Page 70 of Rough Hard Fierce (Chicago Underground 1-3)
The cat leaped onto the coffee table and curled up amid the stacks of sheets and towels.
“Make yourself at home,” I said, but cats don’t care about sarcasm, and I didn’t have the heart to throw him out. This night was dark and scary. Or at least lonely.
“If you shit on the towels,” I told him, “I will turn you into a shag rug.” He seemed unconcerned. I took this to mean he was potty trained.
Headlights swerving against the wall and a low rumble told me Colin was home. He unlocked the back door and then was in front of me. “Sorry I’m late.”
r /> I should tell him I saw Andrew. Now, before I lost the chance. “I worried about you.”
He ran his thumb across my lips. “Pretty girl.”
“Are you…drunk?”
He shook his head slowly. “A little bit.”
“You shouldn’t drive like this.” I didn’t want to nag, but it was only the truth. I wrapped my arms around his waist.
He pulled me close and rested his face in my hair. He smelled like smoke. “I like you.”
Wow, he really shouldn’t have driven. Clearly it would do no good to talk about it now. “Come on,” I said. “To bed with you.”
His arms tightened. Seemed no one was much for sleep in this household.
“You’ll feel better in the morning,” I said.
“Feel good now.” His voice was muffled in my hair.
“That was a lie anyway,” I said. “You’ll feel worse in the morning, but you still have to sleep.”
I pulled back, and this time he let me go. Leading him by the hand, we went upstairs. I pushed him into the bathroom and shut the door, then listened until I heard the water running before changing into a nightshirt.
Ten minutes passed, and I debated knocking when he opened the door. Completely naked.
Though—and I double-checked—not aroused. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him that way, except for right after sex. And even then it was more of a half-mast situation. It was oddly deflating to my ego, even though I knew it was most likely whiskey dick.
“Well,” I said.
But it wasn’t the time for talking or for turning off the bathroom light, because he grabbed my hand as he walked by me, dragged me into bed with him, and wrapped his arms and legs around me like a Colin-shaped straitjacket.
Okay. I guess I was going to sleep.
“Good night,” I said.
“Don’t want to hurt you,” he mumbled. Then nothing.
No, he didn’t want to. I was the one doing any hurting here, even if the one in pain was me.
I hadn’t told him about Andrew, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to do so. I should just let it go, I knew. I had been given a free pass by Andrew not to tell Colin, and that should be good enough.
In fact, his arms, which had once been snug, now felt stifling. A literal weight of guilt.
Even if I were to tell him, I should wait until morning when he was awake. In fact, I should wait until tomorrow afternoon when his hangover had passed, but I had a feeling that if I didn’t tell him now, I never would. I’d ruined many good things in my youth and stupidity—often one and the same—but I desperately wanted to make this work.
“Colin.” I nudged him.
A quiet snore emerged. Silly man.
I pushed harder. “Colin!”
