Eyes
Yes, she is. I don't know how the hell she is, but she's infiltrating, burrowing in somehow. She stands there on the sidewalk like something I can’t deny, her face confused as she thinks. I can’t deal with what’s going through my head. It’s not just the thought of fucking her; it’s all of it. The meal out, the fact that she knows about Samuel. Her connection to Nate, to the emotion I felt because of her and that whole damn thing. It’s not a fucking game anymore, is it? Something’s changed now because of who we are to each other.
I look her over, part of me desperate to kiss those lips like I do with Samuel. Not for anything dirty this time, but for the same reason I enjoy his mouth on mine—for calm. I don’t even know why I think that’s possible without drugs, but I know it is. It’s her aura, the way she won’t back down from me like he does. And I can still see her trying to bring Nate back to life, see her pushing at his chest as I held him in my arms and cried. Can't remember the last time I cried in front of someone.
“I'm not doing this with you,” I mutter, starting to walk.
She gets in front of me, her hands held up.
“Tell me why you gave the money to the church,” she says.
“No. I'm done talking.” I step around her, irritation addling my nerves.
“Logan, tell me. You’ve got to give me something. There’s no sense here, and I’m more lost than ever.”
“Sense? There isn’t any. I’m no good for you, and we both know it. Whatever this is, or was, it's done.” I keep moving, intent on getting us on a plane back to Chicago and on with our lives. Separately.
A cop and a priest? What the fuck was I thinking? And good ones at that. I'm damn lucky even one of them accepts me, let alone being greedy for two.
Fucking games.
Maybe I should act like a gentleman a bit more. Give them both room to breathe and live without me making it difficult for them. The thought makes me instantly morose, and irate, and more fucking lost than I think I’ve ever been.
“Logan, I need answers," she says, catching up with me. "Stop running and avoiding what’s happening or happened. Help me.”
I’m not running. I’m processing. And now she’s said the word ‘lost’ Samuel’s in my head again, fucking with it and telling me I’m a good man. I’m not. Not like he deserves. My hands rough my hair then yank at my tie again. Maybe these two should fuck and find some kind of goddamned peace in each other rather than me screwing with their morals. A million is nothing to me. A gift I tossed at him so he could do something more useful with it than I could.
“I DON’T KNOW WHY I FUCKING DID IT!” my voice bellows, body spinning back to look at her. I don’t even know why I'm shouting, but now I’m pissed. Aggravated by her continued assault. “All you good people and your goddamned thoughts of happiness. Why the fuck would I deserve that? Or want it?” She backs up a step at my tone, eyes still damn well boring into mine regardless. They infuriate me further, enough for me to move into her and press her back to a wall harshly. “He needed it, Bryce. That’s all. Stop trying to find decency where there isn’t any because your conscience got all screwed up. I was just a good fuck. Admit it, forget it, and move the hell on. You hurt me, I hurt you back. That's the kind of man I am. Let it go.”
For once, she doesn’t struggle in my grip, just waits there for me to do something and quivers. My fingers loosen as I stare at her mouth. It trembles along with the rest of her as if she knows she shouldn’t move into me. We both know that, and yet I don’t care. My head’s a riot of dick versus sense. Home is where she should go. Home, leaving me with my life without her in it.
“What are you waiting for?” she murmurs. I don’t know, but I am. I’m holding back everything I’ve got. “You’re very good at taking, Logan.” Her words land but not as she intended. There’s no bite to them. She’s holding back, too.
“Permission.” Maybe that’s it. For once, and because of her and the past we already share, maybe I’m waiting for some fucking permission. It’s the same with Samuel, the same feeling of need circulating my guts. I want her to reach out, touch me gently, and show me I’m worthy of something other than hatred like he does.
The realisation dawns like a goddamned jackhammer, making me desperate for her to do any of those things, but the seconds tick by and she doesn’t offer words like he does. She doesn’t touch my skin, either. She just looks at me and pants, until she finally does the right thing and shirks out of my hold to straighten her clothes.
“I can’t give you that, Logan,” she says, grating the words. “Who could with your track record? You’re a criminal. Everything I despise. Everything I swore to bring down. And that’s before we look at what you’ve done to me personally.”
I nod and back away a step, my feet turning to start walking again. She’s damn right I'm a criminal. That isn’t changing either. And because of that, she’s going back to her life.
Away from me and my flaws.
