Page 48 of Lucas

I can’t take this anymore.

I gather my purse, sling it over my shoulder, and muscle my way through the crowd of gathering onlookers.

And then I’m out and I’m leaving him.

I can’t believe that despite everything, Lucas has just fucked us up yet again.

Chapter 26

I don’t even bother with the whole “delivery guy” routine when there’s a knock at my door several hours later. I know without looking that it’s Lucas, and so I simply unbolt the deadlocks and swing open the door.

He has a busted lip and some light bruising under one eye—but he appears otherwise unscathed. Now that I’m sure he’s not dead, I consider slamming the door shut.

As though reading my mind, he puts his hand out, and braces himself against the frame.

“I guess I should be grateful you got out of there with without any broken bones,” I say, with sarcasm.

He shrugs. “The other guy looks worse.”

That’s bullshit, but I don’t call him on it. After several hours of waiting for him to make contact, I caved and called the pub. The bartender confided that Lucas got the worst of it, but he was alive—and finally, that no matter how much money he offers, Lucas is banned from showing his face there again.

I can’t say that I’m surprised.

Frustration shakes through me. “I don’t get it Lucas. You’re like this…” The words tangle in my tongue. I’m so mad I can’t even think. “…this, enigma. Soft and tender one minute, and then something happens, and you’re in a rage. But for Christ’s sake, not every argument needs to end in bloodshed.” It’s the same words I tried to use at the bar, when he was too drunk to listen, to make logical decisions. I’m not even sure if he’s truly listening now.

I struggle not to cry, but honest to God, I’m more scared than I am hurt. Lucas only got a taste of what could happen by picking a fight with the wrong person.

“Can I come in?”

I sigh, and take a step back, allowing him to limp through the door.

He heads straight for the couch and stretches out. “You need a new sofa.”

It’s true, but since I’ve been spending so much time at Lucas’s apartment, I haven’t given much thought about my own décor. The fact is, I make more money than I’ve ever had before, and this little apartment isn’t quite cutting it. I don’t need a mansion, but maybe I can finally afford to be a little less thrifty.

I sit down across from him on the chair and wait for him to start talking. “I can’t keep doing this, Lucas. I don’t understand why you act this way.”

Finally he meets my gaze and his eyes are so haunted and pained that I shiver involuntarily.

“Have you ever seen a man murdered in real life, Eden?” he asks.

I’m shocked to realize that Lucas has suddenly chosen this moment to discuss the tragedy from his past. “No,” I whisper. “I imagine it’s pretty horrible.”

Lucas nods. “There’s a lot of blood,” he says, dully. “More than you can imagine.”

I close my eyes, and the scene recreates. Of course, I’ve read all of the articles and looked through the photos, even some of the crime images that were released in one particularly in-depth expose.

“It can’t have been easy for you guys to tackle that guy…” My voice trails off.

“I didn’t tackle him.”

I cock my head. “Obviously I don’t know exactly what happened, but I know that if not for your quick thinking, you would have all been dead. The killer might have gotten away with it. You were very brave.”

He laughs without humor. “I was a fucking pansy.”

A lump gathers in my throat. “What do you mean?”

He sits upright and runs a hand through his hair. “You know how they say a person’s first instinct in response to tragedy is either fight or flight?”