Was.
Maybe that’s why he’s saving me. Because that’s what he’s doing by offering me this escape route. He’s saving me. Even though it seems he’s not the saving type, he stepped up to do it. Twice now.
The first, of course, was when he showed up with Cash to rescue me. I can still remember hearing his voice, so distinguishable from Cash’s. So stern yet so safe. Familiar, but not in the way I would’ve expected. I felt protected all the way home, even though he hardly spoke. And now, here he is doing it again, tonight.
But why? Why now?
The answer comes as quickly as the question.
Maybe it’s because now he thinks I’m worth saving.
Pushing the troubling thoughts aside, I opt for a bright smile. “Thank you. I’d love one.”
As he leads me away, I glance back over my shoulder to see Millicent flounce off to rejoin her fiancé, Richardson “Rick” Pyle, whom she’d left behind when she spotted me. I’m sure she’ll give him an earful as soon as it’s acceptable to do so. It won’t be long before, one by one, everyone I know is given a perverted version of what just happened. And guess who the bad guy will be? Nash’s voice penetrates the chaos in my mind. “Not the cakewalk you thought it’d be, huh?” he asks quietly. I glance up at him again. He’s facing forward, but I imagine his expression is one of smugness. It’s upsetting when I realize that, despite what just happened, Nash doubts that I’m strong enough to change. That I have changed.
The realization is a devastating blow to my fragile confidence. I say nothing to him because, on some level, I’m wondering the same thing. Can I really change? Should it be this much of a struggle? Or am I just as irrevocably damaged as these people?
We stop in front of the elegantly appointed bar. Without asking what I’d like, Nash orders—a vodka martini, dirty, for me and a Heineken for him. I wait until the bartender is busy fixing my drink before I say anything.
“Are you just that good? Or am I just that easy to read?”
Nash shrugs. “You seem like a martini girl.” He glances at me from the corner of his eye, his expression dark and steamy. “And, when you’re not kissing ass, I’d say you’re a dirty one.”
I brush off the first part of his comment and focus on the latter half. I feel my face flush. It spreads all the way down my chest, making me feel hot and damp. I resist the urge to fan.
I don’t know how to respond to his suggestive assessment, so I simply don’t. “You don’t seem like a beer guy. I would’ve thought something harder.”
The words are out before I realize my response is every bit as suggestive as his was.
Ohmigod!
“I can get a lot harder,” he says in his low, velvety voice. “But tonight, I think drinking a beer will cement their trashy impression of me.”
“So you want them to think you’re less than them?”
“No, they can think whatever the hell they want. I’m definitely not less than them, regardless of my hair or my drink. I ordered a beer because, not only do I happen to like it, I also get a kick out of knowing that it bugs the shit out of these judgmental ass**les having someone like me, someone with long hair and tattoos, walking around at their fancy party.”
I can see by the twist at the corner of his mouth that he’s pleased with himself and his rebellion. I wish I could be so blasé about what they think and how they judge. But right now, I can’t. I have to fight it every step of the way. Every baby step of the way.
Maybe one day I’ll get there. Maybe.
So many maybes lately, and I keep piling them on. The disequilibrium of it, the uncertainty of it suddenly feels like a suffocating hand over my mouth, much like the one that I felt just before I passed out and woke up in captivity a few days ago.
Panic sets in and a cold sweat pops out on my forehead. All I can think of is the need for air. And wide open spaces.
Freedom.
Frantic, I search for a way out. I spot the balcony doors directly across the room, behind Nash. The never-ending expanse of black night just beyond them looks like heaven.
“I think I need some air,” I say before I set off in that direction, not waiting for Nash’s response.
Thankfully, the balcony is empty when I step out onto it. I go straight to the railing and lean my hip against it. Reaching out, I lay one palm along the cool wrought iron, letting the refreshing temperature of the metal permeate the rest of my body like a soothing summer breeze.
I remind myself I’m safe, that I’m here in this moment, not back in the most terrifying one of my life.
I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.
“Are you okay?”
Nash’s voice is a barely discernible rumble in the moonlight.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Something happened. Tell me what it was.”
He’s about as sensitive and tactful as a bull in a china shop, stating the obvious and then demanding answers. But I know that’s just the way he is. I’m not sure he’s capable of more. Or ever will be. Nash is hard, rougher around the edges than probably anyone I know. And profoundly broken, I think.
But then again, so am I.
I turn around, putting the rail at my back, ready to give him some semblance of an answer, but the words die on my tongue. He’s standing in front of me, taking a sip of his beer, watching me with his raven eyes. Something about the scene—the balcony, the balmy air, the beer, Nash, me—seems so familiar. It’s almost like déjà vu.
A gush of warmth sweeps through me, stealing my breath. I have no idea where it came from or why, but I’m so aroused I feel hot all over. And moist.
“What is it?” he asks, his eyebrows knit together in a frown.
“I don’t know. Something about you and . . . and this balcony and you drinking beer . . . I don’t know. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Familiar almost. Weird,” I say casually, trying to blow if off, but feeling anything but nonchalant.
Don’t tear his clothes off! Don’t tear his clothes off!
My palm is sweaty beneath the bowl of my glass. The fingers of my other hand curl around the wrought iron at my back when he takes a step closer to me.
He stops only inches from me. He stares down into my face for a moment, thoughtfully, before he raises his beer bottle to my mouth and rolls it across my bottom lip. “Yeah. Weird.”