Chapter 10 #2
Not a lie exactly. Just not the whole truth.
I do see her.
That’s the fucking problem.
I see too much. I see her when she walks into a room and every stupid part of my body reacts before my brain catches up.
I see her with the women, laughing and carrying plates and rubbing a hand over Kya’s shoulder like she fits into every inch of family life around here so easily it makes something tight pull in my chest. I see the way men look at her now, the way they didn’t when she was younger, and every time it feels like I’m being skinned alive with a butter knife.
But none of that is shit I can say out loud.
So what comes out instead is, “I’m just looking out for you.”
The second I say it, I know it’s weak.
Allison knows it too. Her expression goes flat in a way that reminds me entirely too much of Mac when Logan says something particularly stupid.
“Looking out for me,” she repeats. “That’s your excuse?”
“It’s not an excuse.”
“It’s what you say when you don’t want to admit you’re being an ass.”
A muscle jumps in my jaw. I should walk away now. Really this time.
This conversation is a minefield, and I’m not in the habit of stepping on explosives for fun.
Then she shifts, and the scent of her hits me all over again. Something clean and soft under the sharper smell of vodka and lime. Something familiar enough to make my pulse kick once, hard.
I grip the edge of the bar behind me instead of doing something fucking stupid.
“Why are you mad?” I ask, because I’m tired of pretending I don’t know and too stubborn to let this go without understanding what exactly I’m being punished for.
Her eyes widen a fraction. Then she laughs, quiet and incredulous. “Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Jimmy.”
The way she says my name makes it feel like accusation and plea all at once. I hate that too. “What?” I ask.
She looks away for one brief second, toward the dance floor, toward the crowd, anywhere but at me. When she looks back, there’s color high in her cheeks and irritation still locked tight in the line of her mouth. “I’m mad because you don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Act like I’m yours to protect whenever it suits you.”
The words hit hard enough that for one ugly second, my first instinct is to answer yes.
Yes, I do.
Yes, I get to.
Yes, because no other man in this room is going to stand too close to you while I’m breathing and expect me not to react.
That’s exactly why I know I’m fucked, because those thoughts happen instantly and feel good for the half second before common sense kicks me in the teeth.
I don’t say any of it. I just stare at her.
She lets out a breath that sounds like frustration more than anything else. “You can’t ignore me one minute and then go all alpha the second somebody else talks to me.”
I straighten slowly. “What the hell are you talking about?”
There it is.
The real thing under all of this. Not the guy. Not the bar. Not me stepping in too fast. Something older. Something sharper.
Allison’s gaze locks on mine, and there’s no backing out now. “I’m talking about the fact that you only ever seem to care when somebody else is looking at me.”
I don’t have an answer for that.
Not a real one. Because the truth is ugly and complicated and built out of years of bad decisions and self-control and one drunken kiss I still wish I could forget.
I care all the time.
That’s exactly why I keep my distance.
Because when I don’t, shit slips. My eyes go where they shouldn’t.
My temper gets shorter than it should. My hands start wanting things they have no business wanting.
And Allison has always been the one woman in my orbit who could turn all of that into a fucking disaster if I let myself forget what she is to this club, to her family, to mine.
I care all the time.
I just only show it when another man makes it impossible not to. And that sounds even worse in my head than it would out loud.
So I say nothing.
Her mouth twists like she already knew I wouldn’t. Then she does something that gets under my skin worse than the local asshole ever did. She steps closer instead of backing off.
Not enough for anyone across the room to notice. More than enough for me to.
The heat of her presses into the space between us. Her eyes lift to mine, steady and angry and hurt in a way I don’t know what to do with. “You know what?” she says quietly. “Forget it.”
I don’t move. “Allie—”
“No.” She shakes her head. “You don’t get to do that either.”
“Do what?”
“Say my name like that and act like none of this is weird.”
I go still again.
Because she’s right. Because this is weird. Because it’s been weird for longer than either of us wants to say. Because if I were a better man, I’d have set a cleaner line years ago and stuck to it instead of hovering in this fucked-up middle where I stay away until someone else gets too close.
She takes her drink off the bar and straightens, putting that tiny distance back again.
I should let her go.
I know it.
But the thought of her walking away from this still angry, maybe straight into the path of that guy or any other man dumb enough to read her expression as an opening, digs in hard.
So I say the stupidest possible thing. “Where are you going?”
Her brows shoot up. “You can’t be serious.”
“I asked a question.”
“And I’m leaving.”
“With who?”
There’s a beat of silence so complete it almost drowns out the music.
Then her eyes go wide with disbelief so pure I actually feel it like a blow. “Oh my God,” she says. “Are you hearing yourself right now?”
Maybe not clearly. Not clearly enough.
Because the second the words leave my mouth, I know exactly how they sound.
Not protective. Not helpful. Possessive. Too much. Too obvious.
I force my jaw to unclench. “That’s not what I meant.”
She laughs once, sharp and humorless. “Then what did you mean?”
I don’t answer. Because I don’t fucking know. Or worse, I do know, and it’s not something I can say in the middle of Ambrosia with a hundred eyes around us and history pressing in from every side.
Her expression hardens. “That’s what I thought.”
She turns like she’s done with this, and instinct takes over before thought.
I catch her wrist. Not hard. Never hard. Just enough to stop her.
The second my hand closes around her skin, the whole world narrows to that point of contact.
She freezes.
So do I.
Her pulse flutters once, fast, under my fingers.
Jesus.
I let go immediately, but the damage is already done.
Allison looks down at where my hand was, then slowly back up at me.
The air between us changes. Less anger now. More charge. More danger.
When she speaks, her voice is quieter. “Why do you care?”
And there it is.
The question I’ve spent years avoiding in one form or another.
Why do you care? Not, why did you step in? Not, why are you mad? Not, why are you acting like this?
Why do you care?
Because I do.
Because every time another man looks at her too long, something violent wakes up in me.
Because I’ve been shoving her into the family box for so long I should’ve worn a groove in the damn thing, and she keeps slipping out anyway.
Because she’s not a kid anymore, and that fact has been making my life hell in quiet ways for years.
Because I kissed her once and wanted more, and hating myself for it didn’t change a damn thing.
Because seeing her with the women, with this life, with the kind of warmth that wraps around the rough edges of this club and makes it a home, does something to me I don’t know how to name without ruining everything.
Because if I start telling the truth about her, I don’t know where it stops.
I can’t say any of that.
Not here. Not now. Maybe not ever.
So I look at her, really look at her, and for once I let myself feel the full weight of how impossible she is before I lock it all back down.
Then I give her the only answer I can. “You know why I care.”
Her eyes search mine like she’s trying to decide whether that’s enough.
It isn’t.
We both know it. Because if she really knew, we wouldn’t be standing here pretending this is about one local asshole at a bar.
Her jaw tightens. “No,” she says softly. “I don’t.”
And I can’t tell her. That’s the worst part. Not because I don’t have words. Because I have too many, and every single one of them would blow this straight to hell.
So I stand there like a coward and let the silence answer for me.
Allison’s face goes still in that dangerous way women get when they’re done expecting anything useful from a man. Then she gives me one short nod. “Right,” she says.
This time I let her walk away.
I watch her cut through the crowd toward the back hallway where the women’s restroom and private booths are, her shoulders straight, her head high, every inch of her saying she’d rather drag broken glass through her own skin than let anyone see what that cost her.
I stay where I am because following her now would be the stupidest move of all.
Blaze appears at my side a second later, quiet enough that I know he’s been watching the whole damn thing. He doesn’t say anything at first.
Just looks at me. Looks at Allison’s retreating back. Looks back at me.
Then he lets out a low whistle. “You wanna tell me why you look like you’re about to tear the place apart?”
“No.”
“Fair.”
I scrub a hand over my jaw and stare down at the untouched drink Allison left sweating on the bar for half a second before I shove it toward the bartender to dump.
Blaze’s mouth twitches. “That went well.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs under his breath.
I don’t.
Because my chest still feels too tight. Because her question is still sitting under my skin. Because I stepped in too fast, pushed too hard, and let too much show, and somehow it still wasn’t enough to tell her the one thing she actually wanted to know.
Why do you care?
I drag in a breath and look toward the hallway she disappeared down.
I can’t tell her the truth.
That doesn’t make it any less true.