Page 58 of Resist

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Ainsley refilled a pitcher, then delivered it to a table of grizzled old men, fighting over who the best quarterback in the NFL was, as if anybody really gave a shit.

What a difference four days could make, she thought miserably.

On Tuesday morning, she’d been flying high on yachting and amazing sex, but like Icarus, she’d ventured too close to the sun.

Because unluckily for her, she had plenty of people in her life more than ready to knock her down a peg or thirty.

Coulton had texted a lot the first couple of days he was gone, and she’d been as giddy as a teenager whenever her phone pinged. They’d engaged in some very fun, naughty sexting the first night, and she’d been thrilled that he was thinking about her while on the road.

She should have known better than to get carried away. The last two days had been total radio silence, which meant she’d spent forty-eight hours rereading all their previous texts, trying to figure out what had gone wrong, then kicking her own ass for acting like such a stupid idiot.

If he didn’t want to talk to her, then fuck him.

Anger was an easier emotion for Ainsley than sadness, so she grabbed hold of her fury, letting it burn long and hot. All the while, she justified again all the reasons why she should have steered clear of the sexy goalie. Rich guys, in her experience, were all the same. Coddled little mama’s boys who took one look at her tats and piercings and pegged her as a bad girl, one they could sow their wild oats with before settling down with a nice girl.

Montgomery—and now Coulton—had seen her as an easy mark. And the part that really pissed her off was, they’d been right. She was. All they had to do was say a few nice things, buy her a freaking decent meal or a trinket, and—because she was so light on kindness in her life—she’d been putty in their hands.

Well, screw that.

And screw Coulton Moore.

Fuck it. Screw everybody.

Mick, in typical form, wasn’t helping the situation, reminding her over and over she wasn’t good enough for anyone to love. Not for Jagger. Not for Montgomery. And definitely not for Coulton. In the past, she’d either ignored Mick’s bullshit or fought back, defending herself. This week, she couldn’t summon the energy to do either. After a lifetime of his verbal abuse, she thought her thick skin impenetrable.

She was wrong.

Because this week, Mick’s cruel words hit hard. It didn’t help that his health was declining. The worse he felt and the harder it was for him to breathe, the meaner he got. She wasn’t sure how much longer she could live with him without losing her mind completely. Ainsley was slowly suffocating, at home and at work, but guilt wouldn’t let her leave. Mick truly was helpless, and without the money she brought in, he would also be broke.

Coulton had asked her to dream about a different future, and without realizing it, she had started to do so, imagining a world where she lived somewhere safe and warm and clean. Where she worked as a tattoo artist. Without admitting it to herself, she understood now that her countless sketch pads and years’ worth of art was her way of building a portfolio.

Or it had been.

Until a few years ago, when Mick, in a fit of anger over some slight she couldn’t even remember, stole her sketch pads while she’d been out and burned them all. All her art, reduced to ash. It had taken her nearly six months before she could even stomach picking up a pencil to start drawing again. Nowadays, her sketch pad was always in her bag, always on her person.

Ainsley rubbed her eyes wearily, wishing she could tuck the bad memories away, but Coulton had opened Pandora’s box, and the lid wouldn’t close again.

To make matters worse, she’d gone the extra mile on dreaming and had included Coulton in that perfect, fictional future. Her gut had told her things between them were over, but she hadn’t wanted to listen, so she’d ignored it.

Ainsley reached behind her for her sketch pad. It was a slow night. Usually drawing helped, but tonight she wasn’t feeling particularly inspired. She flipped to the last page, sighing as she studied her current drawing. She’d started it after the first night she’d spent in Coulton’s bed. It was a portrait of his face, and while it wasn’t finished, there was enough there to make her heart ache with longing. She wasn’t sure why she tortured herself by drawing him.

“You think Coulton will make an appearance tonight?” Petey asked. “The Stingrays aren’t playing.”

Ainsley shrugged. “Don’t know. Don’t care.”

She’d hadn’t told anyone—not even Maren—she had gone on a date with Coulton, and now she was glad. Telling Maren about the romantic cruise or Coulton’s affectionate kisses or the way he made her a breakfast of fluffy French toast served with real butter and maple syrup would have only make her look like even more of a loser, now that shit had gone south.

Ainsley looked around the tavern, checking on the patrons. Everyone had a full glass, so she decided it was a good time to hit the bathroom. Locking the register, she pocketed the tiny key, then quickly slipped into the back. Since she was working alone tonight, she made it fast, unwilling to leave the tavern unmanned for more than a few minutes.

When she returned, she caught the backend of Eli slipping out the door.

“Was that Eli?” Ainsley asked Petey.

Petey, when engrossed in a game, was worse than useless. He barely spared her a glance. “Huh?”

Ainsley walked over to the older man, blocking his view of the television. “Was that Eli who was just in here?”

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