Page 80 of Renegade Ruin

Guilt floods me. And it takes everything in me not to scurry from his lap and hide my face. This is a huge moment for Bishop. He needs my support. He deserves it, but for the first time, I’m struggling to ignore the hole in my heart. The one longing for fulfillment. Love. All the things he can’t give me.

God, I am such an asshole.

“Willow?” His voice brings me back to where I need to be, and I’m not sure how much time has passed since he stopped talking and I spiraled down the rabbit hole into the wonderland of my own desperate fears.

“I’m sorry too.”

He leans forward and presses a chaste kiss to my temple, and I feel the easy smile on his lips. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

If only that were true.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

BISHOP

The drive back to Fort Myers is a quiet one, not unlike the drive to Miami. Except this time, it’s not rage that keeps me company, but unsettled peace.

I could have stayed and driven back in the morning and still had enough time to make morning work before our game, but something felt off with Willow. She was still there for me, just like she always was, but her mind was a million miles away. And when I asked her about it, she told me she was fine, just tired after a long day at the conference.

I may not be the greatest when it comes to relationships, but I know that there is no iteration of the word fine that actually means a woman is okay. But I have to trust she’ll let me know what’s bothering her, the same way she gives me the space to come to her.

She insisted it was alright for me to stay, but I got the feeling we both could use some space after our heavy conversation. That’s not to say we didn’t go two more rounds before she walked me to the door and kissed me goodbye. But where she would likely pass out the second her pretty little head hit the pillow, I’m wound up tighter than a toy soldier.

For the first time in a long time, I have a plan. One that makes sense and feels like it could be the right next step. It might have taken a therapy session, a three-hour drive, and the forgiveness of a gorgeous woman to beat it into my head, but now that it’s there it feels like a weight has been lifted off my chest. I can almost take a full breath.

Almost.

There are still a few more things I have to do before I’m okay.

Not healed, but okay.

I think both Jolene and Willow were right when they said I’ll never be one hundred percent, but I can learn to be okay with where I am.

In the wise words of Willow York: I deserve to live.

It’s late when I pull into the parking lot of The Guardian and text Carson, letting him know I’ve arrived.

Instead of responding, he steps out of a slick, black sports car parked three spots over and heads toward my truck. Unlike me, who is still wearing our team warm-ups, Carson is dressed like a damn model in dark jeans and a collared light blue shirt. It’s casual, but screams he spent far too long getting ready after he took my call.

Seems I’m not the only one a little nervous about this.

I pump my hands open and close a few times to stop them from shaking before I open the door and give him a nod to follow me toward the alley that leads to the Renegade’s safe haven.

Carson turns on his heel and gives a quick hop to follow. He catches up in a few strides and cracks an uneasy smile. “Where are we?”

I have to laugh because I remember having the same thought when the guys first brought me to The Guardian. The entrance to the bar is tucked away on the back side of a strip mall located a block from the river. During the day and in the summer months, the front side is packed with tourists and locals alike, but unless you know of the tiny bar, it’s not likely to be found. Which is exactly why we like it. It also helps Lou is a transplant from Queens and looks out for us.

Cocking a brow in his direction, I give him a devilish grin. “Do you trust me?”

“That depends. Are you leading me into this alley to sell my kidneys on the black market?”

“I mean technically you only need one,” I say with a shrug.

Carson lets out a nervous laugh, like he isn’t sure what to make of my dark humor.

When we reach the nondescript door that could easily be mistaken for an emergency exit, I glance over at Carson and point out the tiny orange gargoyle painted just above the handle.

Shock colors his voice. “Is that a Renegade Gargoyle?”

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