Chapter Seventeen

Addie

He takes a bite of bacon before responding. I watch him drop it on the plate and wipe his fingers on the napkin he’d placed in his lap like a perfect gentleman.

But instead of saying anything, he turns his laptop toward me. His powerful arms flex under the sleeves of his T-shirt, and I again think about how they felt around me when I’d woken up in the middle of the night.

But on his laptop I see it, the Twitter feed. He’d zeroed in on the tweets hashtagged with my name, with the stupid model tags. And they’re not old.

Five minutes ago a meathead jock-looking guy—if that was really him in the profile pic—had said he’d gladly indulge any rape fantasy I have. He’d been retweeted over a thousand times.

My heart sinks to my toes as I scroll and read.

Beyond the screen, I see his forearm flex as he places his elbow on the table. He’s so tight, so wound up, like he’s ready to spring into action at any moment. And I feel safe here. If anyone tried to come after me, he’d protect me with his life—I don’t doubt it for a second.

“Why did you show me this?” I can’t help but ask. His eyes meet mine over the edge of the screen of the laptop.

He studies me a moment as he lowers his glass of milk back to the table. But his eyes never leave mine, and his words send a shiver down my spine. “I can’t keep you safe if you’re not here.”

And I need answers. “Why do you want to protect me?” I ask, my voice demanding. His eyes narrow a little bit, and I sense I’m treading dangerous ground. “You told me you’re not a good guy in the beginning. You told me not to get attached, so you’re not doing it to get in my pants!” My anger and frustration overflow.

It’s like every issue we haven’t aired is boiling out of me now. “And I know you’re not doing it to get in my pants because I’ve tried.” Humiliation thickens my voice. “And I could use some physical comfort. After all this—” I wave a hand at the computer, my internal alarms blaring as I melt down. “—this shit. I wish someone would just fucking kill the fucker!” I can’t even bring myself to say his name.

And Cliff, his eyes still on me, swallows and takes his phone out of his pocket. I watch him, struggling to come to grips with the fact that he’s just fucking… ignoring me. I just bared my soul to him and he’s playing on his damn phone.

I fight to find the words when he suddenly turns the phone to face me.

I’m struck by the image.

It’s Arlo. He’s holding up a sign that simply says I’m sorry, Addie. I screwed up, please forgive me.

“What did you do?” I ask, suspicious. Arlo wouldn’t just apologize. He wouldn’t back down. If I had been the one to take the photo, he’d be choking me out or I’d be stabbing him. Either way, there’d be no apologies.

His thumb swipes the screen, and I see what can only be described as the after picture. Arlo, bloodied and bruised, holding another sign that says he’ll never hurt another woman again.

“Did you…” I ask, horrified at the thought of him actually being dead. I stare at Cliff in shock mingled with horror, and he’s quiet a moment before he speaks.

“He’s alive.”

“That’s why your knuckles were torn up,” I say, everything falling into place. I sit back in my chair, the weight of all it pushing me back.

Cliff merely nods and finishes his food while I try to sort out my feelings. Part of me is mad he did this. Or wants to be mad. It’s not his battle to fight; it’s mine. But isn’t that what he’s been doing all along? Protecting me?

But this wasn’t protection. This was vengeance.

But can I condemn him for something I wanted? No, I wanted worse; I wanted him dead. Now faced with this, I know I don’t really want him dead. And while part of me is satisfied he’s in pain like he put me through, I also know this isn’t me.

And I’m thankful he’ll never hurt another woman. Because I don’t know that I wouldn’t feel somehow responsible if this happened again. Or if it got worse with his next woman. Could I sleep at night if I found out he killed someone and I didn’t warn them?

“Thank you,” I say, and Cliff halts before dropping his toast back on his plate. His eyes lock on mine again, and I wonder what’s bothering him. His cheek ripples as he clenches his teeth. “Don’t thank me,” he says between gritted teeth. “And it’s not a lack of want,” he growls, and my heart nearly stops in my chest.

Cliff doesn’t volunteer information. So if he’s sharing, this is totally new territory.

“What do you mean?” I ask, holding my breath.

His cheek ripples a few more times like he’s fighting back words that are fighting their way free. “I want you,” he grinds out finally, the words themselves tight with control. His hand closes in a tight fist, and I see the bandages on his knuckles strain.

I reach out to touch his hand, my eyes watching the bandages. “Don’t,” I whisper, unable to find my voice. “You’ll make them bleed.” When I look up at him again, I see he’s wound so tight he’s about to snap. But why? What’s bothering him so much?

“I want you too,” I say, my words as hesitant as I feel. “What’s so bad about that?”

I see him swallow and notice how even his throat is tightly corded and strong. Is there an ounce of flesh on this man that isn’t sinew or muscle? I doubt it.

“Go out with me,” he says instead, and I wonder what on Earth is going through his mind.

“What about not getting attached?” I ask, teasing him gently. I need to lighten the mood; he’s starting to scare me a little bit. He’s so intense.

“You’re not just a lay,” he says finally, anger flowing through him as clear as the nose on my face. But I sense he’s not mad at me. And I suddenly wonder if Arlo said something that got to him.

“What did he say?” I ask, taking his hand and nestling mine in his. Our eyes meet again, and I see his surprise. But I think I’ve gotten pretty good at reading him. We’ve spent enough time together, after all.

But he doesn’t budge, and I have a feeling he’s not going to. So I hit him with my hardest bomb. “I’m a virgin.”