Game Saver (24 page)

What’s annoying me most is that I’m not only doubting her, I’m doubting
us.

The fact that she didn’t tell me about quitting—or that I don’t even know
when
she quit—has my mind thinking the worse-case scenario. That being that one and one suddenly equals two, and those people my two fucking parents.

Worse still, I’m suddenly questioning how ‘real’ our relationship can be, since I now know she has failed to keep her promise to me, something I’m not sure I can forgive. She promised to be honest and to never—
ever
—change.

And that’s what hurts more than anything.

To say the drive home is tense is a gross understatement. So much so that I am at a loss as to what to say to Cade.

Outwardly, for the rest of the afternoon at my parents’ place he was fine. We watched the rest of the football game—he even went outside and had a game of three-on-three with Dad and my brothers while Mom and I did the dishes and cleaned up. Nothing was amiss to anything one but me.

But the moment I told everyone that I’d quit stripping—albeit an expected inevitability but maybe not just yet—Cade’s mood disintegrated. The warm touches changed. The soft kisses and meaningful squeezes disappeared, and the knowing looks we’d shared all afternoon stopped completely.

I couldn’t believe that he’d actually be angry that I wasn’t stripping anymore. He’d never said he wanted me to stop—and I know he never would—so it could only be the fact that I didn’t tell him. It actually has me worried about what’s going to happen when we get back to my place.

“How was Callie when you called her?” I ask, desperate to break the awkward silence.

“Good.”

Great—one-word answer. Not good. Still, I’m determined to press on. “And what about Cam? Did you get hold of him?”

“We’ve arranged a phone call for tomorrow.”

Seven words, all deadpan, through what sounds like gritted teeth.
Well that’s something.

“Isn’t he due home soon?”

“Three weeks.” Two words, this time flat.
A step backwards.

“Cade . . .”

“Not now, Abi,” he says, turning up the radio in a passive-aggressive move that would make his mother proud.

He said not now, which at least means he’s not planning on stopping and dropping me—that’s something I suppose.

That was then.

And now . . . well, now I’m unlocking the door to my apartment with an effectively mute, yet clearly seething Cade following behind me.

I don’t even have to contemplate whether to avoid the topic or face it head-on, because Cade drops his car keys on the dining table, pulls off his shirt, and gives a gruff, “I’m having a shower,” before stalking—yes,
stalking
—down the hall, shutting the bathroom door firmly behind him.

Guess that answers
that
question then.

I give him five minutes then make my own way down the hallway to my bedroom, changing into my ‘at home, vegging with the manfriend’ clothes—the ones you bring out of hibernation about 0.3 seconds past the time you know he’s hooked and won’t be absolutely offended when you don a tee and leggings the minute you walk through the door.

While I’m waiting, I call Mom to say we got home safe and send texts to Dani, Amy, and the rest of the girl gang. They all ended up in my phone after the anal sex discussion because really, once you’ve discussed the intricacies of anal sex, you’re bound for life.

I’m standing by my front window in the living room, pushing send on the last text when Cade walks back in.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” I ask, not turning around.

“Nothing’s wrong.”

I know he’s lying and for once, I’m willing to see this through. I want to know exactly what’s crawled up his ass. He can be pissed I didn’t tell him about the club, that’s his right, but it doesn’t mean he can shut down and not let it all hang out. That’s the best thing about a healthy adult relationship—you’re supposed to be able to talk things through with your partner, not hiding anything, especially when it involves the happiness of either one of you. It’s one thing my mother and father have always had—open and honest communication.

I know I should’ve told him—about a
lot
of things—but it wasn’t a long-term decision. It was six days at best. I just wanted some time to sort my head out about some long-held promises I’d made to myself that I found myself compromising without even realizing it. I’d needed to know whether they were positive decisions or not. Whether they were actually in mine—and Cade’s—best interests.

What I have realized—or more finally, admitted to myself—is that Cade’s had me off my game since the first time our eyes met across the club.

That’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s been a very, very
good thing,
but it means I’ve been rattled by every shot the Carsens have fired at me. I’ve just hidden it well. What’s gotten me through and kept me strong is Cade.

As a man, he’s everything I could want. As a friend, he has never let me down. As a lover, he rocks my world and broadens my horizons.

His family and the world they operate in have made me question every decision I’ve ever made: about life, about love . . . about Cade.

And I
hate
that. I’ve never regretted anything I’ve done, never lamented on anything I’ve had to go through to get where I am today. Any time I’ve been knocked down I’ve dusted myself off and gotten straight back up again.

What I wasn’t sure about—and why I haven’t told Cade any of this—is whether I was strong enough to withstand any further knocks that powerful people with their eyes on the prize might send my way.

But the biggest question I’ve been mulling over is whether a relationship that’s gone from convenient to real—that’s a hell of a lot more important to me than any other I’ve had before and likely will ever have again—can withstand all the efforts to drag it down?

“You’re a crap liar, Carsen.”

“I am
not.
”

“Are too.”

“Spitfire,” he growls.

“No take-backsies,” I shoot back, turning around to find him sitting in the one-seater chair.

He doesn’t smile as I expect him to. In fact, his lips don’t even fucking twitch.

I can’t read his face, which is unheard of, because I can
always
read him. Horny, hungry, happy—I can see it and deal with it.

Blank? I have no fucking idea.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his legs and staring at the floor.

“Cade . . .” I say, my voice breaking because honestly, I have no freaking clue what to say or do.

His eyes lift to meet mine, and I know I have to say something.

“This is about the stripping, right?” He lifts his brow in a ‘you think?’ move.
Mr. Passive Aggressive is still in the building.

I stay where I am, part of me wondering whether I should go sit on the arm of his chair just to have our closeness back, the other part knows that I should keep the distance between us.

“I quit on Friday. I’d been thinking about it for a while. I have you, I have my job at the hotel, and I have . . . you.”

He sits there like that for a while, saying nothing, my uncertainty over what to do next increasing with every minute that passes.

“They bribed you, didn’t they?”

My eyes bug out of my head as I whisper, “What?”

“They offered you money. Probably said something along the lines of how they couldn’t stop us being together but they’d make it worth your while if you tried to ‘fit’ the mold.”

It’s scary how well he knows his parents.
Unfortunately for him, I do not like what he’s insinuating right now. “I—”

“Fuck!”

Oh no. Hell no.
My anxiety takes a back seat as a wave of unease and then anger pushes to the surface.

I never told anybody about what Cade’s mom offered me. I’d told Cade about her threatening me but none of the detail. There’s no way he could know about the offer unless she’d told him. But what would she hope to achieve by doing that?

“How much did they give you? At least tell me they gave you a whack.”

I freeze in place, kicking myself for not telling him exactly what his mom told me at the homeless shelter. “Nothing,” I spit out, but I don’t miss the conflict swirling in his eyes. “I don’t want a dime of their money, or
yours,
for that matter.”

I stalk my way over to the kitchen counter, reaching up into the drinks cabinet and pulling down a bottle of scotch and a tumbler.

Pouring half a glass, I screw the top back on the bottle, wrap my fingers around the glass and knock it back, wincing at the fireball travelling down my throat into my stomach.

“Jesus!” I wheeze, staring at the floor and breathing my way through it. “That shit doesn’t fuck around.”

“Abi,” Cade says, his voice firm and commanding. It’s a tone that demands attention if not anything else.

I meet his eyes, my chest seizing at the conflicted expression on his face. I want to fix it; I want to erase that wary look in his eyes. I should just lay it all out and fight for my corner.

“For this to work—for any relationship to work—we have to have honesty, and I’ve gotta know that you won’t keep things from me. Doesn’t matter how hard it is, or how pissed off it’ll make me, I need to know you’ll tell me everything.”

I take a deep breath, my gaze locked to his, knowing he’s right. “I’d never take their money. It wouldn’t matter if I was living on the bones on my ass and didn’t know where my next meal was coming from.” I take a deep breath and look at him, making sure I have his full attention for what I’m going to say next. “I’d never take anything from them because doing that would mean giving up you.” And never has a truer thing ever come out of my mouth.

His shoulders slump as he breathes out a sigh. The need to touch him, to reassure him physically overwhelms me and I abandon the scotch, walking to his side.

“I’m wild—I’m crazy. I live life as it comes. And you . . . you’re perfect and your head is on straight and you’re . . . you’re”—I struggle to find a word to completely describe him other than—”perfect.”

“You said that already . . .” he says, not moving, watching me pace and stutter with verbal diarrhea before I stop with a jerk when clarity makes a long awaited appearance.

I turn my head to face him and voice my biggest fear. “And I’m scared that I’ll screw you up,” I whisper.

His eyes morph from careful to soft as he straightens and braces his hands behind his back. “Being without you screws me up.” He takes a step towards where I’m frozen in place. With the look in his eyes, the meaning of his words, there’s no chance in hell I could move even if I wanted to. “Being
with
you screws me up.” He gets closer, my heart stopping dead in my chest when his voice cracks and he doesn’t even try to hide it. “And loving you screws me up most of all, but in the best possible way.”

My mouth drops open and my breath catches. Any comeback I might’ve had vanishes just like that.

He brushes his fingers past my temple and into my hair, his eyes burning into me as his lips drop to rest against mine. “Love is meant to twist you up, spin you around, and tilt your whole world.
Real
love makes it worth the ride—the ups, the downs, the screw-ups, the make-ups . . .
especially
the make-ups.”

My breath catches and I gulp in air. He doesn’t stop though.

“You know me,” he says low and deep, invading my space. “You
know
that I’m nothing like my parents—my father—I’m my own man and I’m proud of every damn thing I’ve done and achieved because I did them
for me.
I never—and get this, Abi—
never
wanted you to change because to me, you’re perfect just the way you are and you always have been.” He dips his head so that we’re as close as we can be without touching. “The woman I met a year ago was one of the most self-assured women I’ve ever known. She knew herself, she did whatever the fuck she liked, and she apologized to no one for it. If you don’t see that anymore, I want the job of getting you back to that place.”