Page 30 of Forgiving Utah
Fuck, and this is why I hate being sober. “You used to think so.”
His lashes twitch, but not before I catch the conflict in his eyes. He almost seems pissed, like he hasn’t decided whether or not to punch me. And I’m sick enough, lonely enough, to stand there wishing he would.
The towel hitches slightly when I shift my weight. His gaze zeroes in on the movement like a predator catching prey. “Put some clothes on,” he growls. “We're leaving for work in five.”
A slow breath leaves my lungs when he steps away, taking the warmth with him. “I don't… I don't have any clothes. Clean ones, anyway. And Arnie probably threw out all my shit, so…”
Christian stares at me for a long moment, jaw muscles working. When he doesn't answer right away, I run a hand through my damp hair and shrug. “Guess I can borrow Logan's—”
That has him spinning on his heel toward his bedroom. “Good thing we're about the same size, motherfucker. You can borrow one pair of jeans and a single shirt. That's it.”
He disappears down the hallway, muttering something in Spanish under his breath the whole way. I lean my head against the fridge briefly and try to calm my heart down. Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with me? He didn’t even touch me. He barely came near me. One whole week sober and I've already lost my swagger. Fucking embarrassing. Maybe if I just do one line to get my confidence back—
My shoulders slump. Arnie was the guy I'd go to for that, even if the shit he gave me last time nearly killed me. And Christian used his hard-earned cash to get me out of that mess.
But if I start off slow this time, get it under control, only do it once in a while. I can be good this time.
“Fuck,” I mutter to myself. Same old lies. The bargaining has already started. And soon the cycle will repeat, over and over until I finally end up on someone's floor with a needle in my arm. It's like a fucking loop I just can't escape from.
Christian stomps back into the kitchen a minute later and throws some clothes at my chest. “Don’t stretch them out.”
“The fuck do you think I’m gonna do in them?”
“Shut up and get dressed,” he snaps, heading for the front door.
I stare down at the jeans in my hands long after his footsteps fade away. They’re dark-wash, worn. Tight-fitting. Kind of like the ones he wore in Ohio when I sucked his dick in the Gravitron.
Great. Now I’m horny and sad. Fantastic combination.
With a sigh, I unwrap the towel and step into the denim right there in the kitchen, tugging them up over my hips. They fit fine, albeit a little short, hugging all the right places without strangling anything important. Shaky fingers close the button, and I pause, feeling something tight coil in my chest.
This is dumb. They’re just fucking jeans. Why are they making my heart hurt?
He didn’t have to give me anything. Not after the shit I pulled last year. And now here I am, wearing his clothes, stealing his body wash, eating his cheese.
My hands go still on the T-shirt when a thought runs through my head: I don’t want to hurt him again.
He doesn’t deserve it, not after everything. And I’m the problem.
I’m always the problem.
I want to be better.
But the truth is, I can’t trust myself. Every time I start to feel okay, I find a new way to slip back into old habits, and this time…
Christian will be the first casualty if I do.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Christian
Juanita's eyeing Devon like she wants to eat him alive.
I mean, I get it. Fucker looks edible in my jeans, even with all the weight he's lost, but she's supposed to be mad at him like I am. Not staring at his ass while he clears tables and bobs his head to the music. Even if said ass does look bouncy as fuck in those pants.
“Eyes up, jefe,” I grumble at Juanita. “He’s not available.”
She just raises a perfectly manicured brow, and I stumble over my words.
