Page 94 of Dreamscape Therapies

“Mmm," I hum, resting my forehead against his.

“I love you, Jay.”

“I love you too,” I whisper, choking up a little at the strong emotions.

“We should probably clean up," Vincent says after a long moment.

“Probably.”

“And maybe try out some other furniture.” He waggles his eyebrows lasciviously.

“Oh, yeah?”

He laughs, the sound rich and warm. “Yeah, I was thinking we could start with the couch, then the bed, the shower, and then move to..."

“One thing at a time.”

He's already taking my hand and leading me toward the stairs, knowing that I'm not at all opposed to his list.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Vincent

The lunch rush is in full swing when the front door slams open hard enough to rattle the beer signs on the walls. I'm behind the bar, pulling a draft for table six, when I hear the voice, and my stomach clenches so hard I nearly drop the glass.

That voice.

I haven't heard it in almost a year, but I'd know it anywhere. Some voices fade with time, becoming nothing more than a vague memory, but Trent's has never been one of those. It still gets under my skin in a way that makes every muscle in my body tense before my brain has even caught up.

“WHERE IS HE?”

Every conversation in the bar stops. Forks pause halfway to mouths, pool cues freeze in mid-shot, and even the music seems to quiet, though that's probably just my imagination.

Trent stands in the doorway looking like an avenging angel who got dressed in the dark. His normally perfectly styled hair is disheveled, his designer clothes are wrinkled and hanging crooked, and his face is flushed beneath eyes that are red-rimmed and wild. I've never seen him look quite this unhinged before.

My heart starts pounding hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.

“WHERE THE FUCK IS HE?” he screams again, his voice cracking.

Mia appears beside me, one hand settling on my arm. “Want me to call the cops, Boss?”

“Not yet,” I mutter, setting the beer down carefully. My hands are surprisingly steady considering my pulse is trying to escape through my chest. “Let's see what he wants.”

Trent's eyes finally find me, and for a second, neither of us moves. Then his expression twists into something between rage and cruelty, and he storms toward the bar. A few customers shift uncomfortably in their seats, watching him carefully. I notice more than one person subtly positioning themselves as if they're already prepared to step in if things go badly.

Part of me wants to run. Another part is rooted to the spot, watching this train wreck unfold.

“You BASTARD!”

Trent slams both hands onto the bar.

“You turned her against me! You poisoned Dany! You made her think I'm some kind of monster when you're the abuser! You isolated me, controlled everything I did, and now you've manipulated everyone into thinking you're the victim!”

There it is.

The performance.

The calculated tears are already forming in his eyes, his voice trembling just enough to sound wounded rather than furious. I've seen this act before. I've lived through it before. The difference is that this time, I'm not the only person watching.