Chapter 4
EVERLY
I spend Saturday pretending I'm not thinking about Rush.
It doesn't work.
I'm in the lab running samples and my mind keeps circling back to Friday night, to the way he looked at me like he wanted to devour me and run away at the same time.
"You're not good for me."
What kind of bullshit excuse is that?
I slam my pipette down harder than necessary and Maya looks over. "You okay?"
"Fine."
"You seem angry."
"I'm not angry."
"You're definitely angry." She walks over to my bench. "What happened?"
"Nothing. Just failed samples."
"Right, samples." She doesn't believe me, but she lets it go. "You want to get lunch?"
"Can't. I've got to redo this entire protocol."
"Suit yourself."
She leaves and I go back to work. My hands are steady but my mind is racing.
The thing that pisses me off most is that Rush is right—he's not good for me.
He's intense and territorial and clearly has issues he's not dealing with.
But I don't care.
I've spent my whole life around dangerous men. I know how to handle myself.
And Rush doesn't scare me. If anything, he makes me want to push harder, see what happens when that control finally breaks.
I finish my work around three and head home. My flat feels too quiet so I turn on music and make dinner.
My phone buzzes while I'm chopping vegetables. It's Chloe.
Chloe: Clubhouse tonight? Just low key.
I stare at the message for a long second.
I should say no, should stay home and give Rush space like he clearly wants.
But I've never been good at doing what I should.
Me: Yeah, I'll be there.
Chloe: Great. See you around eight.
I finish making dinner and eat while reading a journal article, but I can't focus.
I keep thinking about the way Rush grabbed my wrist Wednesday night, the heat of his hand, the way his eyes dropped to my mouth.
He wanted to kiss me. I know he did.
And then he ran.
Tonight, I'm not letting him run.
I show up at the clubhouse around eight wearing jeans and a black tank top. It's warm inside and I'm in the mood to be comfortable. The old ladies wave me over and I join them. Gráinne's telling a story about a patient who came in with something stuck somewhere embarrassing.
We're all laughing when I notice Rush at the bar.
He sees me and his expression doesn't change, but his posture does—shoulders tensing slightly, jaw tightening.
Good. He should be uncomfortable.
I excuse myself and walk over to the bar, position myself right next to him.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey."
"You avoiding me again?"
"No."
"You sure? Because you look like you want to bolt."
His mouth almost curves. "I'm not going anywhere."
"We'll see." I order a wine, and when it comes I take a sip, then I look at him. "So are we going to talk about it?"
"Talk about what?"
"Wednesday night, the hallway, the almost kiss."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"Really? Because it seemed like something to me."
He takes a drink of his beer and doesn't answer.
"You're terrible at this," I say.
"At what?"
"Pretending you don't care."
"I'm not pretending."
"You are, and you're doing a shit job of it." I lean closer and lower my voice. "You want me, Rush. Just admit it."
His eyes meet mine and there's heat there. Real heat. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't I? Your pupils dilate when you look at me, your jaw gets tight, and you can't seem to stay away even though you keep saying you should."
"You're observant."
"I'm Diesel's daughter. I grew up learning to read people."
He's quiet for a second, then he says, "You should stay away from me."
"Why?"
"Because I'm not good for you."
"You said that already. Try a new excuse."
"It's not an excuse. It's the truth."
I laugh. "You're scared."
"I'm not scared."
"You are. You're terrified of wanting something so you push it away before it can hurt you."
His hand tightens on his beer bottle. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know more than you think." I finish my wine and set the glass down. "I know you watch me like you're waiting for something bad to happen. I know you're wound so tight you're about to snap. And I know you want to kiss me, but you won't let yourself."
"Everly."
"Am I wrong?"
He doesn't answer, and that's answer enough.
I step closer, close enough that I can feel the heat coming off him. "Here's what I think. I think you've convinced yourself you're too dangerous or too broken or whatever bullshit story you're telling yourself. But the truth is you're just scared."
"You should walk away."
"Probably. But I've never been good at doing what I should."
His eyes drop to my mouth and the air between us feels charged, like static before a storm.
"This is a bad idea," he says.
"Most good things are."
He's about to respond, when Bozo calls his name from across the room.
Rush closes his eyes for a second. "I need to go."
"Of course you do."
He walks away and I watch him go. My heart's pounding and my skin feels too hot.
That was something. That was definitely something.
Gráinne appears beside me. "You're playing with fire."
"I know."
"You sure you want to get burned?"
"Honestly? Yeah, I think I do."
She shakes her head but she's smiling. "Just be careful."
"Careful is boring."
An hour later, I head outside to get some air. The clubhouse is too loud and too warm.
I'm leaning against the building when I hear footsteps behind me.
"You following me now?" I ask without turning around.
"Just making sure you're safe." Rush's voice is low and rough.
"I'm outside the clubhouse. How unsafe could I be?"
"You'd be surprised."
I turn to face him. He's closer than I expected, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to look at him.
"You're hovering again," I say.
"I know."
"You going to tell me why?"
"No."
"Of course not. That would require actual communication."
His mouth curves slightly. "You're mouthy."
"You're evasive."
"Fair."
We stand there in the cold night air and the tension between us is thick enough to cut.
"What do you want from me, Rush?"
The question seems to catch him off guard. "What?"
"You keep pushing me away, but you won't stay away. So what do you want?"
He's quiet for a long time, then he says, "I don't know."
"That's honest at least."
"I'm trying to do the right thing."
"Which is?"
"Stay away from you."
"And how's that working out?"
"Not well."
I laugh and the sound breaks something between us. The tension shifts from uncomfortable to something else.
Something hotter.
Rush steps closer and my breath catches. He's in my space now, close enough to touch.
"You should go inside," he says.
"Probably."
"But you're not going to."
"Nope."
His hand comes up, and I think he's going to touch my face but instead he braces it against the wall beside my head, caging me in.
"This is a mistake," he says.
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"Then why are you still here?"
He doesn't answer, just stares at me with those dark eyes that see too much.
I reach up and touch his chest, just my fingertips against his leather cut, testing.
He goes very still.
"Your heart's racing," I say.
"I know."
"Mine too."
His other hand comes up to cup my jaw. The touch is gentle—too gentle for someone who looks this dangerous.
"Everly."
"Yeah?"
"If I kiss you, I'm not going to stop."
The words send heat straight through me. "Who said I want you to stop?"
He leans in and I can feel his breath on my lips, can smell leather and soap and something darker underneath.
We're a heartbeat away from kissing when he stops.
Just stops, frozen, with his mouth almost on mine.
"Rush."
"I can't."
"Yes, you can."
"No, I can't." But he doesn't pull away, just stays there, his forehead against mine, his hand still cupping my jaw. "You don't understand."
"Then explain it to me."
"I can't lose control with you."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know what I'll do if I stop holding back."
The admission is raw and honest, and it makes my chest tight.
I pull back enough to look at him. "You think you're going to hurt me?"
"I think I'm capable of it."
"So am I. That doesn't make me dangerous."
"It's different."
"How?"
He doesn't answer, just closes his eyes like he's in pain.
I touch his face and his eyes open. "I'm not afraid of you, Rush."
"You should be."
"Well, I'm not. And I'm not fragile. I'm Diesel's daughter. I grew up around men like you."
"Men like me?"
"Dangerous, intense, wrapped in leather and bad decisions."
His mouth curves despite himself. "That's one way to put it."
"Stop treating me like I'm going to break."
"I'm not."
"You are. You're so afraid of losing control that you won't let yourself feel anything."
He's quiet for a long time, then he says, "What if you're right? What if I lose control and I can't stop?"
"Then I'll stop you."
"What if you can't?"
I look at him and I see it—the real fear underneath all the control.
He's not afraid of hurting me; he's afraid of becoming someone he used to be.
"Who hurt you?" I ask quietly.
"What?"
"Someone hurt you. Someone made you think you're dangerous."
His expression shutters. "That's not what this is about."
"Isn't it?"
He pulls away, and the loss of contact makes me cold. "You should go inside."
"I'm not done talking."
"Well, I am."
I step forward and grab his wrist, mirroring what he did to me Wednesday night. "Don't run from me."
"I'm not running."
"You are. Every time we get close, you bolt."
"Because this can't happen."
"Why not?"
"Because you deserve better than me."
The words hang there and I realize something—he actually believes them.
He really does think I'm too good for him.
"That's bullshit," I say.
"It's the truth."
"No, it's you being scared and using me as an excuse."
His jaw tightens. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know exactly what I'm talking about. You're attracted to me, I'm attracted to you, but you're too wrapped up in whatever story you're telling yourself to actually do anything about it."
"It's not that simple."