Page 36 of Tell Me You Love Me

“At the house with my mother.” Giving up on the box, I stand tall and stare down my nose at the man who wants so desperately to challenge me. “They’re making an evening of it, which means I had time to spare. Getting this place into shape is taking longer than I hoped, and lugging hundred-pound boxes is significantly less torturous when it’s not as hot outside.” I gesture toward the door again. “Asked. Answered. Now you can go.”

“Not entirely sure why you’re pissy at me.” He drags the straw away from his lips. “Wasn’t me who fucked us over. But here you go, swinging through town and chewing me out at every chance you get. Feels a little Bitsy-Special Gaslighty to me.”

“That’swhat we’re doing, huh?” I hate him. I loathe him. I want to hurt him even half as much as he hurts me. “You’rethatguy? The one who’ll take my deepest, darkest secrets and lob them in my face all because you’re in a bad mood? I cried about her foryears,Tommy. But now you’ll take your payback by saying I’m just like her?”

“If it quacks like a duck and waddles like a duck…”

“Get the hell out!” I will not cry. I will not scream. Most importantly, I willnotbeg for his mercy. Though, the last feels the most impossible of them all. “This store is not open for business, which means you’re trespassing. Get out and stay the fuck away from me.”

“I remember, back when we were young and fighting, it was more of aknock ‘em down, drag ‘em outkind of thing. We were loud and mean and often ended up in bed together, fucking away our frustrations and rewarding each other with orgasms so good they felt illegal. Honestly, I figured you picked fights with me so oftenbecauseyou were horny.”

“I said leave.”

“Butnow, I guess you deal with your anger by cutting a man off. Leave town. Leave the gym. Kick him out. Whatever the circumstances, you starve every argument of oxygen instead of stoking the flames.”

“Yeah, it’s called maturity.” I sneer. “Maybe you missed class the day they taught that.”

“Probably.” He backs up to the door, but instead of walkingthroughit, he leans against the glass pane and makes damn sure no one passes in or out. “Chances are, I was hidden away somewhere with blood in my piss and a broken rib or two. But you were always such a doll about taking notes and bringing them back to me. You didn’t want me to miss out on the education we both knew I’d need. Ya know, to break cycles and escape poverty, knowledge is power and all that shit.”

“Uh-huh, and seeing as how you’re a successful business owner now, Iguess my labors paid off. You’re welcome.” For the third time, I gesture toward the door. “Go.”

“Chris does most of the books and stuff down at the gym.” He makes no move to get the hell out of my space, folding his arms instead, which results in his shoulders growing larger and his chest swelling with what I know was a workout earlier today. “Mostly, my success comes from pro-fighting. Kinda ironic, don’t you think, that I’d use the skills my parents beat into me to earn a living? Did I break a cycle, or did I dress it up and make it socially palatable?”

“Probably a discussion to have with your therapist. Which, sadly, isn’t a field I specialize in. Are we done now?”

“Not even fucking close.” Finally, he shoves away from the door, but he doesn’t turn and leave. Instead, he charges my way and sends my heart into a thundering spasm. For a single second, I wonder if he might grab me. Kiss me. Like he used to do when we were younger, smooshing my cheeks in his hands and laying a vicious kiss on my lips.

Is that what I want?

If he tried, would I stop him?

If he touched me, would I melt into it or recoil and scream?

But long before I can rein my troubling thoughts in, he scoops up the stack of books and continues past me, his taunting scent creeping along my throat and filling my lungs as disgust becomes my newest companion.

And with it, disappointment.

Because, of course, that’s how fucked in the head I am. Even after all this time, even after everything that has happened.

“I heard you wrote a book.” He sets the stack atop the last box I brought down, turning back to study the horror so clearly spread across my face.

Not because of the kiss I considered nor the longing I’ll forever feel. But because he knows about the book.

He knows aboutthebook!

“Heard you got an agent and everything and a big fancy deal with one of the big, fancy publishing houses. Guess that probably makes you rich, huh?”

“Rich? In publishing?” I force a mocking laugh and try to calm my racing pulse. I try to play this subject off like my entire world doesn’t hinge on himnotknowing the details of the story I labored over. The pages that hold my tears, no matter how many times I read them. “I’ve yet to make a cent, actually. I heard you have a fight coming up in Vegas.” Andsince he insists, I match his energy and sneer. “Guess that probably makes you rich, huh?”

“Yep.” He slides his hands into his pockets and wanders back this way. “Richer than God himself and happy as a pig in the mud about it.”

Touché.

“They’re paying me thirty million dollarsjustto step into the cage in a few months. Fifty million if I win.” He stops three feet away and rolls his bottom lip between his thumb and fingers. “Obscene amounts of money, really. Can you even imagine what we’d have done with that kinda cash back when we were younger?” He chuckles. “I don’t need that many zeroes. No one does. But no way I’m handing them back.”

“You could probably support a few charities. Feed some hungry kids or whatever, if you feel like those zeroes are a burden to your bank account.”

“I do.” His eyes, that same pair that used to look at me like I hung the moon and the stars, now study me with cold, hard derision. “I didn’t forget where I came from, Alana.”

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