And she does.
The gun goes off. I feel Riley’s body tense with a startle. I grip her tighter while my eyes focus in on the target she just put a hole through.
Dead fucking centered.
“Holy shit,” I murmur.
“Oh, my God!” she shrieks. “I did it! CJ, I did it!” Riley sets the gun down and spins around to face me. Her eyes are shining with pride and I’ve never seen a bigger smile on her face. “Did you see? I hit the target! I actually hit that son of a bitch.” She pulls her headphones down.
I do the same, laughing. “No shit. You’re a good fucking shot,” I tell her, smiling as she clutches at her heaving chest. “You all right?”
She nods quickly. “My heart is beating so fast,” she rushes out. “It’s pounding. Here. Feel.” Riley grabs hold of my wrist and brings my hand up to take the place of hers, pressing my palm flat against the space between her cleavage and her collarbones.
I quit breathing as her life races beneath my hand. Her skin is so goddamned soft and I’m touching her.
Fuck. I’m touching her.
“Do you feel that?” she asks me.
My lips part. A memory plays like a reel inside my head—Riley’s wide, stormy eyes holding me over her shoulder as I move inside her slowly. “Do you feel that? How fucking hard I am for you?”
I blink her back into focus. Do I feel that?
Fuck.
Blood runs warmer in my veins and I’m hard beneath my shorts and I’m so close to losing my fucking mind on this girl. To pulling her into my arms and touching her more and kissing her kissing her kissing her and fuck being friends. It sucks.
Why would anyone want this when you can have everything else?
“CJ?” she presses when I don’t answer her or the urges that itch beneath my skin. I can’t.
This is what she wants. Friendship. Touches that don’t mean more. And until Riley is showing me different, I won’t take it further.
I can’t. I care too much about her to fuck this up. Christ. I care so fucking much about her already. More than she knows.
Riley Tennyson got under my skin at that wedding and fucking stayed there.
So I pull my hand away instead of moving higher or lower or touching longer, bringing both to my face where I scrub up and then down. I grit my teeth. My groin throbs.
Fuck you. You should be used to this torture.
“Are you okay?” Riley’s sweet voice fills my ears before she’s getting handsy again with my thigh, and right now, with my dick threatening to punch through my zipper, I do not need her touching me.
“Fine,” I grate out, letting my hands fall away. “I just want to shoot. Do you mind?” I don’t mean to sound pissed off or angry with her, but I’m pretty sure that’s how it comes out.
Because for the first time since I met Riley Tennyson, I need her to back the fuck away from me.
She blinks before yanking her hand off my leg. “Sure. No problem,” she rushes out, then Riley’s moving out of my way and getting behind me again.
I pull in a deep breath and release it slowly, searching for calm, then I pick up the gun.
My next eighty-nine shots are aimed a little higher on the target, right where that motherfucker’s heart would be.
I never miss.
I never touch Riley again either, not for the rest of the afternoon at the range or during the drive home. And she never reaches out for me. We're both stiff and quiet and this isn't how it ever is with her. Awkward glances and uncomfortable silence. It sucks. And it continues after we get back to the house.
Dinner is eaten with my eyes on the TV and Riley's attention on the textbook in her lap. When she stands, having finished with her meal, she picks up my empty plate off the trunk and then asks if it's okay for her to do that, to fucking clean up after me.
That's when I realize how much of an asshole I'm being.
I'm getting shitty with her when I'm the one getting fucking sponge baths every night. I send her texts about the cold side of my bed. I play with her and tease her and insinuate with Riley every chance I get. What the fuck right do I have getting on her case because I can't handle her dishing it back, if that's even what she's doing, and I'm honestly not sure if it is. This could just be Riley being comfortable with me. Friendly. Playful, the way I always am with her. She wants us to be friends. Feeling her heartbeat . . . sure. What the fuck? Friends do that.
Yeah . . .
Asshole. World’s biggest, right here.
Huffing out a breath, I get to my feet and leave my crutches on the floor, choosing to walk on my boot instead since the therapist said I can start doing that now. My leg hurts a little but nothing compared to earlier, so I keep going. I round the couch, hobbling down the hallway in the direction Riley went after she cleaned up dinner.
The dinner she made, that I ate, enjoyed, and didn't say shit to her about.
Dick.
“Darlin', where you at?” I call out, reaching the bathroom and peering inside it. The light is still on and one of the cabinet doors is open. She was in here. But she’s not anymore. I keep moving down the hallway, thumping my boot on the floor, and when I’m almost at the bedroom she’s staying in, I hear Riley's lowered voice and it stops me.
“I’m glad you’re sorry. You should be sorry. But that doesn’t change what you did, Richard, and it doesn’t make me forgive you either. I can’t. I just . . . I can’t forgive you.”
Richard. My teeth clench.
Motherfucker.
I lean my shoulder against the wall just outside her room, crossing my arms over my chest and continuing to listen. That son of a bitch must’ve called her from jail, and now he’s getting Riley upset. I can hear it in her voice.
“You didn’t tell me things were getting so bad you were turning to drugs. You did cocaine. You should’ve talked to me. God, I was practically begging you to talk to me . . . no. No! Are you serious? That’s no excuse!”
When Riley’s voice cracks with a sob, I move, filling the doorway just as she’s standing from the bed. She keeps her back to me, and I stare at my name, half hidden by her hair.
Jesus. I’m an asshole to her and she still puts on that fucking hoodie.
It's hers now. She's claimed it. And seeing Riley in something that used to be mine does weird shit to me. Having my name on her . . . I like it.