Tara

The next day, two giant duffle bags arrived. I didn’t really know how, all I knew was there was a knock at the door, Lance went to answer it, and he stalked back inside carrying bags that looked heavily weighted.

He pawed through them muttering to himself like he was taking inventory while I continued to binge the Real Housewives of whatever city the network was currently running. I didn’t know—they all blurred together after a while. No shade to housewives everywhere.

I was bored, and wondering what I could do to break up the time short of yelling at Lance or fucking him. I didn’t want to do the former and the latter was a bad idea.

My body hadn’t gotten the clue that Lance was off-limits now. My heart either. I stared at his forearms as he withdrew clothes and several guns from the duffels, laying it all out on his bed like it was no big thing to be heavily armed. I was going to ask if he had permits then decided I didn’t care. I grew up with Bryan after all.

He said he’d let me go once Bryan returned, and I had to believe that. There was really no choice for me. I either left and was subject to Castor’s wrath or dealt with Lance.

For three days—three goddamn days—we spent time together in near silence cramped in the small hotel room while Lance waited on word from my brother. Each day, Lance withdrew more. I didn’t think he was sleeping, because the dark circles around his eyes were so pronounced, he looked like he’d been punched in the face. His lips were bitten to shreds from his gnawing teeth, and he spent a lot of time out on the balcony doing push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups. He did those shirtless because of course he did. Fuck my life. So therefore, I got him back by wandering around the hotel room wearing nothing but panties and a shirt. That made his jaw get even tighter until he stormed out claiming he needed to take a walk.

When he returned, I still wasn’t wearing pants. He smelled like cigarette smoke and threw a bag on the bed from a gas station down the street, along with a state store paper bag. From the gas station, he’d brought candy, a couple energy drinks, and some pre-made subs. From the state store—airplane bottles of liquor and a bigger bottle of bourbon.

I unscrewed the vodka without asking and poured it down my throat in one gulp.

“Seriously?” he muttered.

The warmth spread through my chest like fire and I sighed. “Oh fuck, that feels good.”

He snatched a rum for himself, upended the bottle into his mouth, then pressed the back of his hand to his lips. “Hate rum.”

“Then why’d you buy it?”

“Rum was for you.”

“Well I don’t like it either.”

He didn’t say anything to that, and tossed his empty bottle into the trash, where it rattled before clanking to the bottom. There was still the bourbon left that we could share. I picked up a sub and spied a pack of cards in the bottom of the gas station bag. I held it up. “What’s this?”

He looked like he wasn’t going to answer, then he shrugged. “Bored. Thought we could play some cards. Gives us something to do.”

“You mean you don’t want to watch more Housewife reruns?” I batted my eyelashes innocently.

For the first time in three days, his glare cracked, and warmth leaked out as one corner of his mouth tilted up. “You’re right, I’m about to jump off the balcony.”

I laughed and hit my fist on the mattress. “Damn! So close. Should have held out until you jumped.”

“Harsh,” he said, still smiling.

I slipped down to the floor and patted the area in front of me. “Well come on down.” I unwrapped the cellophane on the cards. “What do you want to play? Gin rummy? Twenty-one? Go Fish?”

He kicked off his boots and sat cross-legged on the floor across from me. His gaze lingered on my legs and where my shirt covered panty-covered crotch. His shoulders heaved for a moment before he stretched up and grabbed a sub and the bottle of bourbon. He took a swig, then handed it to me. “Whatever you want.”

“Rummy it is,” I said.

“You know I bought those to play solitaire by myself,” he said, as I was mid-dealing.

I stopped and stared at him.

Then that cloud that had been over his head moved and he threw back his head to laugh. He even slapped his thigh as my stare turned into a glare. “You think you’re funny. How about I drink all this bourbon and then puke on your boots?”

He stopped laughing. “You wouldn’t puke on my boots.”

“I would.”

He paused for a moment, and then said. “You like my boots.”

His voice was a rumble, drifting over my skin and raising goose bumps in its wake. I should have kept dealing and ignored his comment, but I let my eyes slowly lift to lock with his. And I heard myself saying. “No, you like me in your boots.”

His eyes went soft. “I do. Never throwing them away.”

This was too much. I couldn’t want to hear those words with vodka and bourbon wreaking havoc on my blood. “Don’t do this, Lance. Please.”

His eyes fell closed, and he looked down. “Sorry,” he said. “Keep dealing.”

So I did.

At first, the game was fine. Tame. I won the first hand, and then he won the second by laying off the fourth king to my set. Jerk. I shouldn’t have laid those kings at all. Then the bourbon kicked in, and before I knew it, the bottle was less than half full, Lance’s cheeks were flushed from the alcohol and I was feeling damn good. Way better than I had in days. What had I been so mad about again? Lance threatening to bash my brother’s head in right after we screwed without protection? Eh, who cared! Right? Bourbon made everything better.

“Wait are aces high or low again?” Lance asked, squinting adorably at his cards.

“You asked this the last three hands!” I hollered, dissolving into giggles.

He bent over at the waist, laughing. “Did not!”

“Did too! They are fucking low, Lance. Looowwwww,” I drew the word out in a deep voice and that only made him laugh harder. This was ridiculous because in the back of my mind, I realized we were acting like drunk college kids, but I couldn’t seem to stop laughing. Goddamnit.

“Whose idea was it to play rummy?” he said. “I hate this game.”

“My idea,” I answered smartly. “You said I could pick.”

He wrinkled his nose and with a flick of his fingers, tossed his cards between us. “I think I’m done.”

I did the same. “Yeah, me too. Stupid cards with their tiny little numbers. I can’t read them anymore.”

“I know, right?” He huffed. “What else can we do?” He stuck a shaky finger in my face and raised his voice. “Don’t suggest Real Housewives, for the love of God.”

That cracked me up again and I fell to the side, hitting my head on the bed rail. “Owww,” I rubbed the lump forming on my scalp. “Shit.”

“You okay?” Aw, in like two seconds, he’d switched from anger to concern. He was cute. So cute. I wish I had friends to talk about how cute my kidnapper ex-one-night-stand and fire-rescuer was.

“Yeah,” I said, then blurted out what I deemed to be another brilliant idea. “Let’s play Never Have I Ever!”

He didn’t react for a moment. “What?”

“Never Have I Ever!”

“Babe, I’m fucking thirty-three years old and you want to play Never Have I Ever?”

I crossed my arms over my chest. “Name a better idea.”

He scowled at me.

“We could always watch Real—”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, fine we’ll play it.”

I threw my arms in the air in victory, which I realized belatedly showed off my entire panty-clad bottom. Ooops. His gaze dipped before he focused back on my face. “I don’t even know how to play this game.”

“Let’s do the finger way.”

“Finger…way…?”

I held up my hand, fingers splayed. “I’ll say never have I ever and something I haven’t done. So, for example, never have I ever had sex in a car. Because I haven’t. And if you have, then you put a finger down. Whoever puts all five fingers down first has to finish the bourbon.”

“You’ve never had sex in a car?”

Of course that was what he focused on. “No, that’s why I said it, silly.”

He looked slightly confused, but held up his right hand. I took that as his acquiescence.

“Okay,” I took a sip of bourbon. For no good reason, really. Just for effect. “I’ll go first.” Now I couldn’t think of one because I blew my load on car sex. “Never have I ever got a speeding ticket.” Then I beamed.

He gawked at me. “Never?”

“Never!”

He muttered something as he tucked his thumb into his palm.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Nothing.” He cleared his throat. “Never have I ever had my period.”

“You can’t use that!” I roared with laughter, and nearly spilled the bourbon in my flailing.

He was laughing too, full body shakes, his eyes bright and sparkling. “Show me where that’s a rule.”

“You are so dumb!” But I couldn’t stop laughing. “Okay fine, I’ll give that to you, you asshole, but that was a copout, and you know it.” He looked smug and I rolled my eyes. “Okay, never have I ever…” I eyed him, and narrowed my eyes. “Taken someone’s virginity.”

“Damn,” he said, and slowly lowered his little finger.

“You have to tell me the story now,” I said, and I didn’t know why. Why did I ask? Because maybe there was some of Lance I wanted to take with me after all this.

He raised his eyebrows. “Guess I can’t complain about rules?”

“Nope.”

He sighed. “Bethany. I was seventeen, she was sixteen. In the back of my red Pontiac. I wanted in there so bad. I worked at it. Hard. For a solid year.”

I imagined a younger Lance, peach fuzz on his chin, that body uninked and unscarred. I bet he’d been beautiful. “Did you dump her then when you got what you wanted?”

“Nope, stayed with her all through high school. Even tried to make it work when she went away to college, but we broke up. Wasn’t working. She’s a good woman. Now she’s got some hotshot job, husband and kids.” His expression broke a bit. “Hope she forgot about me, never tried to look me up or saw what I became.”

He didn’t say it in a way that was asking for pity. He was matter of fact. And that hit me right in the heart. He didn’t let me dwell on it though. “So, my turn. Never have I ever stolen something from a store.”

I made a frustrated grunt and lowered a finger. He grinned. “Oh, oh, oh, good girl Tara is a thief?”

“It was a lip gloss and I was twelve,” I pouted.

He tsked.

“Okay, Mr. Manslaughter,” I snapped at him, and immediately wished I hadn’t said it. That was low, and a shitty thing to say. His crime wasn’t a joke.

He jerked back with surprise for a minute before bursting out laughing so hard he fell over onto his back. “I shouldn’t be laughing, but that was funny as fuck!” he yelled.

Then I laughed too, and I swore maybe I was going to burn all these bourbon calories on laughing.

He sat back up and swiped at his eyes. “Your turn. Thanks for making me laugh so hard at that.”

I preened. We were such fucked up humans. The game continued with some pretty easy questions like “never have I ever mooned anyone” until finally we both sat holding up only our index fingers.

It was Lance’s turn, and the bourbon buzz was different now. I wasn’t so jolly and quick to laugh anymore. If anything, I was feeling a little melancholy, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving us two broken people in a motel room just waiting to continue our broken lives.

Lance licked his lips, and let his tongue rest for a minute in the corner of his mouth. “This’ll be the last,” he said.

“How can you be so sure?” I asked.

He leaned in. “Never have I ever been in love.”

I froze, sitting there with my index finger in the air, and bourbon coursing through my system. What was he doing asking that question? What was its purpose? I had been in love with Reb, that type of first-time puppy love, the older brother’s best friend adoration that was great until it turned sour. It’d been the love of a young girl, not a woman.

I knew that, because now I knew what adult love was like. I lowered my finger, and reached for the bourbon, but he snatched it away first.

I beckoned for it with my fingers. “I lost.”

“You see my finger up?” He asked.

And I froze. A-fucking-gain. Both his hands were gripping the bottle. The words I didn’t want to say were screaming up my throat. I tried to swallow them back down, keep them from surging out, but they didn’t give a fuck. “Who was she?”

His eyes went half-mast, all soft and sad. I shook my head immediately, some part of me coming to my senses. “Nope, never mind. You don’t have to tell me.” I stood up, needing to get away from those eyes and that voice. I scrambled over the bed as I saw him get up out of the corner of my eyes. “Tara,” he said. “I want to tell you.”

“No, I’m good! Really. I’m great. Just gonna breathe some fresh night air, then get some sleep.”

I pulled on the sliding glass door, but the damn thing was locked and before I could unlock it, he was there, molten heat at my back, his hands on the glass on either side of my body. “Tara.” His voice blew through my hair at my ear and slid down my spine.

I shivered. “Don’t.”

“You want to know who she is?”

“Stop.”

“You think it was Bethany? Someone else?”

“Shut up, Lance.”

“You tell me, Tara.” One hand left the glass and curled around my midsection. I sucked in a breath at the hot band of heat at my belly. “You tell me how I fell in love with you so fast. You tell me how hard it’s been these last few days being in this room with you and not being able to touch you or talk to you knowing that even my voice wasn’t welcome. You tell me how it took that fucking bottle of bourbon to get me to admit the truth to you. You tell me how it’s possible you hooked me so fast, and then tell me how fucking hard it’s going to hurt when those hooks get ripped out because I have to let you go.”

I let my head fall until my forehead touched the cool glass. “This isn’t fair.”

“No, it’s not fucking fair,” he snapped. “Now tell me you lowered your finger for Reb, baby. Tell me it was for him and only him. Put me out of my misery and rip out the hooks now.”

I shook my head, and those goddamn tears began burning my eyes. I was so fucking tired of crying, so fucking tired of my heart cracking open.

“Tell me!” He yelled and shook me. His other hand curled around my upper chest to cup my shoulder. “Tell me, goddamnit. Tell me that wasn’t for me.”

He was hard, pressing into me from behind, and I arched my back, forcing a low moan from his throat. “Tara—”

“It was for you,” I said, opening my eyes and blinking unseeingly into the dark night sky. “I guess those hooks go both ways.”

Even with the bourbon flooding his system, he moved fast, spinning me around, backing me up into the door and crashing his mouth into mine. I didn’t hesitate. I wanted this as bad as he did. I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and slipped my fingers into his too-long hair. I let him take, and I gave until my head spun. Until all I could smell, feel, taste, touch and fucking sense was Lance.

He loved me, and we didn’t work, couldn’t work, because how? But none of that mattered right now in this hotel room. All that mattered was the bourbon and Lance’s hard body against mine.

He shoved his face into my neck and held me tight, so tight I couldn’t take a deep breath and I didn’t care. Especially when he rasped out in a ragged voice, “Fuck, I love you.”

I opened my mouth to say it back when the shrill tone of a cell phone filled the room. He ignored it, not easing his arms a bit, but that phone kept ringing. It went to voicemail, and started again.

Finally Lance growled and let go of me long enough to snatch it off the table before he put it to his ear. “What?”

And then everything changed. His eyes cleared, his body went tight, and he said in a monotone. “You got me.” A pause. “Yep.”

Then held the phone out to me, and in a dead voice that chilled me, he said. “It’s your brother. He wants to talk to you.”