Page 71 of Whiskey Throttle
“You don’t want honesty, Babs.” He pins me with his glare. “You run from it.”
The words sting. Not because they’re wrong, but because they’re so damn right.
“I run because this feels out of control. And yes, I’ve been in control my entire adult life,” I snap, gripping the edge of the bar. “Look where it got me. Divorced. Alone. Unable to let anyone in. Only able to depend on myself because I rarely let myself down. Not like other people. They always let me down. It’s why I don’t depend on anyone for anything.”
It feels good to admit that. Feels good to lash out at someone even as undeserving as him.
“So you play,” he mutters. “Because playing keeps you safe. Flittering around your boring lunches and charity events without ever getting involved with anything.”
If his words are meant to hurt, they do.
“And you please,” I fire back, stepping close, leaning over the edge of the gleamingly polished wood. “Because pleasing keeps you chosen.”
He grits his teeth. I swear I see it. A split-second flinch, like I reached in and snatched something private inside him.
“I don’t.”
He swallows hard, stands straight, and pushes back his shoulders. Temporarily distracting me with all his tattoos coming to life under the recessed lighting.
“I’m not a fuck boy. Sure, I have a reputation, but?—”
“But?”
“But I’m not a fucking vacation from your life.”
“I never said you were.” My voice shakes, and I hate that it does. “But if you looked past your hurt pride for half a second, you’d see I’m still here. I didn’t bolt. You said I run away, but I’m standing right here in front of you.”
“That’s cuz I flew you out here on my family’s jet.”
I laugh, brittle and hollow.
“You don’t think I couldn’t have flown back this morning? Catch a flight right now?”
My temper flares at the innuendo that I’m broke and need his resources. My family’s fortune may not be on the same level as his generational wealth, but I was quite wealthy long before him and that miserable ex. My family’s money dates back to my great-grandfather.
“I’m not one of your college girls, Hollister. I have resources and self-respect.”
I turn away, insulted and angry. Now I’m the one walking away, from him, from whatever I thought this could be. He’s in front of me in a flash. Hands poised in innocent defense, but his eyes are still wildly angry.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
“I did and I’m sorry.”
He runs a hand through his hair. It sticks up on one side, calling for me to fix it if we weren’t at odds with each other.
“What’s going on? What is this?”
His voice is weary.
I’m weary too.
Of me. Of holding it all together and being everything to everyone and not a thing to me.
“You undo me, Hollister. You make me forget who I’m supposed to be. And that scares me,” I confess for what feels like the umpteenth time with him. “I thought if I kept it light, dragged it out, and edged you that maybe I could stay in control of the situation. Of us. It’s what I do. How I am.”
I’m unraveling. I think he realizes it because his anger and frustration crack, piece by piece. Long seconds pass as he just stares at me.
