Dangerously Bound (22 page)

She listened for his breathing, wanting to make sure he was asleep. She couldn’t handle
another conversation. He always managed to talk his way around her, or seduce her
into forgetting what it was she wanted to talk about. The man was too clever for his
own good—certainly for hers. She slipped quietly from the bed, found her clothes,
her purse, and left the warmth of Mick’s body, his bed, behind. But she knew that
warmth would never be anything but temporary if she didn’t go.

Have to go.

She wiped the tears away as she started her car, the engine a loud rumble in the still,
early morning air.

The sun was rising as she headed home, the sky a wash of pink and gold. It was lovely.
Heartbreakingly beautiful.

Like him.

She was tired of Mick breaking her heart. Maybe it was his turn.

She wanted to feel some satisfaction at the thought. But it was Mick, and she loved
him. Knowing he might hurt when he woke up alone only made her own pain more wrenching.

It was still the right thing to do.

Sometimes, being right sucked.

*   *   *

M
ICK WOKE WITH
a start. He reached for Allie but found only cool sheets next to him.

“What the hell?”

He ran a hand over his head, rubbed his eyes. Maybe she was in the bathroom? The kitchen?

He glanced at the clock as he got up. Seven in the morning. Dusky light shone from
behind the curtains—another hazy spring day in New Orleans. It was probably already
warm out there. Why did he feel chilled?

He found the bathroom door wide open, moved into the kitchen. It was empty.

“Allie?” he called, knowing there would be no answer.

He grabbed his sweats from the living room floor, pulled them on, then moved around
the apartment looking for a note, then his cell phone. No voice mail, no texts. He
went into his office and booted up his computer, tapping his fingers on the desk while
he waited.

Maybe she was sick? But she would have left him some kind of message or even woken
him up to tell him. Wouldn’t she?

He remembered in a small flash the look on her face when she’d shown up at his place
last night. She’d looked . . . haunted. He damn well knew why. He just didn’t know
what the hell to do about it. But now she was gone. She should at least have had the
grace to tell him she was going. Not that he’d treated her any better all those years
ago, in college, when he’d split in the middle of the night.

Tears sliding down her cheeks—he’d been too damn caught up to notice. Hell, he was
still hard. After the hottest sex he’d ever had in his life. Hot because it was
her.
But he’d made her fucking cry! What kind of sick fuck was he?

Something in his chest tore, even as her warm body pressed against his, her arms winding
tight around his neck. He swore he could see through the gaping hole that had opened
in his chest to the darkness that lay underneath, a darkness he’d unleashed on Allie.
Allie, of all people!

He held her tight, whispering to her—all the things he thought she might need to hear,
feeling like he was flailing around, trying to find some way to make it right.

“Shh, Allie girl. It’s okay.”

Christ, what a liar he was.

“Mick . . . I just . . . I didn’t know. I had no idea this was . . .”

She cried harder, her hot tears falling onto his chest.

Nothing would make it right. Because he was all damn wrong.

Fuck.

He tried to shake it off.

Was this payback?

He deserved it—there was no arguing with that. But he’d have thought better of Allie.

He paced the apartment, the wood floors cold beneath his bare feet.

Fuck it. This was inevitable, anyway. They’d never been meant to be together.

Except that the dull, thudding ache in his chest told him otherwise.

She belonged to him.

No.

“Fuck,” he muttered, stalking into the bedroom and grabbing a shirt and his running
shoes, shoving his feet into them.

He needed to run. Just fucking run this off—the thoughts and emotions he had no control
over.

He grabbed his keys and a small water bottle and headed downstairs, his shoes making
a slapping sound on the old wood treads. He shot out the front door and went into
a full run as he hit the streets, the lack of warm-up making his muscles go tight,
but he needed it. If he slowed down, his brain would catch up with him.

Can’t handle it right now. Not now.

His bad leg began to ache right away, but he didn’t care. He kept running, his feet
hitting the damp pavement—it must have rained at some point in the night. He could
smell it all around him. Damp cement, the scent of the old bricks and plaster on the
buildings he passed. The green scent of the flowers and plants and weeds that grew
in pots on porches and balconies, in every possible crevice. He drew in a deep breath,
wanting the damp and the green to cool his burning lungs. He should have started out
slower, he knew. But right now all that mattered was running as fast and hard as he
could.

Ha. That was fucking obvious.

Don’t think about it. Nothing is going to make sense now.

Not his anger at Allie for taking off. Not his anger at himself for being an asshole
to the woman he loved.

Fucking loved!

Still. Always.

Allie.

That was never going to change. What had changed was that she finally understood what
he was and wasn’t capable of. And she was telling him loud and clear she wasn’t having
it. He didn’t blame her.

Except that he did.

He was fucking mad. Hell, he was in a rage.

He needed to fight. Needed to purge the animal from his body, from his Goddamn soul.
And he knew exactly where to go.

He was about to change direction when he realized his feet had already taken him down
Dauphine to Canal Street. He crossed Canal, still quiet this early in the day, and
Dauphine turned into Baronne. He ran on, his lungs on fire, toward the Pontchartrain
Expressway and the row of warehouses that housed the private fight club hidden in
the underbelly of the city.

He headed south, following the line of the freeway, his mind empty of everything now
but his absolute need to hit something, anything. To be hit back. He
needed
it—to feel his fist connecting. To have some of the piss knocked out of him. Needed
not to think, to feel. And nothing made him go numb better than fighting.

He flexed his fingers, almost dropping his water bottle when he got to the club. There
was no address on the old corrugated metal structure. The big door was closed, but
he knew there was someone to be found inside at almost any time of day or night.

He paused outside, sweat dripping into his eyes, and he tasted salt. He shook his
head, shook the sweat out of his hair, took a swig from his water bottle and pushed
the door aside. And walked into the darkness.

S
HE WOKE TO
a dull throb in her head.

Bang, bang, bang.

Blearily, she glanced at the clock on her nightstand and found she’d only slept an
hour.

Bang, bang, bang.

She should get up and take some ibuprofen for her aching head. Too bad they didn’t
make a medicine for an aching heart.

She rolled over and realized she was still lying on top of the covers, fully dressed.
She’d come home and fallen onto her bed, turned on Travel TV and mostly just stared
at it, unfocused, pretending not to think, crying a little. But not too much. She
just wouldn’t stand for much of the damn crying.

“Allie?”

The voice was muffled, and it was then she realized the banging was the front door.

Not Mick. Thank God.

And fuck, why not Mick?

She ran a hand through her hair as she padded on bare feet to the door.

“Allie, it’s Jamie. You in there?”

“Hang on.”

She checked her reflection in the hall mirror. She looked like hell. She shrugged
helplessly before turning to open the door. The morning sunlight made her squint.

“Hi, Jamie.”

“Jesus. You sick or something?”

She shook her head and stepped aside to let him in. “I don’t know. Maybe the ‘or something,’”
she mumbled as he moved past her into the house.

“I brought you some coffee and beignets from Café Du Monde. Maybe that’ll help?”

She followed him into the kitchen, where he set the cardboard tray of paper coffee
cups on the table, as well as a white paper bag.

“They smell good.”

He pulled her in for a hug, and she burrowed into his arms and immediately felt like
crying. But she would not do it. She would
not
.

“Hey, you okay, sweetheart?”

She nodded into his chest.

He squeezed her shoulders. “Allie?”

“I will be.”

“That sounds cryptic. You want to talk to me about it?”

She nodded against his chest again. “Okay,” she said, her voice muffled.

“Okay. Let’s sit down and we’ll both get some coffee in us.”

He helped her into a chair, then pulled out another and folded himself into it, trying
unsuccessfully to tuck his long legs under
the table, finally settling on sprawling them out to the side and leaning his back
against the table.

Allie sipped at her chicory-laced coffee, grimaced.

“Is it a sugar day?” Jamie asked, already getting up to poke through the cupboards.

It touched her that he remembered she only took sugar in her coffee when she was stressed.

“Top cupboard on the right, bottom shelf,” she directed him.

He came back with the Tupperware she kept the sugar in—it was too humid in the old
house to keep it in a bowl—and a spoon and offered it to her. She added a good rounded
spoonful to her cup and stirred.

“Better?”

“Yes. Thanks.”

“So?”

She shrugged. “This thing with Mick . . . it’s not going so well.”

“We both knew it wasn’t going to be easy.”

“Yes, but I don’t think I realized it might actually be impossible.”

“Is that how you’re feeling right now?” Jamie asked.

“Maybe. I don’t know. We started getting closer—too close, maybe—and he totally shut
down on me. One minute we were perfectly fine, then suddenly there was this glaring
disconnect. And he can’t seem to come back from it. I was with him last night and
it was . . .” She paused, her throat closing up. She ran her hands through her hair,
pulling it tight, needing the sensation—the little bit of pain—to help her loosen
up enough to say the words. After several moments she let it go. “It was bad, Jamie.
I was up all night thinking about it. And this morning I just . . . left.”

“What do you mean?”

“I got up and sort of . . . snuck out while he was still sleeping.”

Jamie chuckled quietly. “Oh, he’s going to love that—Mr. Control Freak.”

“He hasn’t tried to call.”

“Either his ego is too sore or he’s too pissed off.”

“That’s his problem,” she said, anger suffusing her. “I’m tired of being the one to
babysit things along. We’re supposed to be reconnecting but I can’t be the one who
does all the work.”

Jamie put a hand on her arm. “Calm down, sweetheart. I’m with you on this one.”

“I know. So tell me—what do I do?”

“Honestly, leaving may have been the best bet. We guys are cavemen—we need to retreat
when we’re overwhelmed, and it sounds like that’s what he’s doing.”

“Well, he’s retreating his way out of any chance at a relationship with me. I don’t
know how much more I’m willing to deal with. I’m not about to just lie down and take
it—not even for him. Anyway, I’ve done enough of that with Mick already. I did it
for years, whether we were together or not. I let the distance he imposed between
us keep me from New Orleans, even from seeing my family, because I couldn’t stand
it. But I’m not that girl anymore.”

Jamie smiled at her, drew his hand back and took a sip from his coffee. “No, you’re
not. And I’m glad to see you remember that. Mick will be, too, once he gets his head
out of his ass.”

“When do you think that’ll happen?”

“Not sure. If it wasn’t about you, I’d probably say when pigs fly. But it
is
you. And maybe I can help him along. Want me to try to talk to him?”

“I don’t want to put you in the middle.”

Jamie grinned at her crookedly. “Sweetheart, you put me in the middle from day one.”

That made her smile. “So I did.”

“Anyway, I don’t mind having a reason to tell Mick he’s an idiot.”

She shook her head. “You boys.”

“Don’t let him catch you calling him that.”

“As if. So, tell me what’s been going on with you. I don’t mean to make this all about
me. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Nothing much has been happening, anyway. Except . . .”

“Except what?”

“You know . . . Summer Grace stopped by the shop yesterday.”

“Did she?”

He nodded. “I was out, so I didn’t see her. She didn’t tell any of the guys what she
wanted.”

“Maybe her car needs work? Or maybe you should give her a chance, Jamie.”

“And maybe you should have your head examined. You know damn well why that’s not going
to happen.”

“Another case of stupid man, maybe,” she muttered into her coffee. “Must be an epidemic.”

He picked up his cup before responding to her barb. “You seem to be feeling better.”

“You’re just doing a good job of distracting me.” But she reached for the bag and
extracted a beignet, bit into it and chewed as she leaned back in her chair. “These
are still pretty damn good even after they’re cold.”

“Have as many as you want. I ate mine on the way over.”

“I didn’t think that white powder meant you’d developed a cocaine problem.”

Jamie wiped at his chin and she laughed.

“You
are
feeling better.”

“I’ll really feel better when Mick calls me and apologizes for being an ass. And follows
it up by being appropriately attentive and actually working toward something with
me.”

And by “appropriately attentive” she meant more than just great sex.

“He will. He’s never forgotten about you. I don’t think he can, no matter how checked
out he’s been lately. It’s part of him transitioning into this. It’s a lot to accept
all at once after the years he’s put into being stubborn when it comes to you.”

“So, you think talking to him will do some good?”

“It’ll be a little push. Or a big one if he’s in bastard mode. But mostly it’ll be
the fact that he still loves you, Allie.”

Her eyes misted—she couldn’t help it. “I wish I didn’t need him to so damn much.”

“That’s the bitch about love—people don’t have much control over it. That’s what’s
eating him up, sweetheart. It’s not you.”

That was the part that hurt the worst—knowing he couldn’t drop the control issues
long enough to just love her, to let that old amazing love they’d shared rekindle
into something current and real. They could have so much together if only . . .

But “if onlys” didn’t make a relationship—not the one she wanted to find with him.

She wanted to be able to say she could walk away forever if Mick couldn’t let his
walls down with her. She wanted to. She wasn’t entirely certain she could.

Meanwhile, she had better learn how to pray.

*   *   *

I
T WAS NEARLY
ten that night when there was another knock at her door. She’d been halfway anticipating
it, but her heart thundered in her chest as she smoothed her hair and went to answer
it, knowing it would be him.

When she opened the door, he was a shadow silhouetted against the amber porch light,
but she’d have known that big frame anywhere, his cocky stance, the familiar scent
of him that immediately drifted to her, even against the backdrop of the magnolia
blossoms and the crepe myrtle starting to bloom in her yard.

“Can I come in, Allie?”

Somehow he managed to sound demanding and humble all at the same time, but she moved
back to let him pass. He went into the living room and stood facing the mantel, which
was cluttered with items she hadn’t managed to put away yet: a collection of glass
candlesticks, her sewing box, a folder full of the postcards she’d collected from
all over the world during her travels. She followed him in and switched on a lamp.

“You still unpacking?” he asked.

“The cardboard boxes make it that obvious?” When he didn’t answer she prompted, “I
suppose you didn’t come here to talk about my boxes.”

“No.”

He turned around and she gasped. “Jesus, Mick. What did you do to yourself?”

“It’s just a split lip.”

She marched across the room and held his chin in her hand. “Let me look at that.”

“I’m fine.”

“Have you had any medical attention?”

“I don’t need it, babe. It’s nothing.”

She dropped her hand and crossed her arms over her chest. “Don’t you ‘babe’ me. You’ve
been fighting.”

He nodded.

“An illegal fight.” When he didn’t say anything she went on. “Mick, I know damn well
it was one of those stupid club fights. If you’d been sparring, you would have just
told me.”

“I didn’t come here to upset you, Allie. I’ve done enough of that already.”

Her blood went cold, a slow knot forming in her stomach. Was this where he told her—again—that
she was better off without him before he walked out of her life once more?

She couldn’t speak, so she just nodded.

He was quiet for several long moments while her breath stalled in her lungs. He was
so damn handsome, his lush mouth drawn tight around the swelling, his gray eyes full
of shadows.

She waited.

He ran a hand over his jaw, winced when he came too close to the swollen lip. Finally
he said, “I guess you know Jamie came to talk to me today?”

“Yes.”

“He made a lot of sense after he finished verbally beating the shit out of me. Which
I deserved—I know it. He told me about his conversation with you. And it wasn’t like
I wasn’t thinking about this stuff already. But fuck, Allie, when I woke up this morning
and found you gone . . .”

“What?” she demanded. “You found me gone and
what
, Mick?”

The anger was rising again, making her throat go tight, but it was better than the
pain, the panic at the idea of not having him in her life.

“And I couldn’t stand that I’d done it. That I’d been so dense. Needing to escape
the issues so badly I acted like a twelve-year-old.”

She smirked a little. “Maybe fifteen.”

“Yeah.”

“Is that a half-assed apology, Mick?”

“No. This is. I’m sorry, Allie. I’m sorry it’s been so hard for me to let you in.
I’m sorry I’m not coming through for you no
matter how much we negotiate and talk and agree to try.” His gaze locked hard on hers,
and he looked right into her in the way he always had, making her feel naked right
down to her bones. “I want to try.”

Her heart twisted. Tears burned but she swallowed them down.

“Do you, Mick? Really try? Because this half-assed stuff is not going to work for
me.”

“I know. That’s why you left. I get it. I would have left, too, if I were you.”

She bit her lip. “Mick, I think . . . there has to be more than simply trying, do
you know what I’m saying? I feel like you have to sort of transcend what’s happened
in the past. You accused me—rightfully so—of living in the past where we were concerned.
But I think you do it, too. About a lot of things. Us. The accident. Your self-image
when you were younger. I don’t think you’ve really let it go yet.”

He dropped his head and stuck his hands in his pockets, looking absolutely humble—so
out of the ordinary for him that she waited with bated breath for what he might say.
Either that, or for him to bolt.

Finally he lifted his head. “Okay. You’ve got me there. I was the troublemaker in
my family. Neal pulled some pranks, but it was normal teenage stuff. I’ve always been
a little darker. Not just the kink, although that probably had a lot to do with how
I viewed myself back then. But the staying out late, cutting school, stealing my dad’s
good Scotch.”