Page 25 of Ravaged
We stare at each other, then start snickering. With a sigh, she sinks to the couch, cradling her wine. I follow, a little slower, legs spread wide. Thank God my mother’s not here, because she would’ve had something to say about the way we fell on the deli tray, wine, lemonade-tea, and cookies like rabid wolves.
And I only glance at the TV screen a handful of times. On the last one, Miriam tosses the plastic wrap to the deck of UNO cards at me and demands we play. Now, as I slap down a draw-four card on top of hers, she throws back her head and howls—literally—in fury.
“The hell you say!” She jabs a finger at the pile of cards and then at me from her seat on the floor across the coffee table. “What kind of friend does that? I don’t even recognize you right now!”
I fake a yawn. “So are we going to pretend you weren’t just about to make me pick up eight?” I wave toward the steadily dwindling deck. “Stop stalling, and get your twelve cards.”
“Monster!” she hisses. Then she snatches up twelve cards, grumbling about revenge and retribution the whole time.
Grinning, we continue the game, and minutes later, she tosses down a skip, a reverse, another skip, and then a draw four in quick succession. I calmly plunk down another draw four. And she loses her shit.
“What the fuck, man? What have I ever done to you? You’re no gentleman! You’d let Tara burn, wouldn’t you?” she leans forward and accuses with a hot glare.
“I have no clue who this Tara person is, but I probably wouldn’t let her become a victim of arson. But I am going to make you draw eight.”
She growls, and for a moment, my laughter becomes strained. Because that sound vibrates over my cock that’s always in a semihard state around her. But even that simmering heat takes a back seat to the simple joy of having her here. The tender warmth of her concern for me.
It’s friendship; that can’t be any clearer. But I’ll take it. Because it’s all I can have of her. And I’m pathetic enough to be grateful for whatever scraps she offers me.
I want nothing to do with athletes.
Yeah, when I allow it, those words still possess the power to burn like a thousand beestings. Even though I realize what Miriam meant, that knowledge doesn’t erase the kick to the gut. That kick being truth. This—hanging out with food and card games on a Saturday night—isall I’ll ever have of her. The one night we shared—fucking hot and goddamn gloriously dirty night—was a mistake. To her. And I have no choice but to respect it.
And I have to move on.
For my sanity, for my eventual peace, I have to let her go.
Another reason I asked her to give Daniel a chance. Maybe if I see with my own eyes that she’s happy, that she’s with a good man who is deserving of her, then as painful as it will be, I can let go of the fantasy of her. Of us.
Fuck if I know if it’ll work. But I’m a desperate man, and it’s worth a shot.
Still muttering to herself, she snatches the cards up. Ten minutes later, the game ends, and I win. Surprise, surprise.
“I want a rematch,” she demands, shuffling the cards.
“Nah.” I recline against the couch cushions, stretching my arms above my head. “I prefer to go out on top. What’d you tell me before? Quit while I’m ahead.”
I meant to tease her, but the joke falls between us like an anvil tossed from a cliff. The gleeful light in her dark-brown eyes dims, and her hands hesitate over the deck of cards. She ducks her head, paying undue attention to stacking them neatly and packing them into their box.
Damn. Regret kicks me in the ribs, and I lower my arms, flattening my hands on the cushions beside me. Resisting the need to rub the pang just under my heart. Why had I said that? Why had I brought that day, that conversation, into this space?
As I study her bent head, the thick honey-blonde curls brushing her cheeks, her shoulders, the answer snaps clear in my head. Unease. Guilt. My own.
Did I push too hard? Did I steal her choice? Put her in a position where she felt she couldn’t say no? Those questions, the possibility of any of them being answered with ayeshas kept me up these last fewnights. How many times I’ve reached for my cell to call, to ask, I can’t even count. But fear of the answer kept me from dialing.
Yet now, with her here ...
I can’t avoid it. At least my subconscious refuses to.
Part of me longs to rescind the comment or swiftly change the subject, but I remain silent. Let my words hang in the air like an acrid scent from singed food.
“I did advise you to do that, didn’t I?” she murmurs, setting the game on the edge of the table. The movement seems restless, as if she needs something to do with her hands.
“I was surprised to see you here today,” I say just as softly. “Thank you, Miriam.”
She tilts her head, studying me, and I don’t flinch under that too-perceptive inspection. No matter how uncomfortable it makes me. No matter how much fear crawls inside me at what she might see, what I might accidentally betray.
“I don’t need your thanks, but you’re welcome,” she says. “It doesn’t take a genius or psychic to figure out that you were sitting up here watching your team play and beating yourself up all to hell. Especially when Zora called and mentioned you wouldn’t let Cyrus hang out with you. It’s why I didn’t call ahead. I wasn’t going to give you the chance to tell me no.” She shakes her head, her gaze soft like melted toffee, sweet and stirring the need for more inside me. More of her looking at me like that. More of that sweetness. “I knew what you were doing, Jordan. Sitting here, watching the game, and tearing yourself to pieces because you couldn’t be there with them. Blaming yourself. Not granting yourself any grace, any compassion.”
