Breaking Her (Love is War #2) (21 page)

I licked long and slow, right in that perfect little strip of skin at the very top of her inner thigh.
 

She made the noise again.
 
I sucked her flesh into my mouth, drawing hard, until she gripped my hair and cried out my name.
   

I smiled and went down on her, spreading her legs wide, pushing the tiny scrap of lace to the side, and kissing her, licking her, driving my tongue into her until I had her clawing mindlessly at my shoulders, just losing it, begging me to stop, to fuck her, to let up with my tongue.
 

But I couldn't stop, wouldn't stop.
 
My entire life was out of my control, but this, her body, her pleasure, was
mine
.

She let me get her off, but the second she was done, she was up, moving away from me, agitated hands scraping her hair back from her face.
 

I was still wiping my mouth as I studied her.
 
She was wearing the shirt she'd worn earlier but that was it.
 
No bra, no shoes, makeup scrubbed clean.
 

"How long have I been out?" I asked her.

"A while," she answered, still out of breath but trying to hide it, one hand braced against the counter, the other on her hip.
 
Her back was to me.
 
"I'm done shooting for the day."
 
She moved to the trailer's small coffee bar and I watched her silently, eating up her every move as she began to brew a cup.

When I realized she was making it for me, prepping it exactly how I took it, my heart did a slow, painful turn in my chest.
 

What the hell was going on?
 
Why was she being so civil?
   

It undid me faster and more thoroughly than her hostility ever could have.
 

Perhaps that was why.
 

She reached up into one of the tiny overhead cabinets and fished something out.
 

I heard more than saw the rattling bottle of pills, because my eyes were preoccupied with every inch of skin she revealed as she reached up.
 

I shifted uncomfortably, and it was only as I did so that I realized my clothes were off.
 
She must have stripped me while I slept, leaving me in nothing but my boxer briefs.
 

She brought me two ibuprofen and the just right cup of coffee.
 
I thanked her, eyes devouring her face, but she wouldn't look at me, instead giving the barest nod and turning away again.
 

"You took my clothes off while I slept."
 
It wasn't an accusation so much as a question.
 

"It was the wind," she said absently, sarcasm present even if the will for it was not.
 
She was looking at the counter.
 
At the gift I'd brought her.
 
"What's that?"
 
It wasn't a question so much as an accusation.

We'd always been good at balancing each other out.

"I don't know," I drawled.
 
"I think the
wind
carried it in when it was blowing off my clothes."

I could only see a hint of her profile with the way she was turned, but I caught her ghost of a smile.
 

My chest ached at the sight.
 
To say I missed her was a cruel understatement, like saying you'd miss your soul after you gave it away.
 
After it was torn from you.

I was empty.

Flesh without blood.
 

I was not
whole
without her.
 

Never would be.

I wasn't a big enough fool to believe that could ever change.

I downed the pills and took a long swig of my coffee.
 
All the while she didn't move, just staring at the box.
 

"Open it," I urged her.
 
I had no idea if she would.
 
At that moment she was an utter enigma to me.
 

I still couldn't figure out why she hadn't made me leave yet.
 

Well, I had an
idea
, a gnawing, sickening suspicion, but my fear of the notion made me instantly reject it.
 
Denial is a powerful thing.
     

I tensed when I realized she was actually going to open the gift, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees.
 

She took the Louboutins out of the box without a word, setting them side by side on the counter.
 
"Highness Strass," she said reverently.
 

"Did you just address your shoes as Highness Strass?"

She shot me a look.
 
"That's their name."
 

"You know the name of the shoe?"

She actually looked sheepish for a short, endearing moment.
 
It was adorable.
 
It made me want to kiss her silly.
 
And fuck her mindless.
 
But that was nothing new.
 

"What I mean is, I don't want them," she rallied.
 
"Quit buying me shoes, you stalker."
 

"Well, you can throw them away, like the other pair, or do whatever you want with them, but I'm not taking them back, and I had to get you something.
 
To congratulate you on landing the big part."

She was back to drooling over the shoes.
 
"Why did you pick these ones, in particular?"
 
She asked it with begrudging admiration in her voice.
 

I'd done well.
 

"I had help, from one of our department store stylists.
 
I told her you were deep into shoe-porn, that you only get off on the hardcore stuff."
 
I warmed as I saw that she had to bite back her smile.
 
"And she recommended a few.
 
These ones stood out to me the most."

With a sigh, she set them back in the box, turning to look at me.
 
"What are you doing here?"
 
Her voice was almost gentle with the finest edge of pain.

It was foreign on her, so unaccountably vulnerable, that it made me wince.
 
"I told you earlier.
 
I had a question for you.
 
You didn't answer it."

She waved her hand in the air, dismissing the notion.
 
"What I mean is, what are you doing in town?"

I stared at her, because she knew the answer to that.
 
Still, if she wanted to play pretend, I could do that too.
 
I was, in fact, excellent at it.
 
"I'm here for work.
 
Thought I'd stop by while I was in the neighborhood."

She folded her arms together until she was almost hugging herself and just stared at me.

Her face was tragic.

It was too much.
 
It knocked the wind out of me.

I was undone with a glance.
 
I couldn't even meet her eyes when she gazed at me like that.
 
I looked down at my hands as an unmistakable wave of fear rocked through me.
       

Her expression told me everything and nothing, but one thing was for certain, she knew something she wasn't supposed to, and all of the rules had changed.
 

I felt unutterable guilt at the relief that washed over me.
 
It was so powerful that for a moment it nearly drowned out the fear.
 

But only for a moment.
 

"Look at me," she coaxed softly.
 
"Look at me and tell me
what you've done."
 

I fled.
 
Found my clothes, pulled them on with clumsy, jerking movements, and got the hell out of there.
 

She never stirred, didn't turn to watch me, didn't say another word, though it didn't escape my notice that she was shaking like a leaf.
 

Hugging herself and trembling like she could barely hold herself together.
   

It was pure hell to walk away.
 

And absolutely necessary.
 

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"Beauty, more than bitterness, makes the heart break."
 

~Sara Teasdale

PAST

SCARLETT

I'd heard rumors, and over the years they'd grown more persistent.
 
Whispers about Jethro Davis.
 
It was commonly assumed that he was my father.
 
Even my doubtful grandma had admitted a few years prior that he was the most likely candidate.
   

I'd never seen the man, but I hated the very idea that I could have a dad so close, in this very town, and he'd never even bothered to meet me.

Never once bothered to see what his daughter looked like.
 
If she was all right.
 

Never bothered to make sure she didn't end up in a dumpster.
 

I preferred instead to fantasize that he was someone glamorous, someone rich, maybe even famous, some man who didn't even know I existed, because if he did, nothing could have kept him away.
 

But then, one day, I ran into Jethro Davis.
 

The rumors I'd heard about him weren't only about him being my father.
 
A lot of them were about the man himself.
 
The things he did.
 
He was a criminal.
 
A drug dealer and some said worse, that a few people who'd crossed him hadn't lived long to regret it.

He'd served some time in prison.
 
For what exactly, I couldn't say.
 
Assault and battery, some said.
 
Armed robbery, I'd also heard.
 

I was familiar with the story of my supposed father long before I ever set eyes on him, but when I did see him, at the grocery store, randomly, I knew who he was right away.

I was in the peanut butter aisle, grabbing a few things off Gram's grocery list.
 
Her housekeeper usually did all of the shopping, but she'd recently come down with a bad case of the flu, so I'd taken over the duty.
   

I'm not sure why I was so sure right off the bat.
 
The way he was studying me maybe or that combined with the tilt of his eyes, the stubborn line of his jaw.
 
It wasn't his features so much as the way he moved them.
 
There was a strong resemblance, but there also wasn't.
 

He was a gorgeous man.
 
Just stunning, his face perfectly symmetrical, and it wasn't vanity, but I couldn't help seeing some of myself in him.
 

And all of my fantasies about some heroic father who would have wanted me had he known . . . flew right out of my head for good.
 

He seemed as startled to see me as I was him.
 
"Hey, I know you," he drawled.
 

"No, you don't," I contradicted haughtily.
 

He sure as hell didn't know me.
 
He'd
never
have the privilege, I swore to myself.

"I do too," he said, unfazed.
 
"You're Scarlett Theroux.
 
I hear all kinds of stuff about you.
 
Quite the little charmer, I hear.
 
Raising hell since you was li'l.
 
Not much diff'rent than your mama."
 

He smiled.
 
He was beautiful, but I hated his face on sight.
 
"Not much diff'rent than your papa, either."

"Both of my parents are dead," I said, for lack of anything better.
 
They were certainly dead to me.
 

He laughed.
 
"Oh, you think so?
 
I think you're full o'shit.
 
You know damn well who I am, don't you?"
 

I glared at him, but I didn't answer.
 

"I'm your daddy.
 
You knew that, right?
 
You're prolly not too keen to hear that, but it's the truth.
 
I can see the Davis blood in you, too.
 
I hadn't heard about that.
 
Folks only been tellin' me how you're the spittin' image of Renee.
 
And I can see that.
 
But I see me in you, too, no denyin' it.
   

"But I guess you don't care 'bout that, huh?
 
You done all right for yourself, I hear, livin' up at old lady Durant's fancy mansion."
 
I hated the way he spoke, slow, each word drawn out insinuatingly.
 
Also, he sounded like a hick.
   

"What do you want?" I asked him.
 
Clearly, if he'd actually wanted to be my dad, he wouldn't have waited for an accidental grocery store run-in to introduce himself.
 

He grinned, and I hated that it looked strangely familiar to me.
 
"You're in high school, right?
 
That can come in handy for me.
 
You interested in making some money, girl?"

I started to leave without another word.
 

He stopped me with a grip on my elbow.
 
"Now, now.
 
It's
good
money.
 
You wouldn't have to beg the Durants for charity no more.
 
Don't you want a bit of cash of your own?
 
I'd make sure it was all cake work.
 
I'd just need some things, small packages, delivered to your classmates, yeah?"