“He loves you, you know,” Angel says, grinding the knuckles of his fist into the palm of his other hand while he stares at the reception desk.
“I know,” I grit out, though it makes my chest cave in to hear someone say it aloud.
“Not just the way I love you,” he says quietly.
So, he does know. At least he knows that. He doesn’t know about tonight, and Heath’s shoulder warm against mine, fist wrapped around my cock while he was inside Mercy. I didn’t push him into it. He reached for me. So why does it feel like this is my fault?
My eyes sting and I can only manage a curt nod. “I know.”
Angel is quiet for a while, punishing his palm with his knuckles so hard his skin starts to redden. “Does he know?” he asks at last, almost under his breath. “That you do too?”
He thinks it’s my fault too. That’s what fucking breaks me. I blink hard, trying to see past the blur of tears. “I don’t know,” I mumble.
But I do know.
I know Heath doesn’t know because I’m a fucking caveman who doesn’t know how to express anything but anger, the way I was taught. That was acceptable. Anything else was not. Especially not the things I want to say to Heath. Those would send me back to the priest with the wire and the boy pleading for mercy that never came. Heath may be unhinged, but even he knows how to use his words. If he told me he wanted to talk, I probably grunted at him or told him I was hitting the gym. That’s what men do.
Men don’t lace their fingers with their sleeping buddy in the dark, lie next to him, inhale the scent of him in the sheets when he’s gone. Hell, Idon’t do that. That’s what makes it so damn confusing. I don’t like men in that way, don’t want them, don’t think about them.
I want women. I fuck women. I think about them all the time.
And I think about him.
Not men.
Just Heath.
And lately, not women.
Just Mercy.
My head jerks up, and I look around the waiting area, then turn to Angel, my heart punching in my chest. “Where’s Mercy?”
He stares back at me, blinking a few times before he too cranes his neck to search the crowd for her. He turns back to mewith a frown. “She went after you,” he says. “You said you were with her.”
“I was.”
With her, under her, on top of her, inside her…
“Well, where the fuck is she?” he demands, leaning forward like he’s about to lunge from his chair.
“I don’t know,” I admit. “She left my room.”
His eyes narrow. “You let her walk home alone? At night?”
“I… She was pissed,” I say, hearing how fucking weak the excuse is even as it leaves my lips.
“We agreed to escort her whenever she left her dorm,” he says, his voice measured, careful, the fury vibrating under it making me wince.
“I know.”
“What did you do?”
I can’t meet his eyes. “I was with Ronique,” I mutter.
“You fucking idiot.” Angel isn’t shy with the insults, but I’ve never heard his voice so cold. Not towards me. He stands and calls to his cousins. “Maddy, Mav.”
They stand from where they were sitting against the wall with Maverick’s girl. He says something to her and points to Colt Darling, then saunters over with his brother.
