Used (Unlovable, #1) (Unlovable Series)

by Halat, Lynetta

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re not leaving till I know you’re nightmare-free.”

  “But—”

  “Shh, no buts. I told you I’ll help and keep quiet. You agreed. That’s that.” He resumes his petting of me. I’m proud that I resist purring.

  “I don’t know that I ever really agreed,” I mumble, as I inch a little closer. “Why do you want to help me? You hate me, remember?”

  He blows a breath, ruffling my hair. “If I hate you, you know my intentions are pure. Hate is pure. It’s love that’s corroded.” I stiffen in his arms. “But I don’t hate you. It’s what you’re doing to yourself, and how you see yourself, that I hate.”

  “OK … SO MY parents would freak if they knew, but I have to admit I’m loving staying here,” Maggie says as she slides up on the counter in the bathroom. We’d had pizza and watched a little TV before Maggie and I sneaked off for girl time in the bathroom. “I loved waking up with Pete this morning and knowing that we would come back here together and have dinner together and go to bed together,” she finishes with a dreamy sigh.

  “Did you hear how many times you said the word together?”

  “Yes, that’s the whole point—together, together, together.”

  I grin around my toothbrush.

  “So how long do you think we’ll be here?”

  “Umm … indefinitely?” Her mouth drops, but I seriously cannot remember a time when I hadn’t had at least one nightmare a night. Granted, they didn’t usually make me scream and cry like these last two nights, but I have a feeling that part will persist until these particular demons are exorcised.

  “Really?” she breathes, all wild, green eyes and bright smile.

  “Yep, really. Do you think you’ll be able to resist Pete’s charms and maintain your, huh hum, chastity?”

  I gape in utter fascination as Maggie burns a bright red. Even on her arms and chest.

  My mouth drops with a gasp. “You didn’t?”

  She fidgets and bites her lips. “Well, let’s just say technically I’m still a virgin but … Pete’s happy. Pete’s satisfied. And so is Maggie,” she finishes quickly.

  “Well, OK then,” I laugh.

  “What’s going on with you and Greer?”

  “We’re done.” God, that hurts.

  “I was afraid of that. No way would we be staying here if you were still seeing him.”

  I want to tell her what he did, but if I start talking about that now, we may never leave this bathroom. “I want to tell you, Maggie. But I’m not ready to talk about it.”

  Her eyes are sincere as she smiles slightly. “I understand that, but you’re talking to Ransom about it, right? I can’t bear to think you don’t have anyone to talk to even though I’m not quite sure why you’d confide in him. I mean, a week ago, y’all were ready to kill each other. ESPN, anyone?”

  Was that just a week ago? That’s crazy. My life had completely upended itself in just a few days. Funny how it had seemed to last longer. “I didn’t exactly confide in him willingly. He found me when I was wrecked from what happened, and he didn’t give me much choice. Then, I thought it would be good to tell him since he doesn’t really give a shit about me. What I had to say couldn’t hurt him.”

  “Oh, you’re so wrong about that.” I open my mouth to protest. “I’m serious Denver. Pete hasn’t said anything directly because that would be betraying Ransom, but he’s made a couple of off-handed remarks. That coupled with the way he looks at you.” She shakes her head. “Girl, that boy’s got it bad. You know, much like you for him,” she says with a nudge.

  My eyes tear up. Here’s the crux of my problem. “I tried to fight it. I was supposed to be working on my relationship with Greer, and I kept thinking about Ransom and flirting with Ransom and talking to Ransom. Greer saw all that too, and my fickleness is partly to blame for what went down with us.”

  “You know, sometimes we fight battles we have no business fighting,” Maggie says with a nod of her oh-so-wise little, red head.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Ransom

  UNFURLING MY HAND from the mass of blonde hair that I wake up entangled in each morning, never fails to make my heart still. I prop myself up on an elbow and grin as I glance down at our entwined limbs. It doesn’t matter how we fall asleep, I always wake to the heat and security of our bodies vined around one another. Surprisingly, instead of her threatening to choke the life out of me, she is winding her way into my every thought, triggering my every instinct—loyalty, protectiveness, and … love. She makes me feel stronger and more alive than I’ve felt my entire life, and those are two things that have never eluded me.

  I stare down at the porcelain beauty who, while damaged, is anything but fragile, and I try to figure out exactly how I let that happen. I guess that’s the thing with Denver, though, she doesn’t ask to be let in. She ran roughshod over my heart. Then just stole her way right in there, like it’s where she was always destined to be.

  I’ve never let a girl sleep in my bed, and yet, here I am, knowing I never want to wake up any other way but with her at my side. It’s a little too soon to be thinking forever, I chastise myself. But again, I have no control over my desires. And, I’m old enough to recognize the difference between lust and desire. I lusted after girls before, no doubt. I never desired one, though. And I desire to begin and end my day with this girl and share every moment in between.

  My fingertips tingle, missing her touch, so I run them down her bare arm and watch, fascinated, as little goose bumps spring up in their wake. Even in her sleep, she responds to my touch. My eyes dart to hers to see if I’ve awakened her, but I’m safe, for now. She caught me ogling her yesterday, but I just played it off, for fear that I make her uncomfortable with my intense line of thought. I’m sure she can see every emotion in my eyes, since she’s proven pretty good at reading me, so I’ll have to guard those closely.

  Bringing my hand back up, I run a lock of her hair through my fingertips and wonder how soon is too soon? When will she be ready to accept us for what we are? Accept what I have to offer her? What if she doesn’t want anything to do with me? What if, when she heals, I’m just a painful reminder of all that she’s gone through? I shake my head of the negative thoughts, and promise myself I won’t let that happen. I’ll take it slow and ensure she feels nice and safe with me.

  I know she feels something for me too. I felt it the night we kissed. I think back to the way she surrendered herself to me. If I could undo anything, it’d be walking away from her that night. If I hadn’t, if I had taken what I knew deep down was mine, she wouldn’t be struggling like she is right now. Or, maybe it was too soon then and now that we are kind of forced together, it is all playing out like it should. Hell, I don’t know. All I know is that I’m never letting her go. I grin when I imagine her fiery temper trained on me when that time comes, if that’s not what she’s ready and willing to admit. That fires me up almost as much as her acceptance.

  My hand has made its way to her hip and is tracing a pattern on it when I sense her rousing next to me. Slowly withdrawing, I shove both arms under my head. “Denver?” I whisper.

  “Mmm, hmm,” she responds without opening her eyes.

  “Mornin,’ you awake?”

  “Mmm, hmm,” she purrs, as she runs her leg up mine and frees it. I have to pinch my lips together and curl my fists to keep from doing something stupid, like throwing her on her back and devouring her.

  “You’re done with classes at noon, huh?”

  “Yeah,” she finally whispers.

  I want her to myself today. I’d had to share her with Maggie and Pete every day. “I want to get an early start today with the horses. I’ll pick you up right after class, and we can leave from there. Ballard building, right?”

  Her sunny eyes finally meet mine, and like always, the warmth that look generates spreads through me like wildfire. I have to force myself not to smile like a fucking clown. “Yep, I’ll be ready,” she mum
bles, as she licks her lips.

  The things I want to do to that mouth and that body are dirty, dirty, dirty, so I propel myself from the bed after I mutter a strangled, “Good deal,” and hop into an ice cold shower. It’s just one of many this week.

  SHE BOUNDS FROM the building with excitement rippling from her in waves. Her strength and tenacity always surprise me. Just when I get used to how strong she is, and I think she can’t top that, she barrels over my assumptions and proves me wrong. It gives me hope.

  As she comes a little closer, I take in her simple appearance and know I’ve never seen anything sexier. White, button-up, long sleeve under a black, heavy coat. Her jeans are well worn and fit like a second skin, and she’s got them tucked into black cowgirl boots that are stitched with white designs. My eyes travel back up to see her hair in a French-braid, a few strands escaping to blow around her make-up free face. I have to start thinking about shoveling manure from my horse’s stall, and other mundane tasks, to fight off my rapidly growing need for her.

  I push off the side of my truck and turn toward the door and covertly, I hope, adjust myself.

  Opening the door wide, I glance at her as she sidles next to me, her arm brushing mine. “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” she replies softly, as she climbs into my truck.

  I close the door and make my way around to the driver’s side. She sits forward and pulls her coat off, since I have the truck warmed up for her already. I slide my aviators on and glance over to see her do the same. She looks up and laughs at our similar tastes in eyewear.

  “You think it’s gonna snow on us?” she asks.

  I pop my truck into gear and whip out of the parking lot. “They’re calling for it later this afternoon. We should be able to get some exercise in.”

  “Hmm … do you mind?” she asks, gesturing to my collection of eight-tracks.

  “Nope, go for it,” I tell her, curious to see what she’ll choose.

  She puts a tape in, and I fight the urge to peek at it. She fast forwards a bit, presses play, and the Allman Brothers sing out a little before she presses fast forward again. “This is the only thing about eight-tracks. No instant gratification. You have to be patient,” she laughs. “What made you install one anyway?”

  I tap my fingers on the steering wheel. “Instant gratification is highly overrated, and never underestimate the power of anticipation.” I can hear the double meaning in my words, so I quickly add, “And anything worth listening to came out before 1980, so it just made sense.”

  My tactic works … I know she loves her modern country music. She gasps and her mouth drops open. “What?” She stops fast forwarding. “What about Garth Brooks, Bruce Springsteen, Miranda Lambert?” she demands.

  “They play all that on the radio.”

  “I guess you have a point,” she concedes, going back to searching for the song she wants.

  She presses play and “Soulshine” floods the cabin. “Aha!” she cheers. “I do love that when you land on a song perfectly, you feel like you have superpowers!”

  I can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm just before I open my big mouth again. “Like I said, the power of anticipation … delayed gratification … it’s a heady thing.”

  Her head flies up on that comment. Does she understand? She swallows hard, and then her gaze darts back to the landscape. The movements of her hands draw my attention, and when I glance down, I grin at their clenching and unclenching. Oh, she gets it all right.

  My mood sobers pretty quickly when the lyrics start to infiltrate my brain. I wonder if she realizes how telling this song is for the both of us. She starts out on a low hum, but before I know it, she’s singing along quietly. That night I heard her sing, I was frozen. I literally could not look up or speak to anyone when I heard her voice cut across the bar. I’d never heard anything prettier. When Austin called me on stage to sing with her, I had to talk myself out of running up there, spinning her around in circles, and serenading her. My thoughts made me feel like a ridiculous dipshit, but they were what they were.

  When the song comes to an end, I turn the stereo down a little. “You really can sing,” I tell her.

  She giggles around a quiet, “Thank you.”

  As had been our pattern this week, I know it’s time to talk a little. “Denver, the night of our interview,” I begin. She tenses up. I know this isn’t easy, but it’s the only way.

  “Yeah?”

  “You said some things about your mom.”

  “Yeah.”

  I wait for her to elaborate, but she just stares out of her window. “Well, it’s not every day someone calls her own mother a whore, so I guess it stuck,” I joke, trying to lighten the mood somewhat. “What did you mean by that?”

  Releasing a long sigh, she finally says, “Well, my mom marries for money, hopping from one payday to the next, quicker than you can say prostitute. She’s cold, she’s calculating. She cares about no one but herself, not that the men she hooks up with deserve any kind of sympathy. She’s on husband number seven; he’s her boy toy. You best believe number eight will serve to replenish her bank account. So, in a nutshell, she’s a whore.”

  Some of things she’d told me, combined with the way she sees herself, start to come into focus. “You’re not your mother,” I assert. I don’t know how I know this, but I do. She may have been promiscuous, but she’s not cold, not cruel. And that promiscuity bullshit is done, dammit, that doesn’t have to be something that marks her forever.

  “You don’t know that,” she whispers.

  “Denver, you may be reckless and a little wild, but you’re not cold. You’re not calculating,” I say with a glance at the back of her head.

  Her gaze snaps to mine. “You called me those things in the interview. You used those exact words.”

  I grip my steering wheel because she’s right. I’d said those very things, only I didn’t mean them. Well, I did at the time, but I was just being a jackass since I couldn’t have what I wanted.

  “I didn’t know you, Denver. And while we’re on the subject, I owe you an apology.” I hate that I’m driving right now, so I whip my truck to the side of the road.

  “You’ve already apologized,” she rushes out.

  “Hmm … I apologized for being an ass,” I remind her, throwing the truck into park. “That doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

  She gasps, as I toss my glasses on the dash, unbuckle, and jump from the cab. “Ransom, what are you doing?”

  I round the truck, not breaking eye contact with her. Pulling her door open, I unbuckle her and turn her body to face mine. I ease her shades down and toss them on the seat. I mold my hands around her jaw. Her eyes are wide and searching.

  This has been a long time coming, but I hadn’t wanted to take the focus off of her. So, I’ve been biding my time and have been rehearsing the shit out of exactly what I’d say. Of course, the second my mouth opens and I stare into her eyes, everything I had prepared flies out of my damn head. Gonna have to wing it.

  “I’ve never felt like more of a dick than the night I said those things to you, and that pissed me off so bad. The fact that I felt like that, the fact that you made me lose control and question myself, the fact that I knew you didn’t deserve that … I don’t know how to explain this without scaring the shit out of you, but nothing I said that night, or the next day for that matter, was about you.” I have to take a deep breath and force my fingers to relax. “It was about what I was feeling, and how I was hurting. You called me on my shit, though. You told me I was being childish and immature and a jerk. And you were right.” I hesitate and run my thumbs over her cheekbones. “I am sorry I said those things to you, Denver. You’ve got an uncanny knack for blaming yourself for other’s actions. You’re gonna let that go, and put that on me, where it deserves to be. Understand?”

  I watch disbelief flitter across her eyes before she bursts out laughing. Not the reaction I was hoping for, but I’ll take her laughter any day of the week.


  Raising her brow, she asks, “Are you seriously demanding that I forgive you?” She shakes her head back and forth as much as she’s able. “Well, if that don’t beat all.”

  I drop my hands and lean in to her. “I’m serious, Denver. Those things should’ve never been said. Yes, you’ve made some mistakes. Who hasn’t? You didn’t deserve that shit. I’m sorry you had to prove that to me to gain my respect, but you have earned it, over and over again. Do you forgive me?”

  “You respect me?” she breathes out.

  “Hell, yes. I respect you more than anyone I’ve ever met, and I’ve known you for all of a couple of months. What does that tell you?”

  “I forgive you,” she replies seriously.

  “You gonna put that shit out of your head?”

  She nods earnestly. “I’m going to try. Really try.”

  “That’s all we can do,” I say, and start to turn away, but she stops me with a question.

  “Why’d you kiss me that night?”

  Facing her again, I turn that back around on her. “You kissed me first,” I grin.

  Her face heats, and she grins back at me. “I did, but your kiss was … more. Why?”

  There’s so much to my reasoning, but only one thought sums all that up. “Because I couldn’t not kiss you,” I admit.

  I turn around quickly because I’m feeling that same intense urge to do it again, right here, right now. But, I know she’s not ready. Slamming my door, I pull back onto the road to take us to our horses.

  Denver

  WATCHING RANSOM IN his long-sleeve, black thermal, his faded jeans, and his dusty and worn cowboy boots as he shops for groceries is beyond fascinating. It’s like watching Santa Claus shop for Christmas presents. Here is this larger-than-life, sexier-than-all-hell bull rider doing something mundane like putting bacon in a shopping cart. I offered to push the cart, since it’s his fridge he’s restocking. I quickly decided that this was the smartest thing I’ve ever done. I get to marvel at his backside every time he stretches and bends. He caught me a couple of times when he turned to ask my preferences for what we’ll eat this week. I don’t even remember my answers because I couldn’t care less about all that.