Page 70 of Counting On You

“I have no idea. I guess I love him.”

His eyes pierce into me, reaching the parts of my heart I don’t want him to see. “Ask yourself. Do you really?”

I meet his questioning gaze with a layer of ice. “What are you getting at?”

“Love isn’t supposed to be this way.”

“Like what?”

“Hurting. Addicting.”

I laugh. Wow. He’s just turned into an expert on the matter. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Why don’t you stick to your own fucking problems? You and your sex addiction.”

He nods his head patiently, ignoring my attempt at delivering a low blow. “Exactly. I’m addicted to sex. You’re addicted to love. Our addictions are our own hell, but we’re here to break them, run from, and free ourselves from them. Does that make us bad people? Does that give others the right to treat us like shit? Open your eyes, Vicky. We’re not controlled by our addictions. We can control them. You, only you, have the choice to decide who to love. And if he’s not worthy of that love, then it’s not love at all.”

I stare at him coldly. He has no idea what he’s saying because he doesn’t know what true emotions are. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Addictions do not happen. They are caused,” Kade says slowly. “If you had attended group therapy, you’d know. Somewhere along the way, we cross a line we were never meant to cross.”

My heartbeat spikes and anger surges through me.

That crap theory of his doesn’t apply to me because I’m not addicted to anything. I’ve just had the misfortune of falling in love with someone who isn’t completely honest about his feelings. Or maybe Bruce is just not ready to settle down yet.

“Stop the car,” I shout. “Stop it right now.”

“Where do you want to go?” Kade says, his tone nonchalant but cold.

“I’m going to be sick.” Bile rises in my throat. I press my mouth against my lips, but it’s too late. Before I can help myself, I puke on his shoes.

Shit.

“I’m so sorry.” I wipe my hand over my mouth, feeling disgusted with myself. “So…so sorry.”

Kade peers from me to his shoes, speechless. I expect him to be angry, throw a fit, feel as disgusted as I feel. Instead, he starts to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” I can’t help but ask as I fight another surge of mortification.

“Your expression.” He winks at me. “Stop looking so mortified. They’re just shoes, Vicky.” He opens a drawer, revealing tissues, and starts to wipe the vomit off his shoes.

The motion moves me to tears.

Bruce would never have cleaned up for me.

The last time I spilled soda in his car, he got so mad I had to reward him with a good BJ to calm him down.

“Let me help you.” I inch closer and reach for the tissues when I realize he has some on his shirt, too.

“You should get out of your shirt,” I say, my voice low and shaky.

“Why? Because you want to see me naked?” he jokes.

“Yes.” I’m shocked at my honesty.

What the hell!

When he says nothing, I move closer to unbutton his shirt.

His fingers circle around mine, stopping me. “What are you doing, Vicky?” His voice is low, hoarse, a little heavy with the unmistakable. His dark eyes are two puddles of want.

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