Page 71 of Four Seconds to Lose

As a spider web of tingles skitters over my skin.

I can’t believe it. I’ve never felt this. Not even with Penny.

I’m actually nervous to be with a woman.

chapter twenty-four

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CHARLIE

Would Cain understand?

Would he see my situation for what it is—that I continue helping Sam in order to survive? To give myself a chance to break free? Or would he see me as weak?

I was so close. It was on the tip of my tongue. But I just couldn’t form the words. I can’t risk it. What would he do? After everything I’ve just heard tonight, I don’t know. Perhaps he’d help me because he craves fixing things, or perhaps he’d walk away because it’s too much of a reminder of his past.

He can’t fix this, though. He can only put himself in danger by trying. No, Cain needs to remain in the dark. And I’m leaving tomorrow, so there’s no point shattering this illusion of me he has created—the abused runaway, looking for a fresh start. Half of it is true, in any case. Or will be, tomorrow.

Tonight is all about accepting that fate has brought a man like Cain to me. I think I may have stumbled upon a saint. I don’t deserve him. Cain is a good man, hardened by too many wrongs in his past. Not his own wrongs, though it’s clear he feels he needs to shoulder much of the blame.

He is as much a victim as his sister, from the sound of it.

As much a victim as I am, I sometimes believe.

Cain has put all of that behind him, though, and is doing something about it. I’m still in the thick of the wrong, and all I’m striving to do is run away and pretend that it never happened.

“I haven’t told you everything yet,” Cain offers softly, as if he’s reading my mind.

I pause, wondering what else there could be besides the enormous personal tragedy he’s just shared. In truth, I don’t think I want to know. “You’ve told me enough.”

And I’ve told you nothing. Half-truths, that’s all. It’s true that there’s a tiny tombstone next to my mother’s that reads Harrison Arnoni. I left out the fact that my mother died along with him, and that his father is a drug dealer who now manipulates my every choice, every decision.

And that memory of the blond lady in the red checkered apron? That’s real. Of course, I left out the part about the screaming match between her and my mother, who dragged me out by the arm, suitcase in hand, only moments later. I remember words like Christian and sinner coming from the blond lady’s mouth. I remember a greasy-haired guy waiting for us in the driveway in a blue El Camino that reeked of cigarettes. I remember waving goodbye to my grandmother for the last time. I remember the tears streaking down her face as she waved at me.

For someone that young, I remember an awful lot.

But I can’t share any of that with Cain now, because it would give away too much about my real self. Charlie Rourke is simply a bundle of lies with a few half-truths to appease my own guilty conscience.

And now I’m eager to silence my conscience entirely.

“Cain?” I take another step forward until I’m standing between his splayed legs.

“Yeah?” He’s sitting, relaxed, with one hand stretched out along the back of the bench and the other resting casually on his knee. The tension in his jaw tells me he’s anything but relaxed, though. I wonder if he has any clue what’s coming. He must. I’ve been rubbing up against him like an animal in heat for the past hour.

It’s now or never.

“Are you always such a gentleman?”

A smirk touches Cain’s lips. “No... I’m not. And you’re certainly not making it easy on me right now.”

Swallowing the conflicting thrill and nerves inside me, I ask, “And how would I go about making it impossible on you?”

Lustful eyes stare back at me and I catch something flash in them that I can’t describe. There’s a long pause, and then his hands wrap around the backs of my thighs. With a forceful pull, he directs first one knee up onto the bench, followed by the other. Before I know what’s happening, I’m straddling his lap with my hands loosely curled around his neck and my dress pooled around the top of my thighs. Cain’s hands have found their place around my hips, and he pulls them forward until they’re flush with his, until it’s impossible to miss his arousal against me.

Another wave of heat pools between my legs. I’ve been hot there since the second I woke up on his office couch, but the intensity has reached new levels. I wouldn’t be surprised if I soak right through his pants.

“Are you sure?” His eyes are locked on mine, his lips—only inches from mine—parted, his breathing ragged.

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