by Kira Graham
It’s how Cleo broke her arm, and why she’s currently nursing a severe concussion that, thank God, didn’t turn out to be more serious than a bad headache and an overnight stay at the hospital.
“I saw that, honey. You did a real job on the SOB, if you’ll pardon my French,” the old guy chuckles, his admiration annoying me because none of this is cool, and the more they praise Cleo for it, the more she preens.
She could have gotten herself killed!
“You’re pardoned—and thanked,” she giggles, looking so satisfied that I could wring her reckless little neck. “But I get your confusion. None of this makes a lick of sense. Cameron Black is not who I would have suspected to be some stalker or killer,” she says, her brow furrowed as she glances at me. “I just don’t think—”
“In my experience, honey, it’s the truly crazy ones that seem as normal as you or I. But I agree. It would’ve been nice to know why he was doing what he did,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Then again, you can sleep better at night not knowing why crazy does what it does.”
“I guess,” Cleo sighs, lying back against her pillow and closing her eyes.
She looks like hell, with bruises forming all over her face and neck, where, as she told Angelica, she slammed into the roof when the car flipped. Her right arm is in a bright green cast up to her elbow.
“You rest now, sweetheart, and if you remember anything, any tiny little detail, you let me know. This case is practically closed already, so if there’s nothing else, I’ll tell ya to rest up, get better, and thank the good Lord and that sister of yours that you made it through. It coulda been a lot worse,” he says seriously, giving her hand a gentle pat before he and his beer gut amble out of the room, leaving me with a filthy look on my face as I watch him leave.
“Stop glaring at the man. He was just doing his job,” Cleo mumbles from her bed, her narrowed eyes focused on me before she sighs and closes them, intending to ignore me as she’s been doing since I stormed into the room.
“He was being an ass. What else did he think you could tell him about Black’s motives?” I snarl, blowing out a deep breath and going to the chair beside her bed.
“He was just curious, and, like I’ve said a million times already, so am I. The guy was so overcome at the end, as if he were torn about what he was doing.”
“The only thing that needed to be torn is his head from his body. I wish to God that I’d been the one to kill him,” I growl, ignoring her rolling eyes and snort of disgust.
“You’re just mad that you didn’t get to play the hero. Get over it. I saved myself, and then Rose finished the job,” she tells me, her self-satisfied smile pouring salt into the wounds of my already stinging pride.
“You almost killed yourself. What the hell were you thinking, attacking the man while he was driving that fast?”
“I was thinking that I would rather try to survive a car wreck than get to wherever he was going and find myself in some basement. Sheesh, Hart, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted me to end up in some nasty place with little to no options. At least on the highway, I had the chance of flagging down a car.”
“Which didn’t happen, because you got knocked out in the wreck and woke up after he’d dragged you into the tree line,” I point out, feeling like a jerk when she frowns and looks away, blinking rapidly.
Honestly, I don’t know why I can’t just shut the hell up. At this point, it’s a miracle that she hasn’t called security to kick me out. Maybe I should count my blessings and not push the issue, because I’m going to level with myself for once: I can’t leave and stay sane.
The last five hours have been the worst hours of my life. First losing Cleo, and then not knowing where to start looking, and finally rushing back to the hospital to hear her screaming while the doctors tried to give her a shot to calm her down. In that time, I’ve veered between relief, regret, and this strangely heavy sensation that has settled in my gut and won’t let up.
“I didn’t mean to get knocked out, though. I meant to…” she says, trailing off, and then sniffles with her head still turned away, making me strain to hear her quietly uttered words. “I was going to force him to pull over. Can I tell you something that I didn’t tell the cops or my family?”
Her words make me tense, but I take heart in the fact that she’s confiding in me when she’s obviously unsettled. Hell, I’m just grateful that she’s talking to me at all at this point.
“Anything. You can tell me anything, and I won’t say a word to anyone else,” I vow, leaning closer to hear her better.
Cleo sighs and starts to fiddle with the edge of her sheet, the fingers sticking out of her cast still a little pink with blood that hasn’t been cleaned off properly.
“Those scissors?” she whispers, finally turning to meet my eyes, her own wide and troubled. “I, uh…it’s my fault that they stabbed Cameron. Not that I regret—I mean…I didn’t want to hurt him, Hart,” she says guiltily, her eyes filling with tears.
Lunging up, I go to her, ignoring the way she flinches, as well as the look of indecision she gives me as I gather her into my arms and hold her close.
“It’s okay.”
“But it isn’t! I got them out of the first aid kit under the seat. And held them to his throat. I only meant to scare him. Maybe stab him a little, but they were so small that I didn’t think they could hurt him too badly. But then he started struggling, and the car flipped over, and then I woke up, and they were just…there,” she breathes against my neck, her tone horrified.
I want to laugh because, taking all things into consideration right now, it’s clear that Cleo killed someone. Without even trying. In fact, not only did she kill a man, but she actually killed the man who was going to kill her. And she feels guilty about it.
“Listen, Cleo-mine. Rosetta killed Black, and trust me, she’s not losing any sleep over it,” I tell her, resisting a chuckle at the memory of the bloodthirsty look that Rosetta’s been wearing all night.
If not for the fact that everyone finally left when I threatened them, I’d bet she’d still be out in the waiting room, recounting, for the hundredth time, the moment she shot that crazy bastard.
“But she didn’t. I mean, she shot him before he could shoot me, but if she hadn’t been there, he’d have died anyway. There was so much blood,” Cleo croaks, her shudders getting stronger.
“But she did. And you’re not responsible for what happened, Cleo-mine. He is. He died because he made the wrong choices,” I tell her, pulling back to cup her face. “You’re okay, and that’s all that matters.”
Cleo nods, her eyes meeting mine shyly, almost hesitantly.
“I…you should probably go,” she whispers, her eyes going wide when I shake my head and lean closer, just barely letting my mouth touch hers.
“I won’t leave you, Cleo. Not again. I did that once, and you almost got killed.”
“We broke up. And I hate you,” she whispers, her mouth pulling tight at the reminder.
“No, you don’t,” I tell her, my heart beating so hard that it almost hurts to breathe. “You love me.”
My words, as intended, piss her off so much that she rears back and glares at me, her attempt at anger so cute that I find myself grinning when I lean down to peck her on the lips.
“Not anymore. I don’t love you anymore, you stupid asshole,” she hisses, trying to pull away and not liking it when I won’t let her.
She was almost killed, almost taken from me, and there was nothing I could do about it. That helplessness cleared up a lot for me, and made every excuse that I’d been using seem like nothing at all. The fact is, I love Cleo Sweet. More than life. More than breath. More than myself. Realizing that was like being hit by lightning. I love this woman, and, despite everything that’s happened before, despite her attempts to push me away—and mine to push her away—I can’t escape it.
I want her, and if that means that I have to spend years chipping away at her walls, then that’s wha
t I’ll do. Gladly. As long as she’s by my side and in my bed.
“Yeah, you do. You love me, and you know why? Because we’re perfect for each other, Cleo-mine,” I murmur back, being gentle as I pull her up to her knees on the bed and hold her even closer.
“I’m not your anything.”
“You’re my heart, baby. The only heart I seem to have,” I counter, my eyes shining brightly with the knowledge of it. “In the form of a harridan who likes ugly clothes, chocolate, and hard-assed men who don’t seem to know what’s good for them.”
“I want—”
“Me,” I cut in, shaking my head when she tries to argue. “And I want you.”
“But you said—”
“I said a lot of things that don’t mean very much when compared to what it’s been like without you.”
“Oh, bull!” she sniffs, her eyes going hot with fury. “You’ve had so much company in the last three weeks that you could start a brothel.”
“Cleo—”
“You went on a date the day after you broke up with me!”
“I didn’t go on a date! Or dates. I sat through a succession of torture sessions in which I compared each and every one of them to you. And they all came up lacking. They were too skinny, too blonde, too brunette, or too flirtatious. They weren’t you, baby, and trust me, that means a lot because apparently my dick only gets hard for you now,” I mutter, scowling when she goes still, and then grins.
Snidely.
“Oh, really?”
“Really,” I say seriously, tucking a lock of her silky golden hair behind her ear. “We didn’t ever make it past the entrées before I had to leave. They don’t eat right, baby. And they chatter on about bullshit. And they don’t argue about anything. It was torture,” I whine, smirking when I see her lip twitch.
Before she looks away, her shoulders slumping.
“But what about…all that stuff in the file? What about how upset you were about Alicia and Dennis? I was going to tell you, Adonis, I really was. It’s just that thinking about that dog’s ass reminded me about the breakdown and how weak I‘d been, and I was ashamed to tell you just what a fool I’d made of myself.”
Her words have me stilling, and some part of me knows that I should tell her that I never read the rest of that file.
“But then, when I saw you with the file, and it had my name on it, I was so relieved. Until you broke up with me! You pig,” she mutters, slamming her cast into my chest. “That really hurt me. Do you have any idea how much it took for me to step off that train of delusion and actually open up to you about all that stuff? A lot! I was so nervous that I had to stop myself from getting drunk before you came home. And then you walked in, and you were so mean and cold, Hart. You wouldn’t even let me explain about the breakdown,” she accuses me, her eyes showing a level of hurt that makes me flinch.
“Cleo, I didn’t…that wasn’t why I was angry,” I confess, feeling helpless when she frowns and shakes her head.
“It wasn’t? But I thought that you were disgusted, and then I thought that you were mad because my ex stole your girlfriend, and—and then I was just hurt.”
“I—dammit, Cleo. I’m so sorry,” I say huskily, my expression tortured.
She shakes her head as if clearing it, and then her eyes go as wide as saucers when my words sink in.
“Why were you upset, Hart?” she chokes, her teeth sinking into her lip when I sigh and blow out a breath.
“I was mad that you hadn’t told me about…the past. Mad that you’d kept something like that from me. And then I was pissed that you’d been about to marry some other guy when you were making me jump through so many hoops for you,” I admit sheepishly, wincing when her cast strikes me again.
“I was eighteen! And stupid and blind and all the other idiotic things that young girls sometimes are. And I didn’t make you jump through any hoops, Hart. Lest you forget, we were only dating for just over one full month. What were you expecting, a lifelong commitment based on the fact that you do sex really well?” she demands, huffing out a few very heated insults that make my nuts shrink in defense.
“Babe—”
“And I was traumatized. You couldn’t expect me to go through what I did and then just bounce back in a matter of minutes.”
“Sweetheart, you were jilted seven years ago. That’s more than enough time—”
“I was humiliated, Hart. Do you get that? I walked all the way down the freaking aisle in front of my family, my friends, and half the membership of St. Agnes’s shelter, thanks to Ma’s philanthropic soul. All those people saw and heard it when Dennis told me he didn’t love me, and they also heard an earful about his other fiancée and their impending parenthood,” she huffs, throwing her hands up. “I was justifiably leery of falling in love again, and I definitely didn’t want to fall for someone so hard that I would be destroyed when he finally dumped me back to Earth!”
“Uh—”
“And you know what else? You did do that to me. You were all sweet and sexy and charming, and so flawed that my twisted heart couldn’t resist you. And then you dumped me!” she shrieks, baring her teeth when I try to kiss her comfortingly.
“Baby! I said that I was sorry, and that I made a mistake. But you made mistakes, too. You kept telling me that I wasn’t your boyfriend, and that all you wanted was my dick, free food, and someone to talk to when you needed conversation,” I bellow back, feeling insulted all over again because I’m more than just a cock.
“Oh my God, you are such an idiot! Of course you were my boyfriend. I showed you my vagina, Hart. And I didn’t complain about your under-the-blanket silent-but-deadlies, even though I have to tell ya, you should really see a doctor about those. Of course you were my boyfriend! We slept in the same bed and spent nearly every day together. I showered with you. I ate breakfast and dinner with you. We watched The View together. The very definition of boyfriend is the guy who gives you his penis, feeds you—and don’t you dare make a filthy joke about that—and listens to you when you need to talk,” she huffs, shaking her head when I grunt.
“Okay! Jesus. How was I supposed to know that? You’re the first girlfriend I’ve ever had,” I mutter, dodging another blow when she tries to clobber my head this time. “Cleo!”
“You’re a real schmuck, you know that? You’re an asshole and—wait, is that true? Am I really your first girlfriend?” she asks, her eyes going wide when I flush and nod, a little annoyed when she whoops and starts laughing so hard that I have to hold her up so that she doesn’t fall off the bed. “Oh my God! You were a virgin!” she crows, her eyes sparkling with mirth.
“Cleo—”
“I popped your cherry.”
“Cleo!”
“I took your precious gift!”
“Cleo!”
“Wait. What about Alicia?” she asks, pulling back to frown up at me.
Dammit, I was hoping to avoid this conversation altogether. I hate talking about my misspent youth and what an asshole I was. Cleo may like me for me now, but I can almost guarantee that she would have hated the snotty little brat I was when I was in high school and college.
I liked Alicia—I won’t lie—and, at one point, I did give some thought to trying for a real relationship. Ma had been pressing me for more than just a few flings, which was my usual m.o., and I truly did like Allie. She was smart, she was easy to be around, and she didn’t give me shit about how privileged I was, like other people did.
There was just one problem with getting serious with a girl like Allie. I seriously knew that if we were in a relationship, I would never trust her fully, because, while she wasn’t a cheater, she also happened to like men—and women.
She once confessed to me that the only thing that would make her choose one or the other was marriage and a family, and I guess that, in the end, she did get that when Dennis Upperton knocked her up the summer his father worked for hers.
I don’t quite recall what it is the man did; all I know is that the
y met and that Allie liked him enough to fuck him, which gave her a kid and ended my unenthusiastic thoughts of turning our hookups into something more.
“Hart.”
“Cleo, she wasn’t my girlfriend, okay? Christ. Have you ever seen Alicia? She’s five feet tall, and weighs like ninety pounds soaking wet. She also happens to be bisexual, and, while I have no problem with her preferences, I don’t share,” I inform her, my eyes turning to slits in warning.
Cleo hums as if she gets it, and then chews on her lip thoughtfully while absently stroking my pec. Um, I could get used to—
“Wait, so you weren’t mad about Dennis?” she muses, making me wince because I know that now is the perfect time to bring up the fact that I technically ruined her wedding.
For which I am not sorry. Not even a little. If she’d married that overblown ass-belcher, I wouldn’t have been set up with her, and then I wouldn’t have met the woman of my dreams. Things happened just the way they were supposed to, if you ask me. Minus the kidnapping and near-death part, that is. No. I won’t make a confession I don’t need to make, and turn this moment into a screaming match. Even if arguing with Cleo makes my dick hard.
Essentially—and here’s where I’m going to admit to a very sneaky character and a clever mind—I’m not looking to get myself killed just so that I can clear my conscience. I’m also not looking to make her hate me when I’m trying to get her back.
“No. I was mad because you were committed to someone else, and not me,” I sigh, my lips curving up when she blushes and tries to appear innocent of all charges.
Damn woman. She won’t ever admit when she’s wrong, unless she’s forced to.
“Huh,” she murmurs, peering up at me from beneath lowered lashes. “You were jealous.”
“No—”
“You were! And you threw a major tantrum,” she points out, her amusement turning my moment a little sour.
“I did not.”
“And then you regretted it afterwards, but you were too stubborn to admit it, weren’t you?” she pushes, her smile growing smug when I sigh, close my eyes in defeat, and nod slightly.
