Page 102 of Messy Strokes (Wrecked Roommates)

“And you honestly think he’ll fall for it?”

He steps closer, towering over me, trying to intimidate me with his size and testosterone, and I hate how it’s working.

“It’s not your job to question whether or not he’ll believe you,” he reminds me, his tone lethal. “It’s your job to question what leverage you’ll still hold if he doesn’t. Because without it, I’ll tell Milo about all the things we used to do together. Remember the fun we used to have?”

He strokes my cheek again, this time with the back of his hand. A shiver races down my spine as I jerk away from his touch.

“I hate you,” I seethe.

“I hate you too.” He slaps his hand against my cheek. Not enough to leave a red mark but with enough pressure to prove a point. To prove he could break me if he wanted to. Tear everything away from me. And watch me burn for the hell of it. “You were a fun plaything for a while, though. It’s a shame we didn’t work.”

A car pulls into the driveway next to Marty’s, and my lungs give out as Milo unfolds himself from the driver’s seat. His gaze zeroes in on Marty and me standing on the front porch.

With every step, he stalks closer to us, but I can’t move. I can’t speak. I’m paralyzed.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Milo barks. He takes the short set of steps from the driveway to the front porch two at a time and sandwiches himself between Marty and me. Like my protector. My savior.

“Just stopped by to say hello to an old friend,” Marty returns. He holds my gaze for a split second longer, a sinister smile stretching across his face. I fist my sweaty palms at my sides, my breathing shallow as he turns to Milo. “Is Fender home?”

“Fender’s in rehab,” Milo grits out. “But you already know that.”

“I heard he got out and didn’t feel like touring with Gibbs anymore. Thought he might be home looking for––”

“Get the hell off my porch.”

“All right, man. No need for a tantrum.” Marty raises his hands in surrender. He takes a step back and leans to the right, lifting his chin at me. “Good seeing you again, Em.”

I hate the way five simple words can affect me. Like they have the power to break a person. Like they have the power to wreck my world.

And I hate it because theydo. I hate how he’s able to hold something over me––to blackmail and use me however he wants.

It’s crazy how slippery the slope can be. One simple favor. One slip of the tongue. One small decision leading to a landslide of problems, making you feel as if you’re drowning.

Which is why I feel like I can’t breathe. Not right now. Not when the devil himself is standing so close to me. Not when he has the ability to ruin my second chance with Milo before we even have the opportunity to give it a real shot.

“Leave. Now,” Milo growls.

Marty keeps my gaze for a second longer and turns on his heel, heading back to his car as Milo and I hold our breath. Neither of us moves a muscle until his vehicle pulls onto the street and disappears down the road. Then Milo’s arms are around me, and I melt into him.

“You all right?” he mutters against the crown of my head.

I nod against his warm chest, breathing in his familiar scent, letting it wash away the smell of cigarette smoke and expensive cologne burning my nostrils.

It’s okay. He’s gone.

The heat from Milo’s hand brands my back as he rubs it along my spine. “You sure?”

Another nod.

“What were you guys talking about when I got here?”

I feel like I can’t move. Like I can’t breathe. Like I can’t even think straight.

I’m too lost in my own head, replaying my conversation with Marty over and over again.

“Mads?” Milo prods, his tone patient as he turns back to me.

“N-nothing.”

---