Worth It (Forbidden Men #6)

“Here. I have your panties.” He tossed them to me, and I scurried to pull them on, accidentally jabbing him in the rib.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just hurry.”

I glanced out the window at the approaching headlights. “Maybe they’ll drive past without noticing us.” We were somewhat obscured by the tree line.

Except the car slowed down and pulled into the space behind my car.

Knox shook his head. “They’re not driving past.”

I whimpered, my fingers suddenly the clumsiest appendages on earth. “I can’t get my bra on.”

He gave up on trying to untangle his pants to help me with my bra. We’d just snapped it into place, when car doors slammed from the other vehicle. I held my breath as approaching footsteps sounded through the opened back window.

Knox and I clutched each other in nothing but our underwear as a male voice said, “Felicity?”

I shivered against Knox and looked up into his eyes. “It’s Max.”

I spent most of the day at the gym. I should’ve been proud of myself; I hadn’t ignited when City had pounced and pushed and had no mercy on me. I’d felt all the things I always felt when the dark, helpless rage took over, but I’d restrained myself. I’d gotten out and gone to work off my steam, and everything had worked out okay. I should’ve been pleased with my progress.

But I felt like shit.

She’d accused me of straight-up intentional murder. From her behavior at the end of the conversation, I kind of didn’t think she really believed her own claim—she’d only been trying to egg me on, force me to tell my side of the story. But she’d still said it, and that flayed me.

Sixteen-year-old City never would’ve done that to me. Twenty-two-year-old Felicity…she was different. I was reminded of that fact every time I opened the medicine cabinet and saw her birth control sitting next to my razor, every time she turned on the coffeemaker, every time she smiled and joked with the guys at Forbidden, every time she wore damn practical shoes to work. She’d grown up and moved on without me, and the girl I’d fallen so desperately in love with had changed.

I couldn’t stop caring for her, though, not over a few discrepancies. She was still a bright, caring beauty who took my breath away every time I saw her. And that’s why it’d hurt so much to listen to her call me a killer, because I gave her the power to hurt me.

As I approached our apartment late in the afternoon, all kinds of trepidation filled me. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I had to go inside. It was Thursday, and I needed to get to work for ladies’ night.

A breath rushed from my lungs when I found the front room empty. Muffled music came from her room, telling me we were back to avoiding each other. Hurrying into my cave, I shrugged off my shirt and tugged a work shirt from the pile of clean clothes I had folded in a basket on the floor. I’d showered at the gym, so I didn’t need to worry about stopping by the bathroom, but I hadn’t eaten most of the day. Maybe I could swing by somewhere so I wouldn’t have go to into the kitchen, except I didn’t have the money. I was giving every extra cent I made back to Pick, despite the number of times he rolled his eyes and told me not to worry about it.

Fuck it, I could whip together a quick sandwich and be out of here in thirty seconds. But when I turned to leave my room, I noticed the plate on my bed with a sandwich sitting on it, next to an apple...with a folded piece of paper tucked underneath.

Memories assailed me.

With a shaking hand, I reached out and plucked up the note. I blinked a few times to adjust my eyes, but she’d been merciful and written only four words in block print that I could more easily read.

I’m sorry I pushed.

I collapsed onto the edge of the bed and buried my face into my hands. My eyes burned and my throat closed over.

“Fuck,” I muttered, rocking myself. I bent forward and rested my elbows on my knees as I concentrated on inhaling and exhaling, using a breathing technique my boxing trainer had taught me earlier this week. I was meant to use it in the ring, but it worked now too.

I still felt shredded raw when I finally pulled myself together enough to reach for the sandwich, but I lost it all over again as soon as I sank my teeth through the bread and tasted peanut butter and jelly.

She’d remembered.

I wanted to go to her so bad I ached. I needed to feel her arms around me and bury my face in her hair. God, I could almost smell her shampoo just thinking about her.

But I needed to stay away. I hadn’t moved in with her to get back together. After what Pick told me, however, there was no way I was letting her live anywhere alone. Still. Getting involved with her again would be disastrous. I was beginning to control my anger somewhat but not enough for my peace of mind, not where her safety was concerned.