“I’m serious, Madison. Any other time, any other place, I’d be all in.” I take a calming breath before adding, “It’s not that I don’t want you. Believe me, I do. I just need to sort some shit out before—”

She takes my hand in hers, putting a pause on my rambling masterpiece. “It’s fine, Ky. I understand.”

I sigh again, louder, harsher. Her sad eyes stay on mine.

Placing my hand behind her head, I bring her in and kiss her forehead. “Just...”

“What?” she asks, searching my face for answers.

She won’t find them.

They don’t exist.

It comes out a plea when I say, “Just...wait. Okay?” Please, I think, just wait until this bullshit with Jackson is over and I can give her what I really want.

She smiles—a genuine one that reaches her eyes.

We spend the rest of the movie in silence. Or at least it seems that way. But in my head, my thoughts scream at me, wanting to be heard.

Why the hell was DeLuca at my building?

I hold a hand to my chest, trying to ease the ache that had suddenly built.

“Are you okay?” Madison asks, her big brown eyes peering up at me.

I swallow and wipe the sweat that’d formed behind my neck. “I’m good.”

“You’re breathing erratically, and your heart’s pounding. I can feel it against my cheek.”

Squeezing my eyes, I try to calm my breathing—try to settle my pulse.

“Maybe you should get some air,” she says.

I don’t respond, but I don’t have to—she’s already on her feet, taking my hand to help me up.

I’m a victim of my own past. A past I’ve spent too many years trying to escape. And now it’s back...and the fucker’s a ticking time bomb waiting to explode in my face.

Once we’re out of the building and into the cold, I hold both her hands in mine to warm them. “I’m not crazy,” I tell her.

“I didn’t think you were.”

She shivers slightly and I bring her into me, hugging her close.

“Was it the movie?” she asks.

“What?” I hadn’t even been paying attention.

“The dad who died. The Marine. Did it set off something for you?” she says, reaching up and fingering my tags.

“Yeah,” I lie, because it’s so much easier than telling her the truth.

Her arms wrap around me and she hugs me back. “So what now?”

“Did you want to go home?”

She shakes her head. “What else did you have in mind?”

“I could do with a drink.”

“Lead the way.”

7

KY

I TAKE HER to a bar a block away from our building. We both get carded at the door. I show them my ID. She looks through her purse for a good five minutes before pouting up at the bouncer. He just smiles, gives her a quick once over, and lets her through. I get it—I’m not immune to that pout, either.

For a Wednesday night, the place is packed. There’s only one seat free at the bar, so I let her take it and stand next to her. “What do you want to drink?”

She shrugs at first, then seems to look around at what other people are drinking. The bartender appears quickly and asks for our orders. I eye Madison. She panics and starts to stutter.

“Do you need more time?” I ask her.

“Um—no. I’ll...” she trails off.

“I don’t have all day,” the bartender yells over the noise of the bar.

“Dude,” I yell back.

“Whiskey,” Madison rushes out.

I turn to her and raise my eyebrows. She does not look like the whiskey type.

“Single?” the dude asks.

“Double.”

“Ice?”

She shakes her head, then looks at me for what seems like approval.

I shrug.

“Neat,” she answers.

“And you?” the bartender asks.

“I’ll have the same,” I say, my eyes fixed on Madison. “You drink whiskey?”

She grimaces and nods slowly. “Is that bad?”

“No. It’s badass. I hadn’t pictured you the type.”

Our drinks are placed in front of us and after throwing some cash on the counter, I pick up the glasses and hand her one. She looks at the liquid, as if unsure. Then she closes her eyes and lifts the glass to her lips. She downs half of it before a small smile graces her face. She licks her top lip, slowly, from one side to the other. Then she does the same to the bottom one. I watch—captivated by her closed eyes, her lips, and her tongue—all while she makes a goddamn porno of drinking whiskey.

Then she does the worst possible thing my heart can handle.

She does it again.

And again.

When she’s done, she opens her eyes and catches me staring. “You don’t like whiskey?” she says, motioning her head at the untouched drink in my hand.

I swallow, and then lift the glass and swallow the entire thing. The alcohol both burns and warms my insides. “Another one?” I ask.

I hope she says yes because I’d give just about anything to watch her performance again.

She nods.

I call the bartender and order another two.

And then we repeat the process.

She closes her eyes.

Makes love with her lips.

And all I can do is watch.

After another three rounds, my imagination can no longer handle the confines of my mind. Neither can my dick.