Chapter 19

Rocky

Iknocked on Peyton's door, my heart cracking in half listening to her sob and knowing my actions contributed to her pain.

"Go away, Rocky. I'll be fine, but I'm not in the mood for conversation right now."

Shit. I felt helpless knowing there was nothing I could do to stop those tears. There is something you could do, my conscience nagged, but I shoved that thought away.

I felt awkward and stupid and useless. I felt like a villain. A piece of shit father and a worse lover.

The way Peyton spoke pulled my head out of my ass, forced me to look at my actions with her from a different angle. And when I pull back from my desire for her, the way I was drawn to her laugh, her smile, the soft flowery scent of her red curls and the way she gazed at me with those big blue eyes as if I was the only man in the world… When I took myself out of the equation and looked from her perspective, it looked very much like I was using her.

I made it clear that I didn't want to be with her because I couldn't do that to my son. But I kept fucking her. I kept seeking her out, holding her close and giving in to my desire to be near her.

But the fucked up thing is that I still wanted her, even if I couldn't fuck her.

I loved the way she felt wrapped in my arms last night. I loved falling asleep to her flowery scent and waking up to see her wild red curls strewn on the pillow beside me. I loved coming home and seeing her pottering around the kitchen or lounging on my couch with her phone in one hand and the TV remote in the other. It brought a sense of peace to my heart.

She was so vibrant and feisty and blunt. She said what she thought, swore like a sailor, and smiled like an angel. She was vulnerable and strong all in one, and I couldn't stop thinking about her, even when she wasn't around. I hadn't even looked at another woman since she barged into my life, and I was afraid to think about what that might mean.

But how could I tell her all this? How could I tell her that I didn't just want her for her body, like she'd implied? If I did, it was going to make things harder for her.

And I had to think about Nolo, too. I didn't want to betray his trust in me, he'd been the most important person in my life for so long now…

Or was I just using him as a convenient excuse for my own fears?

Jesus fucking Christ. I didn't know anymore. I was trying so hard not to be a fuck up, and in the end… I think I was fucking up worse, for both the people I was trying so desperately to protect.

I stared for a long, long time at Peyton's closed door, wracked with guilt and not knowing any longer what the best thing to do even was.

I don't even know why she wants me,I thought angrily. I'm fucking useless at this.

Eventually, when I could hear that Peyton's sobs had subsided to sniffles, I lifted my fist and knocked gently on her door.

I didn't know what the right thing to do was, but I could at least do something little for her. Something small. Something that might even bring her some comfort for the duration of her stay with me, at least I could hope it would.

I cleared my throat. "Peyton?" She didn't answer, but I continued anyway. "I have news about your apartment."

A full minute passed before she opened the door, eyes puffy and red, skin pale and splotchy, but still she was the most beautiful fucking thing I'd ever seen. "What news?"

"The cops have released it, so you can go back and grab your things, but I doubt you want to go back there to live, even once the cleanup crew have done their job. Figured you might want to see what you could salvage, and you can store it in my garage."

"I do."

"If you like, I could take you, now?"

She nodded, and shut the door in my face, returning a few minutes later in jeans and a t-shirt, her hair tugged into a solemn bun at her neck. "Ready. Let's go."

When we hopped on my bike, I couldn't help but notice that her touch around my waist was a lot lighter than usual, as if she was doing everything she could to touch me as little as possible. I had to bite my tongue to stop myself from mentioning it, from asking her to hold tighter, just so I could feel the comfort of her body pressed against my back.

When we arrived, neither of us removed our helmets until we were in her apartment. The silence between us stretched.

The place was a fucking mess. Peyton, however, wasn't deterred. She stepped right in, tiptoeing over blood stains as she made her way to what I assumed was her bedroom, which was largely untouched.

"Well," she finally sighed, and looked around the room with an assessing gaze.

"What can I do?"

"Nothing." There was no venom in her words, but they hurt just the same. She moved back and forth around the room, picking up clothes and packing what she could, making a trash bag for the ones she planned to toss.

I stand and watch the emotions that flashed in her eyes as she got rid of things she clearly wanted to keep, but they'd been destroyed by forensics or by blood, and in some cases both. Books and photos went into one bag, clothing and toiletries into another, and shoes in yet another. It wasn't much, but eventually there were six bags packed and two meant for the trash.

"Is that everything?"

She sighed. "No, but it's everything worth salvaging." Without asking for my help, she moved two bags at a time to the empty spot near the front door. Damn stubborn woman was so determined to prove she didn't need me. Not that I blamed her, but it hurt like hell. I grabbed all the remaining bags in one go, and hauled them to the door anyway, despite how clear she made it that she didn't want my help.

"Are we ready?"

"No." She shook her head as her gaze lasered in on a stack of envelopes on the coffee table. "I need to check the bills." Her words tapered off as she stared at each envelope for a little too long. "That little bitch," she growled. "Chloe was overcharging me for internet and cable. Had me paying for a cell phone I didn't even know existed."

"A phone? Is the number listed there?"

"Yeah. Who the fuck still gets paper bills anymore?"

I called the number, and we heard a low buzz in the direction of Peyton's bedroom. She beat me there, nearly tumbling over the sofa. When I stepped inside the room, she was on her knees with her fine ass perched high in the air as she struggled to reach something under her bed.

She grunted, and then sprang free from under the bed with a shoe box. Like a kid on Christmas morning, she tore it open and frowned at the contents. "None of this is mine," she said as she rifled through letters, photos, and bundles of cash.

"Is that Chloe in the photos?"

"Yeah. I don't know who the guy with her is, though. Why was she hiding this under my fucking bed?" She stared at the photo as if she could will his identity into existence. "We should take this with us. Right?"

I nodded. "I'll send the number to Slate so he can get a head start on tracing it."

"Okay."

"Peyton," I began, but I had no fucking clue what I wanted to say.

"I think you should take this box and I'll stay here. I can clean what I can, maybe get some of my deposit back, and figure out what to do next."

"Fuck that. You are not staying here, so don't even fucking think about it."

She wanted to argue with me, I could see the fire brewing in her eyes, but then she said, "You're right. It's crazy."

"Good."

"I should stay at the clubhouse. There are always people there and I'll be safe. Right?"

I frowned, and everything in me rebelled against the idea of her being anywherebut directly at my side. "You'll be safer with me."

But the look on her face told me otherwise.