More Than Enough (More Than Series, Book 5) (35 page)

It’s not until I hear Lucy gasp, her eyes on the entryway that I finally follow her gaze. With my face still burning, my eyes widen when I see Dylan standing in the doorway—his lips pressed tight, his shoulders rigid, and his eyes on all of us. He looks down.

“Hi,” I whisper, a smile forming, cracking the peel on my face. “I thought…” I use Heidi’s shoulders to help me stand. “I thought you weren’t coming home for a week.”

I pick at my shirt, wondering a: what he’s doing here and b: how much of an ass I look like.

He doesn’t respond though, he just walks further into the house, down the hallway and toward our bedroom.

“We should go,” Heidi says, and I nod, too confused to give any other reaction.

I don’t wait for them to leave before going to the bedroom and knocking. I don’t know why I knock but I have this feeling in my gut that something’s off.
Really
off.

There’s no response so I quietly open the door and peek inside. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze distant. It’s so different to the last time I did this. There’s no happiness to see me, no lust filled eyes welcoming me. There’s
nothing
. Not a single emotion on his face that lets me know he can even see me. “You came early,” I say, moving inside just a step and leaning against the wall. My body’s telling me to run to him, to kiss him, to hug him, to show him how much I’ve missed him. But my mind? My mind is telling me to stay put. And I have no idea why.

He bends down and slowly unlaces his boots.

I swallow nervously. “Did something happen or…”

He licks his lips as he looks up. Not at me, but through me. He still doesn’t speak.

I try to fake a smile, and when I do, I’m reminded of the gunk on my face. “I’m going to shower,” I tell him. “Then maybe I can heat up some food?”

He drops his gaze again and continues with his task of removing his shoes.

I take a breath. A loud one. One that has his eyes snapping to mine. And even though I know he can see me, he still doesn’t speak. His eyes follow me as I move across the room and to the bathroom. I leave the door open as I switch on the shower and undress, letting him know he’s welcome to join me. It’s not until I’m in the shower, my face clear of the peel that I finally see him move. He kicks off his shoes, then removes his pants, and finally his shirts. It’s all slow movements, like he’s in no rush to join me. Then he just sits there, his head lowered again. When he must hear the shower switch off, he gazes up at me. With my naked body on full display, I step out from the fog of the shower. He stands, his footsteps slow as he approaches. Then he leans against the counter, watching me dry myself. He waits until the towel is wrapped around me before taking my hand. My eyes drift shut at the contact. I’ve missed him. But the man in front of me is not the man I’ve been looking forward to seeing. His eyes—so blue—once full of hope and humor… they’ve changed. In the few weeks since I’d spoken to him—
he’s
changed.

Gently, he pulls me to him until my chest is flush against his, his breath warm on my forehead but his hand cold on my cheek as he tilts my head up, forcing me to look into his empty eyes. “Hey baby,” he finally says, his voice weak.

With a shaky exhale, I lean up and kiss him. Slow and gentle, just like his touch. “I’ve missed you,” I tell him.

He looks away. “Me too.”

He holds me to him, his arms around my waist and his chin resting on my head.

“Why are you home early?” I manage to ask.

He doesn’t respond, just holds me tighter.

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m tired, Ry,” he says, releasing me. “I’m so fucking tired.”

I take his hand and lead him to bed, my mind racing with so many thoughts I can’t focus on one. He climbs on the bed and gets under the covers, his hands behind his head as he looks up at the ceiling. I remove the towel and stand still, just for a moment, trying to gauge his response. Again, there is none. His eyes, his body, his everything remain still. I walk over to the bedroom door, switch on the hallway light, and turn off the bedroom one, before making my way back to the bed, wondering the entire time what the right thing to do is. It’s obvious his mind is elsewhere. It’s also obvious he’s not interested in me. I lie next to him, my arm around his waist and my leg over his while I rest my head on his chest. I wait for his hands to move, to touch me, even if it’s not for sex but we’ve always, always fallen asleep in each other’s arms but tonight… nothing.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t bring me closer.

Doesn’t react to my naked body wrapped around his.

Almost four months he’s been gone and nothing.

The childish, immature side of me wonders momentarily if there’s someone else. But I know Dylan. He wouldn’t. He
couldn’t
.

Tears fall from my eyes before I can stop them because I don’t know what the hell has happened to him and worse, I don’t know how to fix it.

Three weeks.

It’s only been three weeks since I last spoke to him. Since we made plans. Since we told each other we loved one another and that we missed each other and now this. What is
this
?

I wipe my eyes, hoping he doesn’t realize, but the shaking of my shoulders gives me away. He sighs. Loudly. As if he’s annoyed that I’m lying here, naked, in the arms of my boyfriend and I’m lost. I’m so damn lost.

“I’m just tired, Riley,” he mumbles.

“That’s all?” I ask.

He sighs again. Then he does something which causes my next flood of tears. He moves my arm and lifts his knees, pushing me off him before turning his back to me. “That’s all,” he mumbles. “Now leave it alone, okay?”

I don’t know how long I lie in restless silence, eyes closed, fighting silent sobs, releasing silent tears, wondering how I went from laughing with the girls to trying to predict his next move, next words.

After a while, his phone rings. Silently, he reaches over me to get it from my nightstand. He doesn’t even look at me when he answers, “Yeah?”

A slight pause. The male on the other end speaks, but his voice is low, muffled by Dylan’s face. Another, “Yeah,” from Dylan. Followed by an, “Okay.”

He hangs up, throws the phone on the bed, then slowly gets up and moves toward the closet.

I sit up, holding the blanket to my naked chest. “What are you doing?”

“Going out.”

I shift and start to get up too. “Who was it? Was it Dave? I want to meet him. I can be ready in five.”

“No.”

“No to what?” I ask, sitting on the edge of the bed now.

“No to all of it, Ry.”

Ignoring the shattering of my heart, I whisper, “I thought you said you were tired.”

He finishes shrugging on his jeans before looking at me, his jaw tense. “And I thought I said to leave it alone.”

“Dylan…”

He puts on a shirt and then a hoodie. Then he sits on the edge of the bed and slips on his shoes. Sighing, he rubs his eyes with one hand, the other reaching for his phone. “Don’t wait up, okay?”

“Is there someone else?” I blurt out. Because nothing makes sense.
Nothing
.

His shoulders tense, so does his entire body. “Jesus fucking Christ, Riley. This is the last goddamn thing I need. Especially from you. They’re guys from my unit—”

“You just left your unit, Dylan,” I interrupt. “I haven’t seen you in months.” I wish I was stronger. I wish my words came out stronger, too. But they don’t. They’re weak and pathetic and needy, which is exactly how I feel.

He inhales deeply, as if doing so will give him the calm he needs when he actually looks at me. But it doesn’t do either of those things, because all I can see is anger. He shakes his head, his angry eyes on mine. But he doesn’t speak.
Why the fuck won’t he talk to me
?

Suddenly, he marches to the open bedroom door and slams it shut behind him. I cringe, listening to the rattle of the windows from the force of his actions.

Then another door slams—the front door. Followed by a screeching of tires out on the street. And then…

Silence.

I reach for my phone, my first impulse is to call Eric and ask him if he knows anything. If he has any advice that may help in the situation. But I don’t. Instead, I start to type out a message.

Riley:
Dylan’s Home

I stare at the flashing cursor at the end of the words that once meant so much to me… now making absolutely no sense. This doesn’t feel like
home
.

With tears blurring my vision, I delete the text and write another.

Riley:
Dylan’s back.

It still feels wrong. Because the man who just stormed out of the house isn’t Dylan. I don’t know who he is.

Riley:
He’s back.

Eric:
?

Riley:
Dylan.

Eric:
He is?

Riley:
I think something’s wrong, E. I don’t know. Something’s happened.

Eric:
What do you mean? Is he hurt?

Riley:
Not that I know of.

Eric:
Ask him.

Riley:
He’s gone.

Eric:
Gone where?

Riley:
Out with some guys from his unit, I guess.

Eric:
When did he get home?

Riley:
A couple hours ago.

Eric:
And he left you?

Riley:
Yes.

Eric:
Hold on.

Dylan:
Really, Riley? You telling E about ourxbusiness? How close did you guys get while I was fuxking gone? Don’t accuse me of shit when you’fe talking to my brother behind mycback.

Riley:
I’m worried.

After fifteen minutes of no response, I get out of bed, throw on some clothes and clean the living room, the kitchen, the bathrooms, the toilets, the garage, the everything. Because I’m lost.

So lost.

And scared.

I’m so damn scared.

It’s after three
in the morning when I hear the front door open. I know because I’m sitting in bed, Kindle in my hand pretending to read like I’ve been doing for the past four hours. His footsteps are heavy as he trudges down the hallway, his body crashing into the walls. Muffled grunts belonging to two voices I don’t recognize get louder as they approach the bedroom.

Dylan stops in the doorway held up by two other guys.

He’s drunk.

Beyond drunk.

He doesn’t even see me watching him, his head lowered as he takes the few steps to get to the bed, falling chest first into it.

“Hey Riley,” one of the guys says. He’s built like Dylan with dark skin and even darker eyes. He doesn’t step foot in the room, just holds on to the doorframe. “Banks said we could crash in your guestroom.”

The leaner guy standing next to him laughs.

“What did you do to him?” I ask, shifting my gaze from Dylan’s passed out frame to them.

The darker guy struggles to stand upright, his hand going to his forehead in an attempted salute. “We didn’t do anything, Ma’am Sir Ma’am,” he almost shouts.

Frustrated, I kick off the sheets, ignoring Dylan’s moan as I stand up.

“Nice legs,” one of them says. I look up to see the leaner guy watching me, his eyes focused on my bare legs. “His pictures of you didn’t do justice, Ma’am.”

“Watch your fucking mouth, Leroy,” Dylan mumbles, his words muffled by the bed. He still hasn’t gotten up. His torso’s on the bed, his knees are on the floor.

I grab spare blankets out of the linen closet and open the door to the guestroom. They thank me, politely, before moving to opposite sides of the bed. Leroy murmurs something about how good it’ll be to sleep in an actual bed. I step into the room, closing the door behind me as they start to strip out of their clothes. “Did something happen over there?”

Leroy looks at me like I’m stupid. “Everything happens over there, Ma’am.”

“Quit calling me Ma’am. I’m younger than you are.”

He chuckles. “Sorry.”

“Where’s Dave?”

Leroy smirks. “What? We not good enough, Riley?”

“No.” I shake my head. “I just assumed that he’d be… where is he?”

Conway answers. “Dave’s… unavailable.”

“What happened in the past few weeks—”

Leroy sighs, cutting me off. “Good night, Ma’am.”

Dylan

“T
hanks for letting
us crash here for the weekend, Riley,” Conway says as Riley places the plate full of bacon, eggs and toast on the table in front of me. Even though I refuse to look at her, I know she’s watching me. I can
feel
it. She’s probably wondering when it was exactly that she agreed to having two strange men stay in our house.

If I could find it in myself to look at her, to actually speak to her, I’d tell her the answer was never. She never agreed to it, but I had no choice. Besides, I wanted them here. Because they’re the only ones who understood.

They called last night and asked if I wanted to escape. They didn’t ask if I wanted to hang out, go drinking or go somewhere and fucking talk. They said
escape
.

So we did. We escaped to a bar full of military veterans who didn’t fucking judge us. We drank and we drank and we drank some more, until the numb caused by the alcohol overpowered the fucking pain living and breathing in each of us.

But I felt it the most, and they knew that. I could tell by the way they looked at me, by the way they bought drink after drink after goddamn drink until I felt nothing.

And I wanted to feel nothing—especially after they kept patting me on the back, toasting to Dave and to me—his
best friend
. Every time they mentioned it I drank some more, praying that they were fucking wrong. Because I wasn’t his best friend. I wasn’t worthy of it.

If I was, I should’ve been able to stop him. But more than that, I should’ve been able to see it coming way before he bled his heart out to me.