Breaking Her (Love is War #2) (24 page)

Progress.
 

"What do you know?" he asked carefully, voice muffled against my belly.
 
His face was still pressed tightly to me.
 

I touched his head lightly with my fingertips.

My nails scraped roughly against his scalp as I gripped two good fistfuls of his hair, angling his head back, face up, forcing him to look up at my face.
 

He let me, blinking slowly up at me.
 

I bent down and pressed my mouth to his.
 

He'd been drinking beer, I could tell.
 
The taste of it was drugging on his breath, turned impossibly sweet.
 
It brought back memories, good ones and bad, as all things did with Dante.

I lingered at the kiss.
 
I was running short on time but I didn't hold back.
 

When I finally tore my mouth from his, we were both panting hard, but I found the breath to say, "You will come clean about this or you will
stay out of my life."
 

He didn't say anything, and I thrusted myself away from him, moving a safe distance out of his reach.
 
"I assume you're staying somewhere in town?"
 

He just nodded, looking a little dazed.
 

"I have to get back on set, but we're not finished here.
 
Why don't you text me the address where you're staying?
 
I'll come see you when I'm done working for the day."

"I'll wait here until you're finished.
 
We can drive together."
 

I chewed on my lip as I thought it out.
 
"Fine.
 
As long as you've sobered up enough by then to drive."
 

He grabbed his discarded cup of coffee, toasting it at me.
 
"Got it."

Stuart felt we were on a roll that day, and so we ended up shooting hours longer than I'd even anticipated.
 

We'd worked so deep into the night that P.M. had passed into A.M. hours prior.

I figured Dante would have given up, would have left by the time I made it back to my trailer.

I figured wrong.
 
He was there and awake.
 
And hell, he was even sober.

Our eyes clashed for a few intense beats before I moved to the small bedroom in back, changing into street clothes.
 

"We talking here or at your place?" I asked him as I came back out, grabbing my things.
 
"Or my place?" I added.

"Mine," he answered instantly, rising from the sofa.
 

"What have you been doing in here for all this time?
 
Meditating?"

He gave me a small smile for that.
 
"I kept busy.
 
Sobered up.
 
Went for a run, made some phone calls."
 

I hadn't expected a semi-straight answer.
 
Usually he matched sarcasm with sarcasm.
 
"Who were you calling?"
 
I didn't really think he'd answer if it was anything besides business, but it never hurt to ask.
 

"I was trying to figure out who's been talking to you."
 

I rubbed my hands together, a nervous tell.
 
I made myself stop.
 
"And did you?"
 

"No.
 
I couldn't get anything concrete, so I've put some people on it.
 
Unless, of course, you'd like to change your mind and tell me?"
 

I shook my head dismissively.
 
"Not likely.
 
And it doesn't matter.
 
Truly.
 
You should be more worried about what I know than who told it to me."

His mouth twisted bitterly.
 
"Touché."
 

That shut us both up for a while.
 
I left my car in the lot, going with him.

"How long is the drive?" I asked him.

"Not far," was all he said.
 

I didn't press the issue.
 
I'd find out soon enough.
 

And I did.
 
Sooner than I thought.
 
As though he'd found a place just to be close to the set, it was a scant ten-minute drive from the lot to his lodgings.

"You're staying at a
house
?" I asked him as he parked.
 
It was nice, not too huge, but heavily gated.
 
It didn't seem like the type of place you could stay for just a few nights.
     

"Temporarily."

"If it's so temporary, why not just stay at a hotel?"

"I needed more privacy.
 
I require gates.
 
And tinted windows."
 

I digested that, and thought, just maybe, that I understood it.
 

He parked his car in the U-shaped drive, stopping just shy of the front door.
 

"You have the place all to yourself?" I asked, looking around.
 

"We do, yes.
 
Do you like it?"
 

I shot him a look for that.
 
"It doesn't matter if I like it.
 
I just came here to talk.
 
And then leave."
 

He firmed his jaw and nodded, looking away.
 

He let us into the house silently, waving me in.
 

I took a few steps into the entryway and stopped.
 
The place was bigger than I'd thought from the outside.
 
It was also fully furnished.
 
Well-decorated, too, with lots of grays and whites.
 
It felt more like a private residence than a short rental.
   

"Do you mind if I shower before we talk?"

I shrugged.
 
"Whatever."
 

"Make yourself at home.
 
The kitchen is stocked, if you're hungry."
 

I realized that I was.
 
"Just point me in the right direction."
 

He showed me to the kitchen and left.
 

I had just dished out omelet number two when he joined me again.
 

I sent him one glance, then looked away again.
 
He was in a fresh pair of sweatpants, these ones black, his muscular chest deliciously bare.
 
His hair was still wet.

I wanted to lick him, head to toe.
 
Twice.
 
Slowly.

Instead, I asked, "You run out of shirts?"
 

"Yes.
 
Feel free to take yours off, too, to make it less awkward."
 

I curved my lips down to keep them from curling up, which they'd naturally tried to do.
 

He wasn't allowed to charm me right now.
 
The bastard.
 

I handed him his plate.
 
I could have waited to ask if he was hungry, but I hadn't seen the point.
 
From what I recalled, he never turned down food.
 
Like ever.
 

"Thank you," he said.
 

We sat down at a round table in the breakfast nook.
 
It was a friendly spot, surrounded by windows.
 
If we were there when the sun rose in a few hours, we'd likely have a killer view.
 

I ate my omelet without a word, not looking at him.
 
I had been collecting my thoughts for a while now, and I had too many questions.
 

I didn't even know where to start.
 
And I was hesitant to.
 
If he started lying or evading, or so help me God,
manipulating
me again, this thing would be dead in the water.
 

He finished his meal before I did, rising to take his plate to the sink then came back to sit across from me.
 

I felt him staring at me while I ate, but I didn't look up.

I finished about half of my omelet before I pushed my plate toward him.
 
I'd prepared us both the same portion size, just kind of assuming he'd finish what I didn't.

Because he had a
thousand times before.
 
Jesus, even eating together was like walking through a field of landmines.
 

Put us together to do anything, and there was a memory behind it.
 
A dozen.
 
A hundred.
 

We had words with whole lives attached to them.
 

That was the burden of falling in love so young.
 
Of letting yourself go so deep into another person.
 
You owned too much of each other to ever really walk away.
 

And we had proven as much.
 
Time and again.
     

I waited until he finished the second plate and rose to take it to the sink.
 

I got up and followed him.
 
"Your mother's been blackmailing you."
 
It wasn't a question.
 

I watched his back as I said the words, witnessed how he braced himself and shuddered like his whole world was crashing down around him.
 

Because it was.

He turned to look at me, and I read too much in the agony of his eyes.
 
Knew too much from what they held.
 
So many of my questions were answered from just that look, if I was honest with myself.
 

But denial is a powerful thing, and I wouldn't have minded clinging to it for just a little bit longer.
   

"Yes.
 
Yes
."
 
He said it with a sort of reverent lightness, as though some great weight had been lifted from him.
 

Because years of burdensome secrets had just been taken off his shoulders.

Jesus,
I was a fool.
   

"Of course she has," he continued succinctly.
 
"Of course she has."
 

CHAPTER TWENTY

"I know of only one duty, and that is to love."
 

~Albert Camus

PRESENT

DANTE

I was shocked at myself, at my reaction to her words.
 

I'd been avoiding this for so long, had gone through so much pain, suffered
so much
just to keep this from happening.

I'd never imagined in my wildest dreams that my knee-jerk reaction to having it all come crashing down on me would be a torrential downpour of
relief
.
 
I was weak with it.
     

But also,
of course
, it was my worst nightmare.
 
The very thing I had always dreaded.

Because what she would do now that she knew terrified me.
   

"This place doesn't feel like a temporary rental to me, Dante," she said, her voice somehow
normal
.
 

Oh, now she was changing the subject?
 
It was infuriating, but I answered her anyway.
 

"I am considering making it a more permanent residence . . . My mother can't know about it, you understand."
 
As I spoke, I turned fully to look at her.
 

She grinned, tilting her head to study me.
 
An expression fell across her face, one I knew she didn't intend, of almost curious affection.

That look on her face was like a punch to the gut.
 
So many feelings rushed at me when she studied me like that, like years had disappeared and we were back to some petty arguing that meant nothing in the long-term to us, some form of the old bickering that we used to enjoy when we still had complete faith that our bond to each other was unassailable.
   

This wasn't that, of course I knew that, but it was painfully pleasurable to pretend that it could be like that, even for only an evening.

"You plan to stay in L.A. . . . close to me . . . as long as your mother doesn't know about it."
 
She tapped her chin as she spoke, looking thoughtful.
 

I made my face stay bland and neutral and just kept meeting her eyes, but it was no use.
 

She was onto me, and I couldn't have said if I was more acutely relieved, or utterly horrified by that.

"You don't know how much I know," she accused correctly.
 
"You have no idea how to handle me because,
for once,
you're more in the dark than I am.
 
How does it feel, lover?"
 

"Wretched."
 
I gave her that one bitterly honest piece, because
God
, she deserved it.
 
"As wretched as you could hope.
 
Care to clue me in?"
 

"Of course not.
 
You can guess, and worry, and stress your deceitful black heart out.
 
And while you're doing that, you can make me a drink.
 
I assume you have a bottle of superior scotch around here somewhere."

I decided to take the order seriously, leading her from the kitchen to an adjoining sitting room.
 
As she'd correctly guessed, I did have a fully stocked bar.

I fixed us both a drink.
 
I didn't have to ask her what she wanted or how she wanted it.
 
It was all too familiar to me.
 

"What are you planning to do?" I asked her, handing her a glass of scotch, straight up.
 
"Are you going to confront anyone?"