Page 63 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
What had I done? I couldn’t face him.
A tear slid down my face. That wasn’t strange. My face was wet—I’d been crying before we even started. But this one came from near my ear and slid down to my nose.
It wasn’t mine.
I jerked up, which only succeeded in slamming my body against his and then back into the floor. I finally threw him off, heavy and limp as he was, but he covered his face.
“Oh, Colin,” I said.
He was dressed, only his fly open. Like a drunkard staggering from a bar, he managed to stand and stumble into the bathroom. He slammed the door in a sick reversal of the scene in the motel that first night with him.
I just sat there on the cold floor, absently rubbing my bruised knees. What had I done? This was so much worse than I’d thought. It wasn’t just about turning myself into a whore.
I’d wanted to be hurt, but I’d hurt him.
Chapter Eight
Someone was watching me. I could feel it.
If it was that damned cat in here again…
I opened my eyes to round, mischievous blue eyes. “Bailey!”
She blew out her lips, and wetness sprayed me. Nice.
I wiped my face with the sheet, wincing at the contact of fabric on abraded skin. “How did you get in here?”
“My fault,” Colin said.
I looked over at the bathroom where he was shaving with the door open. In jeans and nothing else, he looked delicious. How the hell did men get hip bones like that? Even though Colin was not skinny, nor really even lean, there they were. Mine were all padding.
“It’s no problem,” I said, pulling Bailey under the covers with me. She squirmed and kicked until she was free, lounging on Colin’s pillow like a princess.
I stretched, and my muscles screamed a protest. No, last night wasn’t a dream. Damn. I looked at Colin again, who was now pulling on a T-shirt, facing away. He headed for the door.
“Colin?”
“Yeah?” He definitely wasn’t looking at me.
I wasn’t sure what to say. I’m sorry for being so fucked-up, but you knew that when you signed up with me. Yeah, that’d go over great. They should print that on greeting cards. So I settled on, “What are you doing today? Want to hang out?”
“I’ve got to work. Early meeting.”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”
A beat passed. “If you want, you guys could come for lunch.”
“At the restaurant?”
He nodded.
The only time I’d ever been there was when I’d asked him out. He hadn’t asked me back. But here was an invitation, almost engraved. “Yes! We’d love to. Wouldn’t we, Bailey?”
“No,” she said.
“She means yes,” I told him.
“No, no!” she said. Goddammit.
