Page 93 of Bourbon Truths
Lyla had caught me at a weak moment and asked me to hang out. I’d been frantic for some human interaction, and she’d taken advantage of a rare occurrence. I was the one who’d taken our day too far.
She was making me feel, she was breaking down my walls, and I was letting her. We’d spent the day walking around New Orleans, talking about the city we’d grown up in, talking about Goldie and Jett, talking about whatever came to mind. We’d eaten dinner together and ended up sharing a serving of bread pudding. I’d fucking shared a meal. Christ, I was letting my guard down and had no clue on how to go about resurrecting my walls.
With a flash of her brilliant smile, she had me on my knees, begging for more. Lyla had been at the Lafayette club for a reason, to help fill in for Goldie temporarily, but instead of treating her like all the other Jett Girls, I’d fallen for her hard. I liked Goldie, actually loved Goldie, but Lyla was different. Lyla had the sass like Goldie, the quirkiness like Goldie, but she was also raw, exposed. She showed you who she was and didn’t bullshit. She was concerned, she got me, she cared for me. She saw right through me, to the true person I was. She wrecked me with those eyes and debilitated me with her kisses.
Now, she was lying by my side, her arms wrapped around my waist, occasionally brushing kisses against my chest and filling an empty void in my life.
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t let it get to this point. Not after the first time we met, not after that afternoon at her apartment, but when Jett had needed someone to fill in, I’d chosen Lyla. I’d asked her to help out, knowing the kind of confusion it would bring me. I’d asked her because deep down, I needed her to be here, to help me, even though I wouldn’t accept her help.
“How long have you been living here?” Lyla asked casually, running her fingers along my abs.
“Too long,” I answered honestly.
“You say that as if you resent the place.”
“I don’t,” I answered. In fact it had been a sanctuary for my sins. I would forever be grateful for the Lafayette Club.
“Don’t elaborate or anything,” she teased.
“Probably won’t.”
I was drawing away from her. I had to. She was making me want things I wasn’t allowed to have. She was making me rethink everything I’d set in stone after I killed Marshall Duncan. She was trying to offer me a life and I didn’t fucking want it.
I’d started to move when she pinned me down with her arms. She sat up and hovered over me. I averted my eyes from her swaying breasts and tried to focus on the ceiling. If I looked down, I would give in. I knew I would. I was desperate for another taste.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I have things to do,” I replied, knowing I sounded like an ass.
“You’re not going to stay the night?”
“Can’t,” I responded, pushing her aside and sitting on the edge of her bed with my head in my hands. A pulsing started to develop behind my eye, letting me know a raging headache was lurking around the corner.
“So you’re going to fuck me and leave?” she asked, angry.
“Pretty sure you fucked me,” I said, knowing there was a double meaning behind my statement.
“You can’t be serious. Not after the day we had. Not after the connection we shared.”
“What connection?” I lied. “We shared a dessert and then fucked.”
I was being cruel. I hated saying such vulgar things to her, but I was in self-defense mode. My heart was bleeding, yearning for the woman behind me, begging for her to take my heart into her possession and save it from self-destruction. It was a feeling I wasn’t comfortable with. I hated being vulnerable, and I’d never felt more exposed in my life.
“Fuck you,” she said while getting off the bed.
My briefs were at the foot of the bed, so I grabbed them, threw them on, and turned around to see Lyla charging at me with a robe half-tied around her and fury in her eyes. I braced for impact.
She poked me in the chest. “If you want to act like nothing happened between us, fine. Believe what you want to believe but I felt it, Kace. I see the way you look at me, the heat in your eyes. I know there is something you want to tell me, but you refuse. Why? What are you hiding?”
“It’s none of your business,” I said while walking past her to find my other clothes.
“Taking the pussy way out? Fits you well,” she taunted.
“Excuse me?” I shot back, grabbing my jeans and putting them on.
“You heard me,” she said with her hands on her hips, in a feisty position. “You’re a pussy. Fact, it takes more of a man to admit his feelings than to hide them.”
“It’s not feelings, Lyla.” She was right. I wasn’t the man she wanted me to be.
