Chapter 21
By the time Drew drops me back off at the clubhouse parking lot, I know two things with painful, humiliating clarity.
First, he’s not a bad guy. Second, that somehow makes this worse.
Because if he’d been awful, I could’ve written the whole thing off cleanly.
If he’d been rude or arrogant or weirdly handsy or the kind of man who mistakes polite conversation for chemistry, I could’ve come home annoyed but certain.
I could’ve told the women he was a disaster, laughed it off, and gone to bed pretending my heart didn’t still belong to the one man in Alabama who seems determined to break it in increasingly creative ways.
Instead, Drew was…
Fine.
Just fine.
And that should be enough to make me feel hopeful about my own emotional recovery, but instead I’m standing in the parking lot staring at the taillights of his car as he pulls away, feeling emptier than I did before dinner.
The night air is warm, the clubhouse porch light spilling yellow across the gravel, bikes lined up like dark, watchful sentries in the lot.
I should go inside.
I don’t.
I stand there with my purse hanging from one shoulder and my phone still in my hand, replaying the night in stupid little pieces I didn’t ask to keep.
The restaurant was nice. He’d opened doors.
He’d paid without making a show of it. He’d asked questions and actually listened to the answers.
He’d laughed at the right parts of my stories and told me about his job in that careful, measured way cops do when they want to seem honest without ever actually handing over anything too personal.
And every single time Ambrosia or the club came up, he’d redirected.
Smoothly. Politely. Obviously.
Like he was trying not to say what he really thought. Like he was willing to overlook that part of my life for now, but only because he liked what he saw enough to tolerate it.
That should bother me more than it does. Maybe because it still bothers me less than Jimmy acting like he gets to care only when it hurts me.
Drew had kissed me too.
That’s the part that really seals it. Because it had been nice. That’s the word for it.
Nice.
Gentle. Respectful. Warm.
And when he pulled back and smiled at me like maybe there was something worth seeing here, I’d smiled back and felt…
Nothing close to enough.
No fire. No panic. No chaos. No sense that the world had tilted on its axis and decided to make a personal problem out of my life.
Just nice. And nice is not a crime. Nice is probably what I should want.
But standing here now, all I can think is that Jimmy could ruin my lipstick with one look and Drew kissed me under a parking lot light like we were auditioning for a toothpaste commercial.
That is not Drew’s fault.
It is, unfortunately, my problem.
I finally start toward the clubhouse side entrance, mostly because if I stand out here any longer, somebody’s going to see me and ask questions I don’t want to answer.
The hallway inside is quieter than the main room, most of the family noise muffled by walls and distance.
I can hear laughter from the common area, the clink of bottles, someone, probably Shadow or Cobra, getting loud enough that one of the older guys is bound to tell them to shut the hell up any second now.
I should head straight for my room.
Instead, I make the mistake of cutting down the side hall toward the office wing to drop some paperwork off in the clubhouse admin room.
And that’s when I hear his voice. “Date go good?”
Jimmy.
Low. Close. Too close.
I stop dead.
He’s leaning against the wall just outside the office door, one boot braced behind him, arms crossed over his chest like he’s been waiting long enough to piss himself off even more than usual.
He’s changed out of the black security tee from Ambrosia and into a gray one that does absolutely nothing helpful for my mental stability.
His cut is off, but somehow that only makes him look rougher.
More like Jimmy and less like the Vice President, which is a dangerous distinction to be noticing right now.
I should keep walking. I don’t. Because apparently self-preservation remains more of a concept than a skill where this man is concerned.
“You waiting out here to interview me?” I ask.
His jaw shifts once. “Maybe.”
I huff a humorless laugh. “That sounds healthy.”
His gaze drags over me once, slow enough to make my skin tighten.
It shouldn’t, but it does.
I hate him for that a little. Or maybe I hate myself for still reacting.
Probably both.
“Answer the question, Allie.” There’s too much in the way he says my name. Too much gravel. Too much familiarity. Too much of the exact thing I keep trying to stop wanting from him.
So naturally, I sharpen right back. “Why?”
His expression darkens. “Because I asked.”
I smile, and there is not one warm thing in it. “That’s not really an answer.”
For one second, we just look at each other.
The hall feels smaller than it should. Like all the air got pushed to the far end and forgot to come back.
Then Jimmy pushes off the wall and steps closer. Not enough to trap me. Enough that my pulse jumps anyway. “I’m trying here,” he says.
That catches me so off guard I almost laugh in his face. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Jimmy, if this is your version of trying, I’d hate to see your rock bottom.”
That one lands.
Good.
Because I am so tired of being the only one bleeding in this dynamic.
His nostrils flare once, and for half a second I think he’s going to get angry enough to say something stupid. Instead, he says, “You kiss him?”
My entire body goes still.
Not because the question shocks me. Because the fact that he asked it does. And maybe because he sounds like it cost him something to get the words out.
I should lie. I really should. But I’m too angry to be strategic and too hurt to be kind.
So I say, “Yes.”
Jimmy’s jaw locks so hard I can actually see the muscle jump. Something dark and ugly flashes across his face before he gets it back under control. Too late.
I saw it.
Good.
“Was it good?” he asks, and the question is too flat, too controlled, which somehow makes it worse.
I should tell him it was incredible. I should tell him Drew kissed me like he’d been dreaming about it for years and I forgot my own name and now I’m cured of every stupid feeling I’ve ever had for Jimmy Baker.
Instead, because honesty is apparently my least useful character trait, I say, “It was nice.”
That should help. It doesn’t.
Because Jimmy doesn’t look relieved. He looks furious. Not loud. Not explosive. Just furious in that terrifyingly quiet way he gets when he’s one bad second from doing something he’ll regret.
“Nice,” he repeats.
“Yeah.”
He takes one more step.
I should back up. I don’t.
That’s the problem, isn’t it?
I never do.
“You want nice?” he asks.
And there’s something about the way he says it low, rough, almost disbelieving that sends a warning shot straight through my bloodstream.
I know better than to stay. I do. But wanting and doing have never had a damn thing to do with each other where Jimmy is concerned.
“What exactly are you doing right now?” I ask quietly.
His eyes drop to my mouth. Then back to my eyes. Then down again. That one look lights me up in all the worst ways.
“You really wanna know?” he says.
No.
Yes.
Absolutely not.
Always.
I don’t get to answer.
Because the next thing I know, his hand is around my neck not rough, but firm enough to make my breath hitch and he’s pulling me the last step into him.
The impact is not hard. It still knocks the air out of me.
“Jimmy—”
He kisses me before I can say anything else.
And God. That’s the whole problem right there. Because it’s not tentative. Not hesitant. Not confused.
It’s not nice.
It’s heat and frustration and hunger and every single thing he keeps refusing to say out loud poured straight into my mouth like maybe if he kisses me hard enough, he won’t have to use words at all.
My hand fists in the front of his shirt on instinct.
His other hand lands at my waist, hauling me in closer like there’s no such thing as enough.
And for one weak, catastrophic second, I let myself have it. I let myself sink into the exact thing that keeps ruining me. The way he kisses like he means it. Like I’m not in question. Like he’s done fighting himself and doesn’t care what it costs him anymore.
That’s what kills me.
Not the kiss itself.
What it feels like. Because this is what I’ve wanted.Not sex. Not possession. Not the adrenaline of almost.
This.
To be kissed like he’s sure. Like he can’t help it. Like he’s finally, finally done pretending I don’t get under his skin the exact same way he gets under mine.
My chest aches with it. My whole body aches with it.
And maybe if he’d stopped there, maybe if he’d just held my face and kissed me like that and then said one honest thing after, we could’ve salvaged something from this mess.
But Jimmy Baker has apparently made it his personal mission to never stop at the part where he still has a chance to do the right thing. Because the second I melt into him, really melt, really let him feel how much I still want this, how much I still want him, he goes tense.
It’s subtle. Fast. But I feel it.
That split-second recoil that has nothing to do with me not kissing him back and everything to do with the fact that he did this at all. Like he hates himself for it while he’s still doing it.
That’s what breaks me.
Not all at once. Just enough. Enough that I pull back first.
My lips are still tingling. My breathing’s wrecked. His hand is still at my waist. And I hate that I can feel exactly how badly he wants to keep going.
I hate even more that he’s already pulling himself away. His forehead drops to mine for one brief, brutal second, like he needs the contact and resents it at the same time.
Then he steps back.
Just like that. Just like he always does.
I stare at him, breathing hard, and something hot and devastated rises in my throat so fast I almost choke on it.