“Hey, pretty girl,” Brock says, backing out of the parking space. His deep baritone curls through my stomach, every tendon a live wire as he rests his hand on my thigh. The subtle act causes my blood to thrash though my veins, my breath caught in my throat as his fingers flirt along the edge of my skirt.
“Hey,” I reply with a fake smile, attempting to hide the anxiety cording my spine. Heated, confused, and beyond pissed off, I try to concentrate on the lick of air-conditioning tickling my skin instead of the hypnotizing warmth of Brock’s touch.
He pitches me a salacious grin, his gaze bouncing between me and the road as he makes a right out of the university parking lot. “You clean up well, Miss Moretti.”
I pretend to find something of interest in the passing neighborhood. “Is that your version of a killer pickup line?”
“You’re already sitting next to me.” He chuckles, his fingers trailing a path down my knee, then back up my thigh again. “I could be wrong, and forgive me if I am, but I’d say we’re past killer pickup lines, no?”
“True,” I say flatly, “but we’re not past the part where you forgot to tell me you’re self-employed. You know? The whole coke-selling business you own.”
He pulls to the side of the road, shock shadowing his features. “Amber—”
“How could you keep something like that from me?” I hold back my need to punch him by looking out the window.
“Please listen to me,” he whispers. Cupping my chin, he brings my gaze back to his. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hi, my name’s Brock Cunningham. I’m nothing like my friend, but I sell coke for a living’?”
“Yeah.” Tears prick my eyes, but I fight them back. I may not have shared my body with him, and I’m not in love with him, but I’ve allowed him to glimpse into the dark window of my past. I’ve given that to very few people. I’m not about to hand him my tears. “Yeah, Brock, you could’ve.”
“And you would’ve walked away,” he remarks, his voice barely audible.
“You don’t know that for sure.” And neither do I. The only thing I do know is this hurts more than it should.
“You’re right,” he concedes with a sigh as he leans over the center console and glides his thumb across my lips. “But I wasn’t about to risk that happening. I wouldn’t have been able to let you walk away, Amber. I just . . . I just wouldn’t have let it happen. The second I laid eyes on you, I knew you were broken, knew I could . . . fix you. Let me show you who I am under all of this. I’m sorry I lied. It’ll never fucking happen again. Never. But I need you to give me a chance.”
The gentle caress in his plea makes me want to console him, hold him in my arms until it hurts. He keeps saying he wants to fix me, but I’m starting to realize we both have scars we’re hiding from the world. I’m just not sure how deep his run or who delivered the wounds. Still, I have questions I need answered.
“Would you have told me?” I ask, my nerves settling some.
He nods and slides his hand to my nape. “I knew I had to. I also knew Madeline would eventually say something, but I just didn’t know how or when to bring it up.”
“Why?”
“Well, it’s not exactly something you mention over a cup of coffee.” Fingers playing into my hair; a small grin trips the corner of his mouth. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yes, but that’s not what I mean,” I say through a sigh. “Why do you sell it?”
A brick wall slips over his face as he sits back in his seat, staring straight ahead. “I’m sorry, Ber, but I can’t go there with you.” He scrubs a palm over his jaw, his gaze dimming as he shakes his head. “We all have a dark corner in our mind that we refuse to revisit. One that—if for whatever reasons we do—will mentally kill us all over again, bringing us right back into that moment of loneliness and pain, the entire fucking thing eating at our very existence.” He swings his attention to me, his expression eerily devoid of emotion as he cups my cheeks. “This is my dark corner, my . . . suicide cliff. Again, I can’t do it. I won’t do it.”
“I don’t understand,” I whisper, hurt sidling up my throat. “You sell cocaine, Brock. You have to go there with me.”
“I can’t,” he reiterates, resolve tightening his tone.
“Oh my God, this is bullshit.” My pulse jerks, betrayal knifing my heart as I curl my fingers around his wrists, praying my words will release the demons he’s harboring. “I’ve opened up to you, Brock. You might not think it’s much, but it is. I’ve been dumped into a recycling bin of nothing but mistrust, born into this world unloved by most around me, my parents included. You have no idea how much I’ve let you in on, believe me. I’m not asking you for something major. I just need an explanation, a damn shadow of hope that’ll let me know I can trust you.”
Though his guard falters a bit, he keeps up his front, the moment fleeting as his brows pinch in confusion. “Why?” he asks, his voice hard, unyielding. “Why is it so fucking important to you? I’m a dealer, Amber. There’s nothing more to it. Just leave it at that.”
“No. I will not just leave it at that,” I toss back, my tone mirroring that of a bratty child as I tighten my grip around his wrists. “And if you wanna know why it’s so important to me, it’s because you’re starting to become important to me. Consider yourself lucky, asshole, because that’s a rarity on my end.” Air crackling with tension, we glare at each other, our inner demons surfacing as an edge of mortification jumps through my chest. Unable to believe I spilled my feelings to him, I shake my head, my words falling from my lips in the form of a whisper. “I’m going to ask you one more time, and if you don’t answer, I’m getting out of this car and you’ll never see me again. Why do you sell it?”