Page 117 of Bad Attitude
It’s equally obvious why he hasn’t come to call. And apparently, heismuch recovered.
Thank God I didn’t get here an hour later, with him answering the door in a hastily-donned bathrobe. Or leaving me standing outside, listening to the pounding of the headboard against the wall.
Fuck. Fuck him. Fuck her. Fuck my life.
It’s not shock anymore. It’s not even anger. It’s just hurt, deep and cutting and sofucking expected. Tears fill my eyes, and I turn away before he sees.
“Raven—” he begins, but I’m not hanging around.
He reaches for me, weight onto his bad leg, wincing a second later. I don’t care—it’s probably an attempt at sympathy. But that ship has sailed. I step back, meeting his gaze for a fleeting second. My damncoat stirs with the movement, and I slap a hand onto it, holding it in place. He doesn’t get to see that now. Or ever again.
The elevator’s only twenty feet away, but it feels like a marathon. Every step, waiting to hear their laughter behind me. Tears prickling my eyes.
“Raven!”
I ignore him. I have no interest in his lame half-assed apologies—or worse, the ‘I didn’t think we were exclusive’ when what hereallymeans is ‘you suck in bed and she doesn’t.’
The doors have long closed. I press the button again and again. Why won’t theyopen? I should’ve taken the stairs. I only didn’t because anyone coming up would have one hell of a view, because I’mfucking naked under this coat.
WhatwasI thinking? So damn stupid!
He’s coming down the hallway behind me. The elevator still hasn’t arrived. I don’t want to face him. A sob slips out, half frustration, half heartbreak. It hurts so much that maybe Ididlove him, maybe Iwascapable of love.
No more. Never again. Not him, not anyone.
A hand closes around my arm. I jerk back in reflex, but he doesn’t release me.
Fucking. Bastard.
“Letgoof me!”
“No.” He doesn’t yell, he speaks calmly. Like my request is unreasonable.
The door to the stairs is drifting closed behind the other woman. She’s gone, leaving us alone. ExceptmaybeI’mtheotherwoman. I don’t know how long this has been going on.
I don’t care about that either. The hurt seems to have faded, leaving behind only numbness. It’s all too easy to find a calm voice that matches his.
“Let go of me.”
“There is no force in this world that will pry my hand from your arm,” he says. “Not until you’ve come into my apartment and let me explain.”
I almost laugh. Explain? What the hell is there toexplain?
“There’s nothing to explain, is there?” I was wrong: the hurtisstill there, making every breath painful. But I mask it with my contempt for him. “I have eyes. I’m sorry I…interrupted.”
He lets out a sharp breath, and his face loses some of its tension. Almost like he’s… relieved? Relief that Ididn’tinterrupt? That they hadn’tstartedyet?
I tug at my arm, but the bastard holds on. “Let go of meright now, Declan.”
“No. I told you—”
I’ve had it. With him, with this, withmen.
“Fuck you.”
And I punch him. Not in his perfect face, although that’s tempting. Not in his balls, although he deserves it. No, instead I do something far worse.
I hit him as hard as I can, right over his wound, right into his thigh.
