Page 46 of Scars He Gave Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 2)

“What about Dad? Is he good to go, too?”

“Oh, yeah. And even he couldn’t believe how nice Brad was about it. Said he could have as much time as he wants.”

I don’t feel guilty for lying. Not anymore than they felt when they told me about the Santa Claus or Tooth Fairy when I was little.

“That’s great, Mom.” I glance out the window next to the desk then stand and walk around the desk to the living room. “Mom, how long ago did Tomas leave?”

“Maybe two hours or so. Why?”

I blow out my fear quietly, so she doesn’t hear. “I just wondered.” My lies are getting weaker.

“He picked up your clothes and we packed up your stuff from the bathroom and he loaded it into his car—did you see that thing? It’s like a plane’s cockpit.” She’s always been like a dog with its bone. Right up to the minute a squirrel skitters by. Then she’s off for a different adventure. Bone forgotten.

“I saw it.”

She chuckles. “That boy did alright for himself. I’d marry him for the car alone.”

I could tell her. I could ruin her illusion of him before she has the chance to criticize my decision to not be with him. But I won’t. Because a part of me thinks there’s a chance I can turn him around. The other part of me is laughing her ass off at that one. But hope is hope.

“I’ll let him know that if something happens to Dad, he’s your backup plan.”

“Or he could be your plan A,” she muses.

Myactualplan A brought whips and chains into our hotel suite—but that’s another detail I won’t be sharing with Mom.

“Bye, Mom. Love you and have fun.”

“Love you, too. I’ll call you from Beverly Hills.” She hangs up.

I haven’t stopped looking out the window. Two hours is more than enough time to get from my parents’ place to his house. Plenty of time.

So where is Tomas?

* * *

By the time he walks in, fifteen minutes later, arms laden with a box of my stuff from Mom’s, I’ve paced ten miles back and forth across his living room, making intermittent stops to check the window again. I’ve also worked myself into a ball of nervous tension.

I don’t want to throw myself at him and beg him to never leave me alone again, so instead, I cross my arms.

“Where the hell were you?”

He sets the box on the floor, rolls my suitcase inside, kicks the door shut, then crosses to me. He’s standing close enough I can see every fleck of gray and blue in his eyes. I can smell the spice and aqua in his cologne. I can feel the heat from his body.

“Were you worried about me?” There’s that grin again. It’s the kind of adorable that makes my panties melt.

I purse my lips. “No, you big jerk. I’m just hungry.” And because apparently I’m not humiliated enough, I add a whispered, “And I missed you.”

Shit. Shouldn’t have said that.

But if there’s a reward for stupidity, it’s the beauty of his full-on smile. “Good.”

There are about eighty questions I want to ask him—like how he arranged things so quickly, how he managed to get grocery store Jim and site foreman Brad to comply, and whether or not he wants me as bad as I want him. But I can’t form a word because he’s staring at me with those half-lidded bedroom eyes and that bottom lip pulled between his teeth. It’s like he knows just what to do.

But of course he does. He always has.

I can’t resist. I don’t want to. I want him. I don’t know what it means or for how long, but I want him tonight.

“Tommy …”

---