Page 164 of Broken Pieces
“What does it fucking look like? I’m done, Zane. I’m not doing this anymore.”
Something tears through my chest. “What the fuck do you mean, done?”
“You disappear and then lie to me. You shut me out and act like I’m too stupid to notice.” Her voice breaks, but she doesn’tstop. “Was I just some pussy you didn’t have to chase? Just something easy, someone already in your bed, so you didn’t have to go looking for it.”
Her eyes flick to my face, before dropping to the split skin on my knuckles.
“You think I don’t see the way you come home half-alive and won’t look me in the fucking eye? Please tell me,” she whispers. “Tell me you fucked someone else instead of leading me along. Have the fucking guts to say it.”
She zips the bag.
The sound rips through the air, and she slings it over her shoulder. That’s when it hits.
She’s really walking out.
I take a step toward her. “Don’t.”
She turns, eyes blazing. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t walk out that door.”
Her chin tips up, defiant. “Why not?”
Because I’ll fucking fall apart, that’s why.
Because I’ve spent my whole life keeping people at arm’s length, and now you’re the only thing that makes me want to stay.
I swallow, trying to force the words past my lips. I’ve taken punches that left me gasping. Seen my own blood hit the floor. But none of it comes close to this.
“Skylar,” I rasp. “Stop.”
She stills.
Just for a second.
But it’s enough. That tiny pause, that flicker makes me reach for her wrist.
My fingers wrap around her skin.
Her pulse beats hard beneath my thumb. I feel it. Every rapid thud.
I lower my voice. “Don’t go. Please. I can’t figure out how to do this shit,” I say, words cracking apart as they come out. “I don’t understand how to be the guy who talks about feelings or does things right. I don’t know how not to fuck everything up.”
She doesn’t move. “You could start by telling me the truth. Tell me who you’ve been fucking.”
I flinch, jaw clenched, heart thudding.
“You want the truth?”
“Yes.”
I drag a hand down my face. “I fought.”
She blinks.
The seconds that follow are dead silent. A heartbeat later: “You what?”
“I’ve been fighting,” I say, eyes locked on hers. “Underground. For cash.”
