Page 70 of Endgame

“Don’t…” Pausing, he pinched the bridge of his nose, obviously trying to calm himself down, though why he was getting so worked up over this was a mystery to me. “Call,” he finally said, turning his blue eyes on me. “Next time you plan on not coming home, call one of us and let us know.”

“You mean call you?” I offered, body heating from his intense stare.

Rourke didn’t argue.

“Okay,” I conceded. “Next time, I’ll call.”

“Good.” Rourke visibly sagged in relief. Then he flew off my bed like the covers had scalded him and stalked out of my room.

The moment he slammed my bedroom door shut, I threw myself down on my back and let out a huge sigh.

When had my life become so freaking complicated?

Mercedes

WHEN I PULLED UP outside the house after work that night, I was greeted by a dozen or more shiny cars sprawled all around the driveway, and music blaring from the house.

Rourke was having a party.

Again.

FML.

Overcome with a sudden burst of anger, I leapt out of my car and stalked up the driveway, stepping over scattered trash and Dixie cups along the way.

He was cleaning this shit up.

I was not being held responsible for this one.

Goddammit. It was bad enough walking into house to the stench of stale alcohol and vomit this morning. I was not waking up to it.

I let myself inside and immediately had to clamp my hands over my ears; the sound of the music so loud I feared it would burst my eardrums.

Slowly, I accustomed myself to the obscene volume of noise, and dropped my hands from my ears before shoving past several random, near naked teenagers; my thirst for answers focused on one in particular.

I found Rourke, several moments later, in the corner of our dimly lit kitchen where he seemed to be thoroughly investigating some blonde girl’s tonsils – with his tongue.

Pain.

Pain like I’d never known existed pierced through my chest, winding me.

God, this hurt.

This hurt so bad.

“Rourke!” I snapped, thoroughly shredded at the sight of the leggy blonde in a pink, sparkly bikini sitting on our countertop with her legs wrapped around Rourke who was pressed up against her. I’d cleaned this whole house up and buttered toast on that surface less than twelve hours earlier. Bastard. “Goddammit, Rourke!” I screamed when he didn’t answer me.

With all my might, I shoved him in the shoulder. He barely moved, but I did manage to get his attention.

Breaking the kiss, Rourke turned his face sideways and looked down at me. His features were flushed, his lips red and swollen, his hair all mussed up from where she’d been yanking on it, his eyes almost black with desire. His hands were still clamped on the blonde’s bony hips as he narrowed me with an impatient expression. “What?”

I knew I wouldn’t get an apology from him.I wasn’t anything to him.He’d made that perfectly clear to me, but the boredom and indifference in his tone took me by surprise.

“What?” I shook my head and gaped at the overgrown bastard. “Are you serious?”

“I’m seriously forgetting everything you told me to forget,” he slurred before winking. Drunk. The idiot was drunk. “I’m doing what you asked me to do. Now run along and annoy some other poor bastard.”

“No. I think I’ll stay and annoy you,” I shot back before gesturing around wildly. “I cleaned this damn place up after your last escapade and you decide to throw another party tonight?Really?”

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