“Either way, I’m sorry you had to see that.”
She’s such a fucking Rosewood. Always apologizing, even when not necessary. Always letting her manners get the best of her.
“Don’t apologize to me,” I say. “Apologize to that pretty little Porsche who got the shit beat out of her last night.”
Demi rolls her eyes.
“How messed up am I, that I beat up the car of a dying man?” she asks.
“Dying’s a strong word. We don’t know that he’s dying,” I say. “And look, I can fix it for you. For free. In my spare time. By the time the douchebag wakes up, he won’t have a clue. It’ll be our little secret.”
She laughs. It’s good to see her smile.
I finish the coffee and hand her the mug. “Gotta go home and get ready for work.”
Demi palms the coffee cup and nods. For the first time in days, she looks at me like she might not actually hate me. Her posture is more relaxed, and her gaze is more tender.
“I’m bringing you dinner tonight.” I fish my keys from my pocket.
She rolls her eyes.
“Taking that as a yes . . .”
I wait for her to go inside before driving away. I’ll be back tonight, and tomorrow night, and the next night.
I’ll be by her side every damn day for the rest of her life, making everything up to her. Being the man she deserves—the one who’ll never leave.
This time.
This time I’m here to stay.
Unless she wants me to leave.
And that could very well happen.
Chapter Fourteen
Demi
The machine breathes for him.
And all I can think about is that damn ice cream cake.
And all those other times he showed up with a little trinket just because. A locket here. A rented chick flick there. Surprise date night. A bottle of my favorite wine. A box of chocolates—sugar-free, of course, since we had to stay in shape for the wedding.
Were those guilt gifts? Things he bought to make himself feel better about his dirty little secret?
The machine is loud. Constant. Steady.
Like my thoughts.
The swelling around Brooks’s eyes has started to go down. His purple bruises are fading to putrid shades of green and yellow. He’s almost recognizable now. He doesn’t look as though he’s fading away anymore.
Brooks’s hands rest at his sides, perfectly placed into position by some nurse, I’m sure. The thought of holding them again makes my stomach twist. Those hands—the ones I’ve loved and cherished and kissed and forgiven more times than I probably should have—have been all over someone else. I imagine them knotted, twisted in the hair of some cherry-lipped girl with legs for days and a penchant for kinky sex.
I never did let him stick it in my ass, despite his many attempts.
My stare rests on the pink scar on his left hand. It’s an old one that’s been there since our senior year at Hargrove. Brooks took me on a scavenger hunt for my twenty-first birthday, and one of the envelopes was tucked deep into a thicket of bushes. I couldn’t find it, so he stuck his arm in there only to find himself bitten by a sharp-toothed rodent. It was dark, and the thing scurried away before we got a good look at it.
I’ve kissed that scar a hundred times. I’ve kissed his lips thousands. Each time was for naught.
He’s nothing but a con artist.
A self-centered, egotistical asshole.
“Demi.” I recognize my mother’s voice from the doorway of Brooks’s room.
“Hey, Mom.” I’m grateful for an excuse to leave his side. “Dad.”
Dad stands behind Mom, removing his fedora and draping his khaki trench coat over one arm.
“We were here last night. Guess we missed you,” Dad says.
Mom runs her hand along my cheek, cupping my face and giving me those sad, sympathetic ‘Mom eyes’ before pulling me in tight. I inhale the scent of my childhood home. Cinnamon, sugar cookies, Tide, lemon Pledge, and warmth. Pure nostalgia, with a side of comfort.
“How’re you hanging in there, Demetria?” Dad asks. He only calls me by my given name in grave situations, as if “Demi” is too informal.
“One day at a time.” That seems to be my standard response these days.
Mom releases me and glances over my shoulder toward Brooks.
“I just can’t believe it.” She sighs. “Our sweet Brooks. He’s always the life of the party. So lively and energetic. To see him like this . . . it’s . . . it’s just wrong.”
She takes his side, slipping her hand into his and tracing her thumb along his old scar.
“Never should’ve happened,” she says. “He didn’t deserve it.”
My parents haven’t asked where he was going or why he was on the highway at nine o’clock on a Tuesday night. Alone. Not even my father, a prominent prosecutor with an obsession with detail and facts.