Wrong For You (Before You Series Book 3)(31)

“Alec,” she yelled, knocking on the door. He didn’t answer, but she knew he was there. She could hear loud music screaming through the door.

Her palm open against the heavy wooden door, she banged on the door three more times. “Open the door.” Nothing. No response. Just loud, obnoxious music flooding through the door. So much for the nice, quiet tenant she had hoped for when she offered the place to Alec. She’d never sleep tonight if this continued.

Twirling the spare key on her finger, the dark brown ‘M’ for Missoula on her key chain danced around and around in circles as she contemplated her next move. Screw it. She was going in. It was her house and she needed to see the damage and stop any more from happening, or at least that’s what she convinced herself.

Sliding the key into the lock, she twisted it until she felt the familiar click. Afraid of what she might find, she took a deep breath before pushing the door open.

A version of Alec only hinted at before that moment sat at the kitchen table. Other than the faint flicker of the fluorescent light above the table, the apartment was dark. Alec had discarded his t-shirt, leaving the black tattoos on his arms fully exposed. A bottle of amber whiskey was in one hand, his other hand banged against the table in time with the music. His dark hair was messier than an hour ago and he looked like a darker, meaner, barely recognizable version of the playful man who kissed her in her kitchen after dinner.

Uncomfortable taking one more step into the apartment, a shiver raced down her spine. “Hi,” she said, the word catching in her suddenly constricted throat. “I heard a lot of noise and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“I’m fine.” He waved his hand toward the wall behind her. She peered over her shoulder. “I’ll fix the walls tomorrow.”

Her eyes traveled the length of the wall adjacent to the sitting area. Four fist size holes decorated the previously sparse white wall. “You’re bleeding. Is your hand okay?” she asked, looking at his bruised and bloody knuckles circling the half empty whiskey bottle.

He shrugged, his chair scraping against the tile as he stood up. “I’ll be fine.” Her eyes dropped to the muscles in his arms. The way they flexed when he moved made her heart leap in her chest, both out of fear and desire. “Do you want to watch a movie?” She didn’t want to leave him alone with that strange blank look on his face, almost zombie-like. “I could make us popcorn and—”

“Violet,” he interrupted, his voice rough and soulless, his eyes bracketed with deep lines of pain and disgust. “Now’s not a good time.”

“I saw that woman leave. Do you want to talk about it?” She placed her hand on his shoulder and he flinched as though physical contact hurt him.

“Alec,” she pleaded, circling her arms around his waist. “You can talk to me. I won’t judge you.”

He scoffed. “Well, that makes one of us.”

“Talk to me.”

He tilted his head down, his eyes finally making contact with hers and a shudder of unease skated down her spine. The carefree Alec from dinner was nowhere to be found.

“That woman was my mom.”

She nodded. “What did she want?”

His hands curled in the sides of her shirt and his eyes floated away again. She didn’t think he would answer, but he surprised her.

“She wanted forgiveness,” he answered, his voice so thick she was surprised the words actually made it out of his mouth.

“For what?” she asked, searching his face.

“For everything. For nothing. I don’t know.” He slid his hands under her shirt, his rough fingertips sliding against her skin. She didn’t know if he realized what he was doing to her. He seemed caught up in his own world, but with every touch, small shocks detonated under his fingertips.

“Do you want to give it to her?”

“She’s sick. She has cancer,” he said. The words didn’t sound right, almost fuzzy, but he probably had a lot to drink, more than a shot or two in the thirty minutes since his mom walked out the door.

“Are you sad?”

His eyes sought hers again, driving into her, piercing her with his anger and the heated turbulence bubbling under the surface. “No. I don’t really give a fuck and I think that kind of makes me evil, maybe even eviler than her. Any compassion I had for her died years ago and I can’t find it in my heart to care whether she’s sick, lonely, afraid, or hurting. She never cared about my sister or me.”

“It doesn’t make you evil. It makes you human. You’re hurt and angry.” She sighed. “I don’t know what happened, but maybe she doesn’t deserve your forgiveness. Sometimes a person’s sins are so bad, forgiveness has to be earned, and until she’s succeeded, you need to give yourself a break. Don’t feel obligated to forgive her and invite her into your life just because she asked.”