Page 60 of Memories of Us

Tears welled at the thought of Ryder. My best friend who’d had enough of my bullshit. I knew I should call her, but what was there to say? She thought she knew what was best for me, but she didn't. Ryder had gone on ultraprotective mode the moment Brenton stepped across the county line, and it’d only intensified when I told her I wasn't planning on telling him the whole story of our last night.

What did it matter at this point anyway? He didn't remember, and honestly, I didn't want him to. What if he remembered it all and realized he made the right choice to walk away?

“You're crying,” Brenton said in a horrified tone. “Does it hurt that bad? Do you need to go to the hospital? Fuck!”

His knees landed with a thump at my feet. Damp cloth in hand, he reached up and pressed it against my injured cheek.

“I'm so sorry, Beks. I didn't know that would happen, didn't think it through.” His rapid breaths brushed across my neck. “I would never let anything happen to you. You know that, right? I'd rather kill myself than hurt you.” The tremble in his voice sent more tears rolling down my cheeks.

“I'm crying because of Ryder and what she said. And because of you. And because of us. And because—” A sob shook my shoulders, stealing my next words.

“She was right.” Warmth enveloped my hand as he wrapped his hand around mine, bringing it up to replace his hold on the cool cloth. I wrenched open my eyes to search his, not understanding what he was saying. The first step he took away from the bed had my stomach dropping with fear. The second step ignited more anger than dread.

“The fuck are you talking about?” I snapped and stood.

“Ryder, what she said—”

“I get that part, you moron. I'm asking what the fuck are you talking about agreeing with her?”

Not a single corner of his lips twitched up as he said, “Good to see that hit didn't stop your smart-ass mouth.”

“I know something you can shove down my smart-ass mouth to stop it,” I replied with a seductive smile. “How are your balls, by the way?”

“We're not talking about my balls, or me shutting you up with my dick down your throat.” Heat flared behind his eyes, showing me he might not 100 percent agree with that statement. “How many times will you let me do this, Beks?”

“Well, I'd like to say as many times as you want, but my jaw might get tired.”

“I'm fucking serious,” he seethed. At his side, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists. “I hurt you back then, and now, tonight, I'm a selfish bastard asking for your help when I know—”

“Know I agreed to all this after you laid it all out there? You made it clear that you only needed my help to get over your head shit. And by the way,” I sighed, then sat back on the bed, “you didn't pass out tonight.”

Both his dark brows shot up. “You're right, but here, when I saw you crying, the symptoms came back. I could barely breathe when I was by the bed staring at your injured cheek.” His gaze shifted to the door, moving away from me for the first time since he came into the room with the rag. “It was like a replay, but I couldn’t see anything. Like a déjà vu feeling without knowing why.”

Unease settled in my gut at my guilt. I turned my gaze from him to focus on my clasped hands and prayed he didn't press the topic any further.

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