“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he says. “And I’ll take care of you. Have another.”

“I don’t need to be taken care of, Shane.”

“Tonight, with me, you do. Trust me enough to let that be okay.”

“Trust. There you go with that word again. You keep saying it.”

“I guess I do.” He empties his glass again.

Now I give him a curious look. “You haven’t asked what happened with your mother.”

“What happened is, my father refuses to let me tell her the cancer has moved from his brain to his lungs.”

“Brain?” I gasp, setting down my glass. “He has brain cancer?”

“Yes. And after six months of knowing, it still seems unreal.”

“How can he have complete mental clarity if it’s bad enough to have moved?”

“Complete mental clarity?” He laughs without humor. “That’s debatable. What happened with my mother?”

“I don’t want to tell you now.”

“Nothing can shock me with my family.”

“I’m not so sure but okay. She offered me fifty thousand dollars to stick it out with your father through his illness and report to her on all of his activities.”

He pauses with the glass to his lips, lowering it to ask, “And what did you say?”

“My answer was no and she thought I was crazy, especially when I told her she could fire me.”

“And she said?”

“That I’m not fired and for me to have a good weekend. I’m not sure if she was testing me or really trying to use me.”

“Why did you decline? That would have paid for a good portion of law school.”

“That’s not how I want to pay for school. Unless you want me to help her? Because unless you tell me otherwise, the only person I’m giving information to is you and I’ll do that directly.”

“Don’t give her anything,” he says, his statement all but confirming he doesn’t trust his mother, but then he turns around and sideswipes me with, “I’ll pay you the money.”

Insulted and hurt, I’m on my feet in an instant, the blanket falling away, but he shackles my wrist, dragging me down to the couch. “Fuck you, Shane,” I hiss, twisting around to face him. “I can’t be bought with sex or money.”

“I didn’t mean it like that. You were loyal to me and I want to take care of you.”

“I told you. I don’t need to be taken care of.”

“And yet you took care of me by texting me that tip about Nina and refusing to feed information to my mother that could go to my brother. How is it wrong of me to want to protect you?”

“I don’t want your money.”

“All right. I’m sorry. It was just my instinct to give you what you gave up for me.” He lowers his forehead to mine. “Forgive me.”

The apology tears down the wall I’ve instinctively erected, my anger sliding away with it, my hand curling on his cheek. “Yes.”

Leaning back, he cups my face to look at me. “Thank you for what you did.” He leans in and brushes his lips over mine, his hands slipping under my shirt, his shirt, to scorch my bare skin. “Thank you for coming here tonight.” He drags the T-shirt over my head, tossing it aside, his gaze and fingers are instantly on my nipples, which tighten with electric sensations. “I won’t bribe you with money,” he promises, his sizzling stare lifting to mine, “but sex, is another story.”

“What exactly is it that you want to bribe me for?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” He lowers me to the couch, the deliciously heavy weight of him settling on top of me. “But,” he continues, “I am certain no answer I’ll come up with, including giving you your clothes back, will come to me any time soon.” His mouth closes down on mine, his tongue doing a sultry slide past my lips. I think right now I’d give him anything he’d ask for. Even the revelation of my secret, which I know I’d live to regret. And so would Shane.

This is the life we chose, the life we lead. And there is only one guarantee: none of us will see heaven.

—John Rooney

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

SHANE

I wake on the couch where Emily has fallen asleep on top of me, the dim lights I never turned off glowing around us. I hear her murmuring, “No. No. No. It can’t be true. No!”

“Emily, sweetheart,” I say, stroking her hair.

“No! No, I—”

“Emily,” I say more firmly. “You’re having a nightmare.”

She jerks up, her hand pressed to my chest, her naked body draped over mine. “What happened?” She shuts her eyes. “Nightmare. It was a nightmare, right?”

“Yes. Do you have them often?”

“Yes. What time is it?”

I glance at my watch. “Three o’clock in the morning.”

“I … should go.”

I tighten my arm around her waist. “You’re not going anywhere, sweetheart.” And I’m surprised at how vehemently I say those words and mean them. “Not unless you plan on me going with you.”

Her eyes flicker with some emotion I want to name but never get the chance. She eases back down, pressing her cheek to my chest. I rest my hand on her head and back, capturing one of her legs with mine. “You want to talk about it?”

“No,” she says, her fingers curling in my chest hair. “I most definitely do not want to talk about it.”