But he just sighed before he asked, “How slight is this problem with his alcohol intake?”
“He’s pretty much always wasted, not going to work. I had lunch with them this week, showed at noon, he was home and he was shitfaced.”
“Fuck,” he muttered.
“Yeah,” I agreed and looked forward.
“What are you gonna say?” he asked.
“I have no idea.”
“How about, ‘You getting slaughtered isn’t helping you or anybody, especially your wife. Sober up. Get to an AA meeting. Get your ass to work. And look after your woman.’”
I again turned to him. “As succinct and to the point as that is, honey, I’m not sure that’s the way to go.”
“Babe, this is what you got, so prepare for it because it’s all you got. Two things could happen with this, only two. One, no matter what you say or how you say it, he’ll listen, get his head out of his ass, straighten up his act and find a path to carrying on with his life even though he’s got a wound that will never heal. Or two, he’s gonna get pissed as shit, take that out on you, or his wife, cut you out, and maybe do that to his wife since it won’t be hard for him to figure out she put you up to this, even if he’s trashed, and you’re gonna lose him or them.”
Fear gripped my heart.
I actually felt it gripping my heart.
“Rush,” I whispered.
His hold on me tightened. “It’s gonna be either of those, sweetheart, and what you got to take from that is they’re his choice. You did what you did out of love and concern, and if he doesn’t get that, it’s on him. Not you. If he doesn’t get it’s hard for you to watch what he’s doing to himself and even harder for you to confront him about it, fuck him. I get the need to numb the pain with booze. But if he hasn’t realized by now it’s not gonna work, and you try to point that out and he throws it in your face, that’s him. All him. Not you.”
“I’m worried, Rush.”
Another hand squeeze. “I know you are, baby.”
“They say addiction is hereditary and we both know what became of Diane.”
“I’m no doctor but I see why that would tweak you even more than you’re already tweaked, but that also has dick to do with you. You gotta let others take responsibility for their actions and decisions or you’ll get buried under them and they’re not even yours.”
“You’re right,” I muttered.
“I know.” He did not mutter.
“And that sucks,” I said.
“I bet.” That, he muttered.
I examined his profile. “Are you pissed I took this on?”
“Rebel, I get pissed you do this shit, I might as well get pissed your eyes are blue.”
I stared at his profile.
“It’s you. I could try to change it, but I don’t know why I would. I would not be lookin’ forward to fucking you senseless after we get home from the store if this wasn’t a part of you.”
I continued to stare at his profile (but I did it squirming a little).
“Strike that, I probably would. You got a great ass, great legs, great hair, a beautiful mouth and you’re a great lay. But I heard what you were up to, baby. I read in the file why,” he said quietly. “And I was way interested before you got in my face about how I hijacked you and definitely way before I got your nails curled into my ass.”
Wow.
“Do not take that as encouragement to keep jacking your shit up in everyone else’s,” he finished on an order.
“I’ll try to stop jacking up my shit in everyone else’s,” I said softly.
“You’re totally gonna fail at that,” he murmured.
I probably was.
“Who I’m pissed at is Amy,” he declared.
Now that surprised me.
“Why?”
“Landing that shit on you?”
“She lost her daughter, Rush,” I reminded him carefully.
“I know. She’s still a grown-ass woman. You got sensitivity to her because she lost her daughter. She has no sensitivity to you that you lost a friend. There’s take and no give, that shit ain’t right.”
“I think maybe in this scenario I need to have more sensitivity than she does,” I told him.
“I think you bein’ you, that’s the way you see it. What you gotta get is, it’s not my job to look after Amy and not just because I haven’t met the woman yet. Because it’s my job to look after you. And someone lays the heavy on you, it makes that hard to do.”
And he just couldn’t help being all . . .
Rush.
I strained the limits of the seat belt to lean his way and kiss his jaw.
He kept his hand tight in mine when I sat back, and he changed the subject again.
“What are you making me for dinner?”
“If I’m gonna be fucked senseless, all I’ll have in me is dialing in our Chinese delivery order.”
“Works for me.”
Just that easy.
I’d had a lot of hard. Not struggle, just hard.
My parents didn’t get me. They’d never understood me. A creative soul was like the workings of the mind of Stephen Hawking to them. And it went without saying, what they didn’t understand, they abhorred, and they didn’t mind acting on that.
And I had to watch Diesel bear the burden of knowing they totally would not get him.
Not to mention, generally, I grew up among the strains of small-minded hate couched vaguely in religion and patriotic loyalty.
I left home, struggled with money and paying dues and kissing ass until I made enough of a name for myself, I could strike out on my own.
Then my friend was murdered, and I allowed myself to get pulled under.
“What are you thinking?” Rush asked.
“That I like that you get me.”
He said nothing.
Just held my hand.
“Molly is gonna love you,” I shared.
“Good,” he murmured.
“Though Molly loves almost everybody,” I added.
“I see why you two get along so good.”
Nice.
“D and Mad are totally gonna put you through the wringer,” I told him. “You’ll have to prove your salt.”
“Nothin’s worth it, you don’t have to earn it somehow.”
Oh, he was earning it all right.
I pulled his hand to my thigh.
He released my fingers to curl his on my leg, claiming my flesh.
I just rested my hand on top of his.
Because that felt good.
“Go.”
God.
“Go.”
God.
“Go, baby,” Rush growled in my ear.
Fingers wrapped around the top of his low headboard, the fingers of my other hand curled around the back of his neck, on my knees, ass tilted, taking Rush’s cock, with one of his hands between my legs, finger circling my clit, the other at my breast, rolling my nipple. My head fell back to his shoulder and I went.
A couple of seconds later, I heard and felt Rush go too.
Yeah, he was the coolest guy I’d ever met.
And he was really good in bed.
“Eugenie?”
“Cole?”
“Eugenie?”
“Cole?”
“Cole’s a kickass name, Rebel. But Eugenie?”
“I didn’t give myself that middle name, Rush. And we’ve already established my parents are losers.”
He grinned at me.
Meryl had been briefed. I was sending her my notes tomorrow morning.
There were Chinese delivery cartons all over the floor.
And beer bottles.
But we were naked, tangled up together on our sides, facing each other in bed.
“No one calls you Cole?” I asked.
“Mom used to, when she was pissed at me. Dad sometimes. Tab on occasion,” he answered. “But mostly no.”
I pressed deeper into him, so his arms got tighter around me.
“That’s kind of a waste. Cole is a kickass name, honey.”
He grinned in my face. “I know.”
“Is your dad’s real name Tack?”
He shook his head on the pillow. “Nope. Kane.”