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Chapter forty-one
Fynn is as shocked to find me standing in his doorway as I am to be standing here. So much so that neither of makes a move for several moments.
Fynn doesn’t have makeup on and that scar I’d seen hints of…it’s prominent now. And he keeps trying to turn his head, tries to keep me from seeing it.
I grab his face in my hand and turn him to look at it. His eyes fall in defeat. I don’t ask about it. It’s not my business.
“Scars are sexy, you know,” I offer him a small grin.
He tips his head. “Not the ones right here,” he places a hand to heart.
Damn. That’s the truth.
Who broke this beautiful man’s heart? Who hurt him so much that he hides behind makeup and his devil may care attitude?
He and I are so much alike. In a million years, nobody would look at us side by side and think we have anything in common. But we are the same. We hide our scars in different ways. He hides behind makeup. He hides behind bravado, sexual power. Even when he is playing the role of the submissive…that’s his choice. That power he is giving over to the Dom, that’s power, too.
I unleash the fury that churns inside me. Fury at my father. Fury at the control he has over me and my half brother. Fury that he killed my mother even though the death certificate will never say that. I get to unleash that on the ice. Every time I drop my gloves. Every player I hit. I’m hitting him. And I get rewarded for it. I get rewarded for my anger.
We’ve both chosen sex as a retreat from the real world. We’ve both used it to fill some longing. And we both know it’s empty. It doesn’t fill anything. It keeps a barrier between our hearts and pain. But it also means we don’t feel anything. Anything at all.
“He ended it.”
“What?”
“He looked me in the eye and when I asked him to fight for us…well,” I can’t even choke out the words.
I look at my hands and the tiny tremble. I rake my hands through my hair.
“Do you want a drink?”
I haven’t had alcohol in I don’t know how long. I’ve never been a big drinker. My father. I’ve seen what it does to him. Seen firsthand what it can do to a family. A life. I should have sympathy for him. I tried that. Tried to get him help. He just went right back to his drunken ways. My sympathies are now reserved for people who really need it. Nandy? Rowen? Rowen doesn’t need my sympathy. He needs my strength. He needs to cling to that. He will be safe. Soon. That safety will come with some heartbreak, but we’ll be together.
It’s never been a conscious effort on my part not to drink. But in this moment…I think I want to take Fynn up on his offer. I stare out the wall of windows that are only slightly smaller than Nandy’s and, of course, his patio is covered slightly from the floor above him. His view is different too. Partial lake, partial city. Still expensive. Does sex really pay for all of this? Or does Nandy? I think about the club and the opulence there. The clients Fynn claims they have.
Who am I kidding? Of course, sex could pay for this. And based on what I witnessed, Fynn is good at his job. Very. I watched him expertly suck off a man I love. And I loved watching him do it. I’ve jerked off to that vision many times since. Imagined myself as part of it. My hands on Nandy and in Fynn’s hair, as we both bring Nandy to an explosive climax. I told Nandy I want Fynn to be part of us. Us. The us he says doesn’t exist.
That morning tangled up in Nandy seems so long ago. So much has happened since. So much. And here I stand, two floors down from where I want to be. From where I feel I belong without a damn clue how to fix it. Maybe I can’t fix it. But I meant what I told Nandy when I walked out. When he sent me out. He can give up on us, on me…. but I’ll never be okay with him giving up on himself.
“Bourbon?” I turn away from the view.
He raises his eyebrows, and heads to the well-stocked bar built in the towering book cases.
“Neat, please.”
He hands me the glass, then grabs another and pulls a bottle of vodka from the freezer and pours himself a glass.
I take a long, luxurious swallow. Mmmm. I relish the burn in my throat. The burnt caramel flavor lingering on my tongue. Wow, it’s been a while.
“Have you ever been in love?” I ask and look at Fynn.
He tips his head to the side in acknowledgment, but also diverts his eyes from mine.
“How’d it work out for you?”
He raises his glass. “Well, I am single.” He takes a sip of the vodka.
I meet his toast and take another sip of the bourbon. Fynn walks over to the couch. He seems slightly nervous. At my presence? Or maybe the subject. He and I are in love with the same man.
