Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Riggs

I pull into her driveway, torn between worry and fury.

I've called. I've texted.

And I haven't received a single reply.

Only Kit answering the phone at the salon and telling me that she was alive and fine and up to her elbows in bleach kept me sane—or mostly sane, anyway.

Because my spidey sense is tingling and I know this isn't right and add in Nova texting me earlier, asking if I was going to Ella's place after the plane landed...

I'm defying the laws of physics to get here, speeding around corners, cutting through side streets, avoiding black ice like it's my fucking superpower.

Are you going to Ella's place?

I frowned, worry eating away at my insides.

Yes, why?

A pause long enough that I nearly ground my teeth down to nubs.

I just think she could use someone to talk to—whether or not she actually agrees with that.

WTF Nova. Tell me what happened.

She's my best friend, Riggs. I love her and I'm worried about her, but unless she shares with you, I won't betray her confidence.

You're playing with fire.

Maybe. But as much as I love her, as much as I respect her privacy, I won't let her drown like so many other people in her life have.

What the fuck does that mean?

But Nova stopped replying.

And now I'm rushing up Ella's driveway, heart pounding a million fucking miles per hour, trying desperately to stay calm as I wait for her to answer the doorbell I'm ringing repeatedly.

"Christ, chérie " I mutter, jabbing at it again. "What the fuck are you doing?—?"

I don't get to finish the question because the door is swinging inward and my entire body is flooded with relief when I see her standing there in the entryway. She's wearing my T-shirt and it engulfs her body, hanging over lush curves, stopping just above her knees.

"Baby," I say, stepping toward her, plunking a hand on her belly and nudging her back enough for me to move inside, to close and lock the door. "What the fuck have you been playing at?"

Her brows furrows. "What do you mean?"

I frown, trying to pinpoint why that sounds wrong, why it feels wrong. "You haven't been answering my calls or texts."

A shrug before she whirls around, heads for the kitchen and my frown deepens when she pauses at the counter, lifts a bottle of vodka, and?—

Pours.

That's what's off.

The hint of alcohol in the air. The slight waver in her gait. The glassiness in her eyes.

This isn't slightly tipsy Ella, hanging with Nova and having one too many mules. This is the sloppy Ella who tried to blow me in my car and propositioned me for one night—and one night only.

This is the Ella who made my skin crawl, who forcibly yanked those memories into the forefront of my mind.

Who's yanking them forward again now.

I grind my teeth together, push that down.

This isn't the Ella I've grown to know, the Ella I've grown to love .

This is wrong.

Something is seriously wrong.

So, I close my eyes, take a beat, and breathe. When I open them again and see her downing vodka from a coffee mug that says Fresh out of fucks , bile burns the back of my throat.

I move to her, snag the mug, and set it on the counter. "What are you doing, chérie ?"

A shrug, her hand darting out to grab the cup.

I push it further away, draw her back against my chest. "What happened, baby?"

Her back arches, hips moving, ass rubbing against my crotch. I go hard in a second, even though some part of me feels sick at the thought of being turned on when she's like this, when this is all twisted and fucked up and tarnished.

I'm not ready.

And this isn't just tipsy.

This is drowning .

I clamp down the desire, the disgust, and focus on what's important.

"Nothing happened," she slurs, running a hand down my chest, my stomach, slipping fingers into the waistband of my sweats. "Nothing important anyway."

The alcohol on her breath burns my nose.

I catch her hand, even though part of me wants to let it continue moving south, wants to feel her fingers wrap around my dick, wants to fuck that hot, slick mouth, then that tight, wet cunt.

The rest of me…

Can't.

Especially when I say, "No, chérie ," and she fights against my hold, fights to keep touching me.

To keep taking what I don't want to give.

Then it's not desire and need warring with conscience and worry.

It's keeping the past tucked away while dealing with the shit show of the present.

"No," I say again, tightening my hold. "Ella," I warn when she jerks her hand free, when she steps close and presses her body flush against mine.

It's fucking perfect—soft and warm and beautiful.

And it's fucking awful—drunk and not my Ella and laced with pain.

Mine and hers.

"Let's go to bed, baby," she says, lithe body undulating against mine, her hands tensing on my shoulders before one trails south again, nails biting into my chest, raking over my stomach. Her other slides up, scoring over my scalp.

I can fight her.

Or…I can let her win.

"Okay, chérie ," I murmur.

Her smile is beautiful…and wrong. Especially, when she snatches the mug before I can dump it out, draining it in a quick swallow.

"Jesus, Ella," I say, drawing her close again when she stumbles.

"You're sexy," she slurs.

"Yup." I scoop her up, hold her against my chest as I turn and carry her up the stairs. "Why are you drinking, chérie ? What happened?"

She stills in my arms, and for one second her eyes clear. "I don't want to talk about it," she whispers. "It hurts."

Damn.

"Okay, baby," I tell her. "We don't have to talk about it right now."

She exhales and the glassiness returns, along with her wandering hands. "Good. Because I don't want to talk. I just want to fuck."

That's not happening.

But I'm trying to let her win—or at least think she's won.

"I want that too." Not a lie.

I just don't want it right now.

"But I've been traveling all day, chérie ," I tell her. "I need to use the bathroom and then we can fuck, okay?"

"I have a bruise that needs to be kissed."

"Where?"

She lifts up the shirt, points between her legs.

Christ.

I tug her shirt down. "Later."

She pouts as I stop by the bed, as I lower her to the mattress.

"Just crawl under the blankets," I tell her, "and I'll be right back."

Her bottom lip pops out.

I can see the argument brewing on the tip of her tongue.

So, I do what I have to. I ignore the scent of booze, the way it shivers down my spine, and I kiss her, slow and deep and wet, kiss her until her eyes close and she melts back against the mattress.

Kiss her until she lets me draw the blankets up and over her.

Kiss her until her eyes droop…

And she falls soundly asleep.

Only then do I go get my bag from my car, clean up the kitchen, do my business in the bathroom.

I crawl into bed next to her, haul her back against my chest.

And, no closer to the truth, I let sleep take me under.

We can talk in the morning.

We will talk in the morning.