More than all that, I worried about my friend. I knew he would deny it, but he’d been looking for his other half ever since things fell apart with Hensley. He could deny it to Bas and me until his face turned blue, but every time he claimed the opposite, the harder I was convinced. He was subconsciously searching for someone—hell, anyone—to fill the stark void after that woman wrecked him.
Deeper concerns for another time. Like when I was officially and fully caffeinated.
“This may require a doctorate to operate,” I said while moving out of the way to let her get closer to the machine.
“Well, you’re in luck,” Shawna returned. “Did you already put milk in the steamer?”
“The steamer?” Confusion had to be broadcast across my face. “And what do you mean, I’m in luck?”
“Were you trying to make a latte or cappuccino?” Shawna asked instead.
A laugh escaped at that concept. I was proud of myself when I mastered the pod in the single-serving machine setup. “Really, I just drink black coffee. Sometimes I’ll add cream or sugar. Maybe both if I’m feeling exceptionally daring.”
“Not both!” she mocked.
“Now you’re just making fun of me.” I slid the grin in at the end of my comment, confirming that old habits died hard. All it took was a pretty girl to show up, and all my moves just came out of storage like a treasured winter coat.
“Well. Just a little bit of fun,” she drawled while getting busy with my coffee. “But it can’t be helped.” She tossed over a casual glance. “Did you have strict parents?”
“No.”
My answer was brief, if not terse. I hated this moment, but inevitably it came whenever I talked to someone new. Someone who didn’t already know our story—mine, Sebastian’s, and Elijah’s—and then having to explain it in the most concise way without garnering pity. Of course, there was the juggle of keeping my dignity intact too. The ordeal was one of my life’s crosses to bear, I supposed. I should have been really used to it by now, especially because a question like hers would’ve normally been no big deal. But what was “normal” about having to stare back at my interrogator, attempting to size up their eventual reaction? Wondering if she’d form a new opinion about me on the spot, based solely on the actions of my drug addict mother.
But was I really afraid of that now? I was protected against that shit, right? I’d made sure of that. It took me years—and a lot of therapy bills—to build up the shell I wore, so no matter what anyone said, intentional or not, the shit just rolled right off.
Fine.
I was perfectly fine.
I could repeat it and believe it now. I was solid about that. My mother’s decisions didn’t affect the man I was today. My decisions did. I was responsible for me. No one else was.
See? Look at that. Cured.
Perfectly. Fine.
“Grant?”
“Hmmm? What?”
“I said your coffee’s ready.” Shawna tapped a turquoise-painted fingernail on the counter beside the steaming brew, and something about that gesture really aggravated me.
But instead of being an asshole, I said kindly, “Thanks, hon.”
And don’t fucking tap your talon at me ever again.
I turned and hurried out before the threat actually made it to my lips. Jesus, what was wrong with me? Why was I still debating whether to go back and apologize to the woman for a private thought? Because that bullshit wouldn’t make me look like a bigger ass, right? But seriously…hon? Where had that come from? I never spoke to women that way. Even in the height of my douchebag days, I was still a decent guy. At least I thought I was.
Between my hair-trigger temper, quick-to-release smart mouth, and tendency toward violence as a first choice to solve a problem instead of a last resort, something was really wrong with me. That last one concerned me most, as it should. This was behavior of my past. Behavior that took years to curb and then change completely. Relearning phrases and mannerisms that were acceptable in regular society, not in the street culture. I wasn’t a thug anymore, and I had no interest in going back to that life or lifestyle.
Those not-so-glory days aside, I had to keep looking at this in big-picture terms. A massive portrait that included Rio—but how did I expect to be around her, acting this way? At the moment, I wanted nothing more than to see her. Hold her. Be inside her. I needed the physical connection as much as the emotional one.
Maybe after I reconnected with her, everything else would fall into place. I had to hope that was the answer, because I didn’t think I could stay away from her for another day. But I couldn’t show up in this volatile state.
After I went back to the room I was staying in, I gathered what I needed for a shower. I noticed Elijah had left more clothes for me outside my bedroom door after I’d gone to sleep the night before, so I grabbed that stack and headed in to do some serious thinking under the hot water spray.
By the time I got out of the bathroom, dressed and bearing a plan under my belt, I felt more like myself. So much in life really was about a personal attitude and what a man did with it. So much rested in properly approaching the problems on your plate. In retrospect, I decided this one wasn’t as bad as I was letting it seem. I couldn’t let it gain wings and take over, or that was exactly what it would do.
Not acceptable.
Over the past decade, I’d been busting my ass to make a comfortable life for myself. I wasn’t going to slide backward to where I came from because of a handful of kidnappers and a few dead bodies.
Christ. The bodies.
Perhaps it had been more than a few…
Shit. No!
Why did I have to let my mind go there? After slumping down on the end of the bed, I cradled my face in my hands. My skin was still warm from the shower because I’d cranked that sucker as hot as it would go, like I had every time I had showered since I got back from that nightmare. I never wanted to feel cold flesh again as long as I lived. Not mine, and definitely not someone else’s.
With a brisk shake of my head, I stood up again. What the hell? I’d just said I wasn’t going to do this to myself, and I’d lasted less than five minutes.
I gave the bedding a half-assed straightening and threw the pillows to the end against the headboard. Elijah’s fussy standards couldn’t be met if I tried, so he could come in and do things his way when I left.
Now where had I put that phone he’d lent me? I’d messaged Rio back last night before I went to sleep. I’d just told her to sleep well and that I hoped she dreamed of me. Uncharacteristically, she hadn’t responded. I chalked it up to her already being asleep when I turned in, but without all the technology I was used to on my own cell phone, I had no way of knowing if that was really the case or not.
Normally I could log into the app for her security system and see if she had armed the system for the night or if she was still moving around the house, but all of that would have to be reloaded once I got a new phone.
Suddenly, I stopped. Everything.
My body. My breath. My thoughts.
It was like thinking about her manifested her voice. If that were the case, I was truly losing it. But I could’ve sworn…
It was her.
I heard her talking somewhere in this house.
As quietly as possible, I opened the bedroom’s door and listened. All right, Elijah really was talking to someone. But now they’d both lowered their voices, and I couldn’t hear who it was, but I could still tell it was a female. More than likely, it was Shawna. But it had been almost two hours since I’d seen her in the kitchen, and from what I witnessed the day before, he sent her home as early as possible.