*Reminder that this is still in rough draft stage. Apologies for any typos!*
He couldn’t remember
the last time he’d talked like this with a woman. Scratch that – he remembered
with acute clarity the exact last conversation he’d had with a beautiful girl
he gave a damn about. But it had been almost eighteen years since then, and
save the time he’d spent around Cheryl and Lisa, he hadn’t been interested in what
a woman had to say about anything. He didn’t share Eddie’s affliction – he
wasn’t punching too many holes in a trophy belt – but he had a bad case of
apathy.
He loved the Russells, though. And
the black-eyed, concussion-addled girl sitting on the bed with him was a
Russell. That counted for a lot. That made small talk, mysteriously, important.
He learned that she had two
half-sisters: Vanessa and Jillian. Her stepfather was in the music business and
wasn’t heading for household-name status anytime soon. She shared an apartment
with two roommates who sounded like unbelievable airheads. And she was dating
some douchebag named Connor who didn’t want to call her his girlfriend. Sly
decided this Connor was the stupidest mother*****r alive.
“So don’t see him anymore,” he said
more harshly than he’d intended, and licked the last spot of mustard off his
thumb to cover his scowl.
She laughed; it was a low, soft,
feminine sound, genuine and not calculated. She was toying her with sandwich
wrapper, folding it over her last third of sandwich over and over. “Why do you
seem to think dating is so easy?” Her eyes cut up to his, a vivid green inside
her swelling rings of bruises.
“Dating is bullshit,” he corrected.
“It’s what rich brats made up so they don’t have to take anything seriously.
But man/woman stuff is easy. He likes
you, or he doesn’t. You’re with him, or you’re not. Personally, I think you
ought to ditch the loser.”
She blushed again – she did that a
lot – and with the bruising on her face, it turned her cheeks a deeper pink
than he guessed was normal. “You don’t know him.”
“I know that if he gave a damn, he’d
be here while you sat with your dying dad,” he insisted, and then realized that
was the exact wrong thing to say.
She glanced away, blinking hard. He
watched her swallow and take a deep breath. “Yeah, well…” Her voice was shaky
now. “It’s not like I asked him to come.”
“Sweetheart.” She wouldn’t look at
him. “That’s not the sort of thing you should have to ask.”
She wiped at the corner of her eye
and then winced; her skin was tender, he knew. “Just…don’t bother me about
that, okay?” She skated a quick glance to his face. “It’s not like you care,
and I don’t feel like arguing.”
He cared. He didn’t know how to
classify his disgust with someone a whole country away he hadn’t ever met, but
he was sure the anger he felt counted as cared.
He sighed. “I didn’t mean…” Shit, how did apologizing work, again? “It’s just
that,” he started again, his words careful, “you shouldn’t have to deal with
all this” – he gestured to the walls around them – “by yourself.”
She huffed a false laugh. “I didn’t
think I was by myself, but then again, I don’t guess I’m part of the family, am
I?”
Damn.
“I’m not any good at this.”
“No you’re not. But you’re not any
worse than anyone else.” She was staring at the wall.
“You know you’re part of the family;
Lisa’s the only one with a stick up her ass. What I meant was, I figure, in a
situation like this, a girl wants to be able to lean on her guy – ”
“I take it back; you’re the worst.” But she breathed another laugh
and shook her head – and then cringed at the pain it caused. She faced him
fully again, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Do I really look like such a
damsel?”
“Yeah. But lucky for you, I’ve
always had a thing for damsels.”
Layla looked as surprised by the
statement as he was, but then a smile crept across her battered face. “Lucky
for me?”
This was worlds more fun that
stalking bar bimbos. He smiled back. “Yeah.”
She sighed, little shoulders heaving
under the oversized t-shirt Cheryl had brought her to wear. She wasn’t wearing
a bra under it, and watching the way the fabric lay across her breasts was
getting distracting. “I’m scared,” she admitted, hands knitting together in her
lap on top of the sheets. “I’m…so scared.”
You’re
damn lucky you’re not dead, he wanted to say, but that would only panic
her. Going by her expression, she knew it anyway. Instead, he nodded.
She rolled her eyes; whether she
fought him it on or not, she did feel alone. And she was shivering with fright.
A beautiful, beat up, damsel with distracting tits and pleading eyes and no
experience with a real man. Leave her alone,
he told himself. And if he did, then what? It would be Sheppard trying to ride
to her rescue. And which would Mark hate more: his daughter with an asshole
cop…or with him?
Instinct won out over common sense. “I’m
gonna promise you something,” he said and the tenor of his voice plucked her
attention. “And that means something ‘cause I don’t promise too often.”
Her slim brows lifted, but she said
nothing.
“I can’t say anything for your idiot
brother, or anybody else, but when you’re with me, I promise, nothing’s gonna
happen to you.”
Her eyes widened. “That’s a big
promise.”
“That’s the only kind to make.”
She held his gaze a long moment, and
then extended one small hand for a shake.
He wanted to laugh at her boldness –
making him shake on it. He wanted to knock her hand away. Instead, he braced a
hand on the mattress, leaned in, and kissed her.
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