Slow Burn

by K. Bromberg

  “Yeah, imagine that,” he huffs, sarcasm rich in his tone, as he puts his hands on his neck. He lets his head hang momentarily as the silence grows stifling. “Christ, Haddie, I know all you want is a quick romp and to walk the fuck out the door with an ‘I hope this won’t be awkward next time we see each other.’”

  I stare, face impassive at him and his dead-on assessment before he continues. “But one of has to step back to prevent the disaster this is heading toward since you sure as fuck are determined to give nothing of yourself.”

  “Nothing of myself?” My voice escalates with each word as my temper flashes hot again. Does he have any clue how hard it is for me to hold back right now? How much I think about him? How I want to take the leap, not look at tomorrow and see what the future holds?

  But I can’t.

  I can’t until I know for sure. Until I know that I have tomorrows to offer him.

  “I’m giving you everything I can right now, Beckett.” My voice is soft but resolute, and I can practically see my words drift across the space between us and slam into him full force.

  “I call bullshit,” he swears as he continues toward the wall of windows. He shoves his hands in his pockets and stares out at the world beyond us. A striking solitary silhouette. And all I want to do is walk up behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, and let him in. Tell him I want more so that I can share this pain, the fear, with someone so that I’m not alone anymore, but that would make him feel obligated to stay when things go to shit—and that’s not fair to him, either.

  How can I ask so much of him when I feel like I’m a ticking time bomb myself?

  I force myself to look away from everything about him that calls to me. I make myself take a moment to glance around the room so that I don’t have to look at him or acknowledge the comment he’s thrown at me. So that I don’t focus on how the confliction he’s feeling is so palpable that I can feel it roll off him and collide into me. Because right now if I acknowledge it, if I accept it, then I might take that step forward and tell him I want those strings tied to him with knots and pretty little bows covering them.

  The whole package.

  The Danny and the Maddie.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and pull myself from a momentary panic attack that threatens at the thought of what I’m never going to allow myself to have. I tell myself to shut down, to disengage so that I can’t feel.

  I open my eyes when I hear movement to see Becks walking back toward the entryway. He stops and turns to face me, an apology etched on his handsome face. “I promised myself that I wouldn’t break my rules again regardless of how damn tempting you are. Haddie … we either are or we aren’t.” He shrugs, his eyes begging me to make the right decision. “So you tell me, what the fuck is this, Haddie?”

  Panic claws its stifling fingers around my throat as he asks me to make a decision I can’t make. Either answer hurts one of us, hurts him or breaks me. So I try to play dumb, hope he thinks I’ve had enough alcohol to pull it off. “What the fuck is what? Seems to me you wanted me, and now you don’t. What else is there to figure out?”

  And I know I’ve failed miserably because he’s on the move again, crossing the few feet until he stands at the front door. He pounds his fist against the wood—the boom reverberates around the room—before turning and leaning his back against the door, thumbs stuck in his pockets, one foot propped behind him and his eyes assessing every inch of me.

  “That’s how you want to play this? Turn this into you pretending that I don’t want you. That I’m rejecting you? Haddie, everything about you makes me want to beg to take you … to fuck you into oblivion so thoroughly that you forget your own name because you’re so goddamn busy moaning mine.” He rolls his head back on his shoulders, staring at the ceiling for a moment while my body recovers from the visceral reaction to his words, my panties now damp from their dark promise. He’s offering everything I want. “Hell, I’m all for casual sex, Had—been there, done that—but this, us, it’s too goddamn complicated to be anywhere near the realm of casual. So make me the bad guy if you have to—blame me—but really, this is on you until you answer the question: Are we or aren’t we?”

  Images flash through my mind. Memories we could make together if I answer the question truthfully. If I let him in … allow myself to feel with one hundred percent of my heart rather than the bits and pieces I dole out when I’m not cautious.

  Then the images switch from hope and happiness to darkness and grief: Lexi’s casket, tears falling like rain, and my heart cinched like a vice. My body may be screaming yes to the thought of so much more with Becks, but my head and heart argue no.

  They say disengage.

  And I’m a hot mess. A cornucopia of fucked-up and conflicting thoughts that pushes me toward the irresistible man before me and pulls me back all at the same time. I try to rationalize, to tell myself that my heart is in the right place. That the fight I’m about to instigate to push him away is justified. To save him from the train wreck I can’t control.

  Please, forgive me. I throw the thought out into the silence of the room and hope that somehow the universe delivers it to his mind, allows him to understand sometime in the future that I’m doing this to save him in the long run.

  “It doesn’t have to be this way. Complicated. You’re the one rushing in to save the day when I was far from the damsel in distress.” If I wanted him to look at me, this was obviously the right thing to say because his eyes snap to mine and anger sparks in them.

  I see that muscle in his jaw pulse from his gritted teeth as he tries to contain his emotions. As he tries to rationalize my lie and hide the hurt I see flash in his eyes. “If he’s what you want, feel free.” He shifts off the door. “You know the way back to the club.”

  His eyes taunt me, dare me, say, Try me. And hell yes, I want to walk toward him—but not to leave. Every part of me tells me to answer the question honestly—say, we are—and that right there is exactly why I have to walk out the door and back to the club.

  Except I’m not thinking too clearly. I still have that last shot humming through my blood and the taste of Becks’s kiss on my lips. Just enough of both to make me defiant, want to pick a fight with him for his caveman stunt. For pulling me away from quick and easy with club guy and bringing me here to the worth it and complicated. Two things I can’t have right now. I know that I can’t be tempted with wanting more even though for some reason it just feels so damn right with Becks.

  And he mistakes my internal struggle for something else, for wanting someone else. “Cat got your tongue? Weighing your options because I’m sure Slick back there will treat you like a lady. Make sure the bathroom is empty at least before he brings you in there and tries to fuck you in one of the stalls.” He lifts his eyebrows. “Real classy.”

  He’s pushing my buttons. I recognize it, but it’s just what I need to hold on to to make me leave and prevent the mistake I’m about to make. The one I want to make to sate the craving he started when he pinned me to the goddamn couch and kissed me like a man starving for more.

  But it’s so much easier to hold on to the anger, latch onto it and be mad at him. Use his words as my reason to hold fast to the fight. I tell my feet to move, tell my sexy-as-hell heels to put one foot in front of the other, but they stay rooted to the floor right along with my gaze.

  He chuckles low and even, a sarcastic amusement woven through the sound that pisses me off. “What are you afraid of? Why is his offer so much more tempting than mine, huh? Oh, I know why,” he says, sarcasm dripping from his words. “He’ll walk away without any questions. But I won’t, will I, Haddie? I have plenty of questions. The first one being, what exactly are you running from?”

  My eyes flash up to meet his, and the look—the moment that passes between us—is too honest, too raw. I have to break it. I can’t let him see the truths that even I’m trying to hide from. How I feel and what I need to fix me—the answer being him—because I’m not going to allow it to happ
en.

  I can feel it. I can know it. But he can’t.

  My mind flashes back momentarily to the night of the wedding. Of how I asked him—gave him no other option, really—to take me to bed. Did I know then that unzipping my dress and inviting him between my legs would lead to this? Me wanting something more? Me standing in the middle of his apartment, wanting to take the next step but unable to because of the fears that are holding me hostage?

  So just tell him the truth, Had. The thought flickers through my mind.

  Fuck. Damn. Shit. I just can’t.

  “I’m not running from anything.” My voice is steady when I speak, and I hope he can’t hear the waver of uncertainty on the last word.

  I don’t know what I expected in response, but it wasn’t a smarmy smirk and a raise of his eyebrows. “You keep telling yourself that, and one of these days you might believe it. Whatever it is he did to you must have been quite a number for you to run like this. Every damn chance you get.”

  I have to hide the shock on my face from his assumption. The fact that he thinks I don’t want to be with him because another man damaged me. “You don’t know anything about me.” I start to refute him, and then I realize it might be easier if I let him think that. Let him blame another man for my own shortcomings.

  Feed the lie.

  “I’m beginning to think that same thing myself,” he says. The potent combination of disappointment and judgment flashing in his eyes causes my anger to fire anew. “But, uh, like I said, be my guest.” He cocks his head to the side on the last words as he pats the door beside him.

  “Fuck you.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, earning me that patronizing chuckle again.

  “Well, there’s always that possibility, but I haven’t heard an answer to my question yet.”

  His unaffected nonchalance throws me when all I want from him is to tell me to choose him. Pick him. Give me the words to anchor my runaway thoughts and give them something to hold on to—weekend mornings where we fall back onto rumpled sheets to make love all day, cooking dinner together, knowing someone will pick up when I call my own house.

  But he just continues to stare at me. Then it begins to piss me off as he stands there with amused eyes and the patience of a saint when all I want him to do is to tell me to quit being such a goddamn tease—a fucking coward—and either commit to him or get the fuck out of his life because I don’t deserve him or his compassion.

  Because all of the personal touches I’m noticing around his condo—the tattered dog toys, the Carole King CD on his shelf that reminds me of Lex, an orange ceramic giraffe on his coffee table when I love giraffes—if I know all of these personal little touches about Becks, then it makes him real. It makes the feelings for him I don’t want to possess real. It makes him too genuine, too perfect, and too accessible for this girl who wants her heart to be inaccessible.

  Make the decision for me, I scream in my head.

  But he doesn’t. He simply stands there, watching me, waiting for me to make the next move. Hoping I make the right one.

  “Well, if it’s that hard of a decision—if you think I’m comparable to Slick—then I’ll make it for you,” he says, unknowingly giving me what I want. He turns the knob and swings the door open before leaning against the doorjamb and crossing his arms across his chest.

  Shock filters through me as I realize he’s kicking me out. I can’t believe he just did that. I refuse to let my mouth fall open like it wants to because I can’t let him see any of my schizophrenic emotions, which would show him how much I care.

  Rejection kicks me solidly in the gut until I feel like I can’t breathe.

  I glance around the room, rapidly looking for another exit because I’m pissed and I sure as fuck don’t want to give him the satisfaction of walking past him on the way out. I don’t like that he’s got the upper hand now, especially since it appears we are several floors up and he’s leaning against my only chance to escape.

  Jumping off the balcony is looking pretty tempting though.

  “Get away from the door.” I stride a few feet toward him, my heels kicking a blue pillow that must have fallen on the floor in his abduction and subsequent trapping of me on the couch.

  “Nope.” A soft, lopsided smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, amusement reaching his eyes. His hair is mussed from our struggle, and his shirt collar has been tugged askew.

  How can he look like something I want to sink into when I’m so angry at him right now?

  “Daniels, I don’t think you have any clue how pissed off I am at you right now.”

  When he responds with that condescending chuckle again, I want to knock it out of his mouth. I walk toward him, his smirk in full force, and he just stares at me and shrugs. “As you can tell, I don’t really care how pissed you are, City.”

  “Do you have any idea how important the job of mine you’re jeopardizing right now is to me? How you just kidnapped me from a potentially huge opportunity?” I yell at him, my sanity ebbing with his blatant disregard for everything I’ve worked for.

  “It looks to me like you were doing a damn good job of jeopardizing that client yourself.” That cocksure smirk on his face goads me, pushes me. “Couple more shots and another tongue down your throat, and hell, Had, you might get more than a publicity job out of it.” He raises his eyebrows at me, a nonverbal Try me, and I can’t help but react at the buttons he’s pushing right now. Every single one but the one I really want him to push. “At least you’d be getting paid for it, right?”

  I’m unable to speak at that, the unexpected nasty side of Becks I’ve never seen before throwing me off balance. So I move, using my nervous energy, and take a few more steps toward him. The hallway light falls over a segment of his face, and despite the contempt in his words, I can see the desire in his eyes—as well as the fleeting confusion about what in the hell I was up to with the guy in the club.

  “Get out of my way.” I sneer at him as I begin to go through the door. His hand flashes out and grabs my arm before I can make it over the threshold. Our eyes lock on each other’s, his fingers flexing at my wrist as he fights whatever internal battle he’s waging right now.

  And I really don’t care. God, yes, I’m being selfish—would readily admit that to Becks if he hadn’t completely clouded my thoughts—but all the same, I just need to go so that I can clear my head of all this shit. But that’s impossible when he makes me want him—kissing me like I’m his last breath so that all I want to do is stay right here—before shoving me away like the sack of potatoes he carried here over his shoulder.

  “That easy of a decision, huh? You sure about that?”

  I snort out in disbelief. Want me, push me away, and want me again. Can this get any more confusing? But I’m not sticking around to be insulted. To be manhandled, kissed until I’m breathless, accused of wanting to sleep around, and then be told to stay. I try to pull my arm from his grip, but he holds firm.

  I fight to ignore the little thrill that shoots through me and reverberates around the anger.

  “Let me go, Beckett. I’d best be getting back, at least someone should benefit from my whorish ways.” I grit the words out because at this point I don’t even know if I’m angry because I want him and he doesn’t want me anymore or if it’s because he wants me and I can’t give him the more he’s asking for.

  I want to scream, to rage, to kiss him, to fuck him, to hate him, to let him walk away and not want more. And none of those things is going to fix that ache in my heart I get when I look into his eyes and see him asking me again for an answer. For a sign of where this could take us, if we can work out our kind of complicated to make it our kind of right.

  “You leave, Haddie, I’m not chasing you again. So you’d better make sure that’s what you want.” His voice is quiet steel. “And if you stay, I’m going to start tying some knots in those goddamn strings of yours.”

  His words make shivers run up my spine, make the ache in my heart th
rob, and send a panicked fear straight through me. Because God, yes, I want. And I don’t want. Everything I’m feeling is in such extremes right now that I feel like I’m going crazy.

  As I begin to tug my arm from his grip, my only thought is to escape the inexplicable hold he has over me so that I can think straight without his presence clouding things, but he tightens his grip. “Really? Gonna leave just like that, huh? Take the easy way out? I figured you for a fighter, not a coward.”

  And I don’t know if it’s the moment, his words, his proximity, or my fear but it all collides into a wrecking ball of irrationality when I turn on him. “You don’t get to judge me!” The volume of my voice escalates as every part of me wants to expel my irrationalities out on him. I lunge at him, hands flying, hurt reigning, emotions overloading.

  My hand connects with his solid chest with a thud, and it’s nowhere near as satisfying of a feeling as I thought it would be. So I try again, and what pisses me off even more is that he stands there and takes it. He doesn’t fight back, doesn’t try to grab my hands to stop me. He just stands there and accepts it.

  Even has the gall to laugh softly at the lack of harm I’m inflicting.

  “Let me go!” I shout, fists connecting, rage increasing. “You asshole! How dare you make assumptions about me, about my job … call me a whore after you’ve sampled—”

  “Then quit acting like one …” He grunts as I move my knee, and he blocks it efficiently, which only infuriates me further. “You want to hurt me?” He chuckles. “Go right ahead. Hurt me like you want to do to the bastard that hurt you.”

  His words tear into me because his assumptions are so off base, and yet my head’s so messed up that I’m pissed he’s talking about Lexi like that.

  “You have no fucking clue what I’ve been through,” I shout in a voice broken from my exertion, while his calm demeanor fuels my anger, my hurt, my everything. “How dare you—”