“You say that like you deserve it?” He’s baffled, his anger fading to shock.

“Sometimes I don’t think I do,” I admit for the first time aloud. “I think about all the times I was moved from home to home. I always pretended that it didn’t matter—that it was them not me. But I think it was more of a defense mechanism than anything… I could have tried harder to be a better child, but I was too stubborn and had too much rebellion in me.”

He stares at me, his expression unreadable, one hand on my hip, the other on my face. I can feel his pulse throbbing through his fingertips. It seems as if he’s searching for the right words, but I don’t want him to say anything. I don’t want to hear how he thinks that’s not true, how I’m better than that, how it was everyone’s fault but mine.

“I don’t want a pity party,” I tell him. “I was just saying my thoughts aloud.”

“I wasn’t going to give you a pity party,” he replies, reminding me of the reason I was drawn to him in the first place. “I was going to say that when we get back to Laramie, I want you to stay with us.” When I start to open my mouth to say, well, I’m not sure, he talks over me, “I’ll sleep on the sofa and you can have the bedroom. Seth and Greyson will be completely fine with you being back. In fact, Seth even said something about missing you the other day, but don’t tell him I told you that.” He pauses as if waiting for me to agree, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that yet. “And if you want, we can work out some kind of schedule where we don’t have to be in the house at the same time, except for when we’re sleeping.”

It’s amazing how easy it is to run away from your problems. Running back to Preston felt easier than going back to Luke. Yes, it has to do partly with who his mother is, but I think there was always more to it than that. I think it was easier to run away, because it meant running away from what I was feeling. That night he told me who his mother was hurt so badly that I knew I was falling for him. Hard. I’d never had such powerful emotions toward someone before and that scared me.

“What about this thing with your… mother?” I ask, wincing as I remember the one and only night I met his mother, how crazy she looked as she sang that song with my parent’s blood on her clothes. “What if something happens, like they arrest her? Won’t that make things weird? More weird than they already are?”

He looks baffled, his jaw dropping, his eyes widening. “I f**king hope they arrest her. In fact I’ve been waiting for them to my entire life.”

Silence stretches between us as he drifts into thought as he rolls onto his back, his gaze floating to the ceiling while I examine his expression, trying to figure out what he could be thinking.

“How bad was it?” I dare ask. I’ve heard some stories from him, horrible stories, but I’m guessing there’s more to it, more that he hasn’t told me yet. “With your mom, I mean… was it just the drug thing? Or was there something more?”

His breath catches in his throat, his eyes glued to the ceiling as he struggles with something internally. I’m about to tell him never mind, that he doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to, but then he starts talking. “She used to like to play these games,” he says, his voice faltering. “Ones that you’d never win, but you’d have to try or else you’d pay too. There was one time she messed up the entire house and then told me to clean it, but the catch was that everything had to be put in the right place, otherwise I’d have to spend time with her… days… which should sound fun but her idea of spending time together, was not the normal mother son relationship. More like a pet… only she liked the pet too much…” He squeezes his eyes and I wonder if he’s trying to hold back tears. “You know what really f**king sucks. Is that I just let her make me do all those things, was I that afraid of her?"

“You were just a kid,” I tell him. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“So. I knew what she was doing was wrong, but I didn’t do anything to try and stop it, because I was afraid of her—still am sometimes. A full grown man and just the sound of her voice makes me feel so angry and helpless.”

Just like Preston does to me. God, we have so much in common. If only there wasn’t that one thing, then maybe we could have something good.

He stays still for a while, while I wonder exactly what he’s trying to say, read between the lines. His mother clearly hurt him, but it seems like there’s so much more to it, way, way more. Dark things. Ones I should know. The things people do behind close doors—I’ve seen a lot of f**ked up shit. But I think Luke might have seen more, which is so sad it literally hurts my heart.

When he opens his eyes again, he rolls back toward me and starts grazing his finger across my cheek. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be talking to you about this. You’ve been through your own shit and the last thing you need is for me to babble about my problems.”

“It’s okay. I asked you to,” I say, battling to keep my voice. Too many emotions, dammit, I can’t keep doing this. I pause, inhaling and exhaling loudly, about to say something that I’d never thought I’d say aloud. “Luke…”

His hand stops moving on my cheek, his thumb tracing a line beneath my eye. “Yeah?” When I don’t say anything right away, he adds, “You can say whatever you want to me, good or bad. I deserve whatever it is.”

“I think I was wrong for leaving that day.” The words fall from my lips and crash to the earth like fragile glass. Throughout the last two months, I’d thought it many times. Every time I woke up from my nightmares alone. Every time I saw a place Luke and I shared some kind of moment together. Every time Preston touched me… that’s when I regretted my decision the most. But admitting that and letting everything go so I could get back to the place I was in before I left Luke, always seemed out of reach. But what if it’s right here, in front of me?

Just let it go.

The thought sounds like my father’s voice, but the thing is, I didn’t know him well enough to know if he’d be the kind of person who’d want me to hold a grudge or let it go. I was too young when he died, barely getting to know him and my mother. I want to believe, though, that they were good people, despite what anyone else says.

“You had every right to leave.” He pauses, contemplating something, then he suddenly sits up, taking his warmth with him. He rakes his hand through his hair. “You know what? I think I’m going to try and help them. After we go back, I think I’m going to pay her a little visit.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I hurry and sit up, stretching, my legs that are still tucked under the blanket. “I don’t want you being around her.”

“I don’t want to be around her either,” he says in a tight voice. “And maybe if we can get her behind bars, I’ll never have to again.”

The idea of her being behind bars makes me feel better, but still, I’m not much of an optimist, so the concept that it will actually happen seems out of reach. “What about the other guy? Do you think she’ll ever say who it is?”

He rotates in the bed, bringing his knees out from under the blanket. He’s only wearing boxers and I can see pretty much all of him, including the massive bruise on his rib cage where Geraldson’s bodyguard, or whatever that big guy was, hit him. Luke puts his arm on his leg and leans close to me. “I’m not sure, but we’ll figure this out. I’ll do everything I can, but please tell me you’re going to come home with me.”

Home? Such a foreign word.

I don’t agree—not ready to yet. But I want to and that has to be something. There’s still so much between us that hasn’t been said yet. And I could keep running and never have to talk about it, but the truth is I don’t really want to anymore. I’m tired of running from everything and everyone. I’ve been doing it for almost fourteen years and maybe it’s time to take a break.

***

After we talk for a little longer, about lighter stuff, I realize that my phone battery died last night so I find a charger and plug it in. There’s a message from Detective Stephner, telling me to call him back asap, but when I dial him back, it goes straight to his voicemail. So I leave him another message and let the phone tag begin.

I take a nap while I’m waiting, because apparently between the energy I lost during the panic attack and the hangover, I’m exhausted. When I wake up, night has fallen and Luke is dressed to go out in jeans, a black shirt, and boots, his hair done and his face freshly shaven.

He’s ‘s lying down on the bed next to me, on top of the comforter and that notebook I saw him put into his bag back at the apartment is opened up on his lap, his eyes on the pages. Whatever is on there has got him worked up, his eyes glossy, his fingers trembling as he flips the page.

“Everything okay?” I ask, sitting up in the bed and stretching my arms above my head.

He jumps and presses his hand to his heart, startled. “Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”

I glance from the notebook to his wide eyes. “I can tell.” I pause, looking down at the notebook again. “What are you reading?”

He shakes his head, closing the book. “It is… was…” He touches the leather band on his wrist that he always wears, tracing his fingers over the word Redemption. “My sister, Amy’s journal… my… mother sent it to me a few weeks ago.” He sets the book aside, shaking his head. “I have no idea why she did it. I think it was another one of her games to try and get me to come home, like remembering Amy would tear me up enough that I would need to be with my mom or something.” He rolls his eyes. “She’s stupid, though. She had to of not read it because there’s a lot of discriminating thing in there about her that makes me want to never see her again.” He pauses, conflicted, fiddling with a small whole in his jeans. “Although she could have read it and was just too crazy to see how bad it made her look.”

I’m about to say… well, something, because it feels like I need to, but then he abruptly changes the subject. “I’m glad you woke up before I left for the game. I wanted to talk to you about something.”

I frown, bringing my knees up so there under me, then smooth my untamed locks out of my face. “Why did you say it like that—like I’m not going?”

“Because you’re not.” He offers me this sexy lopsided grin, as if dazzling me with his charm is going to make this easier on him. “I want—no need—to make sure you’re safe for the night.”

“Don’t try to smile you’re way out of this, Mr. Stoically Aloof,” I say, elevating my brows at him. “I want to go. Be useful. Not just sit around here and feel like I’m going to go crazy from the quietness.” Something shifts in his expression, unravels, his tongue slipping out of his mouth to wet his lips. “What is it?” I ask, not sure if he looks upset or painfully relieved—perhaps both.

“It’s nothing.” He shakes his head, gaze glued on mine. “It’s just that you used my nickname.”

“So…” I’m so confused.

“So, I didn’t think I’d ever hear it come out of your mouth again since you only use it when you’re being flirty.” He’s right. I only used it when I was teasing him or trying to make him irritated because he looks sexy when he’s frustrated, on the verge of losing it with me. “I’ve missed it,” he adds, looking as though he’s going to kiss me. And I want him to desperately, not just because with each kiss it feels like he’s erasing more and more of Preston’s kisses, but because when his lips are on mine, they’re the only thing I can feel, my very own replacement to my adrenaline addiction.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” I finally ask after a minute passes with him eyeing my mouth. I wince at the desperation in my voice, almost panting.

He cracks a smile, his eyebrows elevating. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

I remain indifferent. “Are you playing a game with me, Mr. Stoically Aloof?”

“If I was, I’d be winning.” His lips quirk, amused, and for an amazing moment, it feels like we’re in the past again, challenging the crap out of each other. I don’t want to lose and admit how much I want to kiss him and neither does he.

Stubborn asshole. “You want to know what?” I ask cockily, then lean in, my lips hovering over his. “I’ll win this one.” With that, I press my lips to his and give him a passionate kiss, my tongue enticing his lips open and meeting his as my arms encircle him and my fingers wander through his hair.

“How do you figure that was you winning?” he asks between kisses, his hand tangling through my hair.

I internally smile, almost laughing aloud at my brilliance. “Because I took the kiss from you.”

He lets out this raspy chuckle then suddenly the kiss turns much more heated as he leans in toward me and he forces me back on my back, covering my body with his. “If that’s the case then,” his fingers slide up beneath the slip I still have on from last night, making their way up my leg, ready to enter me. Not wanting to give him the upper hand, though, I move my hand down and shove his fingers away, despite how much my body protests.

He lets out this growl, but before he can come at me again, I put my hand down his jeans and start rubbing him, making him pant, his body going rigid as I grip onto him and move my hand up and down.