Page 64 of Bitter’s Sweet

Bitter could use me. The club has a live tracker, men they already need to find, and a woman Razor is clearly following. Turning me into bait would probably make things easier.

His first answer is no.

Not with me.

Bitter doesn’t seem to notice what he just said, or maybe he does and doesn’t care. My heart makes one stupid, hopeful little movement in my chest because maybe the man underneath all that bossing really does understand where the line is.

“I need to go home.”

“No,” Bitter says.

I look at him, too tired to make my voice sweet. “Do not start.”

“I ain’t starting. I’m finishing. You’re not going wherever he tracked you.”

“My things are there.”

“We’ll get them.”

“We?”

“Me and Ghoul.”

“No.”

Bitter’s eyes hold mine. “Sweet, listen real good. You can hate me for it if you need to, but you are not going home alone, you are not sleeping somewhere Razor Maddox already knows, and you are not getting in this car until CSI clears every inch of it.”

“That sounds a lot like orders.”

“It is.”

“I don’t like orders.”

“I gathered.”

“And you don’t do relationships.”

His jaw tightens.

“So what exactly is this?”

The question hangs between us, too sharp and too honest for the middle of a carnival lot.

Bitter looks at the tracker in CSI’s hand, then at the scratched word on my door, then back at me.

His voice comes rough. “This is me keeping you breathing.”

My heart aches in a way it has no business aching.

“That still sounds like more.”

“It ain’t.”

“Liar,” I whisper.

His eyes flash.

For one second, I think he might say something real.