Rumer

Rumer

Bain turns his back on me.

Just like that.

After kissing me like he wanted to consume every fucking piece of me, he walks toward the elevator as if leaving is the easiest thing he’s ever done.

I remain pressed against my apartment door, trying to remember how breathing works.

My lips tingle.

My knees are embarrassingly weak.

My heart is beating so violently I can feel it in my throat, and every inch of my body is still screaming for the man currently standing fifteen feet away pretending he didn’t just completely unravel me.

He presses the down button.

Doesn’t look back.

Not once.

Come on.

Look at me.

I hate myself for thinking it.

Hate myself even more for wanting it.

Just turn around.

Give me something.

Anything.

Some indication that I’m not the only one standing here wondering what the hell just happened between us.

Because I was there too.

I felt it.

The second his control snapped.

The way his hand tightened around my waist.

The way he kissed me like restraint physically hurt him.

The way something changed when I kissed him back.

That wasn’t one-sided.

There’s no fucking way.

And yet he stands there with his back toward me, shoulders rigid, hands clenched at his sides.

Waiting.

Running.

The elevator dings.

My stupid heart jumps because I think maybe now he’ll turn around.

He doesn’t.

The doors slide open.

Bain steps inside.

Still nothing.

Not even a glance.

Then the doors close.

He’s gone.

“Fuck you too,” I whisper.

Except there’s no conviction behind it.

Because I don’t want to fuck off.

I want—

No.

Absolutely not.

I shove away from the door.

This is exactly why I don’t do complicated.

Sex is easy.

Sex has rules.

You meet someone.

You want them.

They want you.

You scratch an itch, get what you need, and move the hell on with your life.

Whatever just happened with Bain?

There were no rules.

One second he was furious because another man had touched me, the next he was kissing me like I belonged against him, and then suddenly he looked at me like kissing me had ripped open something inside him he’d spent years stitching shut.

Sara.

His wife.

His dead wife.

Even thinking the words makes some of my anger disappear.

I loved her.

I still love her.

I understand why he stopped.

At least my brain understands.

The rest of me?

Not nearly as reasonable.

Because knowing about Sara doesn’t magically erase the way Bain made me feel.

It doesn’t erase the fact that I wanted him before he kissed me.

It definitely doesn’t erase the fact that now I know what his mouth tastes like.

What his hands feel like.

What that controlled, impossibly infuriating man sounds like when he finally loses some of that control.

“Fuck.”

I unlock my door.

Apparently I’m going to be left with this massive need all night.

Fantastic.

There’s no way I’m sleeping like this.

Not with Bain still burning through my bloodstream.

I step inside, slam the door harder than necessary, and toss my keys onto the kitchen counter.

They skid across the cheap surface and nearly fall off the other side.

“Men are stupid,” I announce to my empty apartment.

Silence.

“Glad we agree.”

I kick off my flats.

One lands beside the wall.

The other disappears beneath the tiny kitchen table.

I don’t care.

I stomp toward my bedroom.

If Bain Alexander wants to spend the rest of the night pretending that kiss didn’t affect him, fine.

Good for him.

He can go home and meditate.

Punch something.

Run twenty miles.

Whatever emotionally constipated professional fighters do when they’re trying to convince themselves they don’t want a woman.

I have another solution.

Charlie.

More specifically, Charlie’s ridiculous housewarming gift.

I stop.

Oh my God.

I actually still have it.

When she handed me the package two days after I moved in, I thought she’d lost her damn mind.

She’d called it an essential item for every independent woman.

I’d called her a pervert.

Then I shoved the thing into my closet with the boxes I hadn’t unpacked.

I couldn’t throw it away.

It was a gift.

The first gift anyone had given me in a long time without expecting something in return.

Even if that gift happened to be completely fucking inappropriate.

At the time, I figured it would collect dust until I eventually forgot I owned it.

Apparently eventually is tonight.

I strip off my black dress and toss it over the back of the chair.

My underwear follows.

Then I start digging.

“Come on.”

Box.

Bag.

Another box.

Old sweatshirt.

Shoes.

“Where the hell—”

My hand closes around cardboard.

“There you are.”

I pull out the package.

Then stare at it.

This is ridiculous.

I could simply go to sleep.

I glance down at myself.

My body practically laughs at the suggestion.

Right.

Sleep.

Sure.

I sit on the edge of my makeshift bed and tear open the package.

I’ve never really done this.

Not like this.

I’m not inexperienced with sex. I know what I like and what I don’t. I know that sometimes a man needs a little assistance finding the correct destination, and I’ve never been shy about helping things along when necessary.

But alone?

Never had much reason.

Sex, for me, has always served a specific purpose.

Tension.

Release.

Done.

No candlelight.

No cuddling.

No staring into each other’s eyes while discussing childhood dreams.

Definitely no breakfast the next morning.

The arrangement has always worked perfectly.

Until tonight.

Because tonight I don’t want some random man.

I already tried that.

That was the entire reason I went to the bar.

I wanted to prove Bain was just attraction.

Instead, Bain showed up, carried me out over his shoulder like some deranged caveman, argued with me all the way home, admitted he was attracted to me, kissed the living hell out of me—

And then left.

The asshole.

I pull the toy from the package and stare at it.

“Seriously, Charlie?”

There are instructions.

Of course there are instructions.

Three settings.

A button at the base.

Batteries included.

I press it.

The thing buzzes to life in my hand.

I nearly drop it.

“What the fuck?”

I press it again.

Stronger.

My eyebrows shoot up.

Again.

Even stronger.

“Jesus Christ, Charlie.”

What kind of sex dungeon is that woman secretly operating across the hall?

I switch it off.

A laugh escapes me.

A real one.

For the first time since Bain walked away, some of the knot in my chest loosens.

Maybe this is exactly what I need.

Something ridiculous.

Something uncomplicated.

Something that cannot possibly look at me like Bain did after kissing me.

I toss the torn packaging toward the floor.

Something small slips out and skids underneath the bed.

“Of course.”

I leave the toy on the mattress and drop to my hands and knees.

My fingers sweep beneath the bed.

Nothing.

I lower myself farther.

“Come on, you little—”

My bedroom door opens.

I freeze.

Every instinct inside me detonates.

My heart slams against my ribs.

I spin around so quickly I nearly crack my head against the bed frame.

Then I hear him.

“You’re going to kill me, Rumer.”

Bain.

My entire body goes still.

“I just fucking know it.”

I slowly turn my head.

He’s standing in my bedroom doorway.

For half a second, embarrassment doesn’t even register.

I’m too confused.

Too relieved.

Too—

Something is wrong.

Very wrong.

Bain doesn’t look like the man who left me in the hallway.

That Bain had been controlled.

Closed off.

Guilty.

This Bain looks like he’s barely holding himself together.

His face is pale beneath his tan.

His jaw is locked so tightly a muscle jumps beside it.

One hand is wrapped around his phone.

The other is clenched into a fist.

And his eyes—

His eyes scare me.

Not because he’s angry.

I’ve seen Bain angry.

This isn’t anger.

It’s fear.

Pure, unfiltered fear.

“Bain?”

His gaze finds mine.

Then drops.

I’m naked.

Well.

Mostly naked.

On my hands and knees beside my bed.

Fantastic.

His eyes close.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Oh.

Right.

That.

My embarrassment arrives approximately five seconds late.

I scramble upward, grabbing the blanket and yanking it around myself.

“What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

“You didn’t lock the door.”

“Yes, I—”

I stop.

Did I?

I remember slamming it.

I don’t remember turning the lock.

Shit.

Bain looks toward the front of the apartment.

“You need to lock your fucking door.”

“Don’t start.”

“Rumer—”

“I said don’t start. You don’t get to storm back into my apartment after leaving me standing in the hallway and immediately lecture me.”

His gaze returns to mine.

Then something on the bed catches his attention.

Oh no.

The toy.

His eyes settle on it.

Silence.

Long, horrible silence.

I consider throwing myself out the window.

Bain slowly looks at me.

Then back at the bed.

Then at me again.

His expression changes.

Only slightly.

But I see it.

The fear doesn’t disappear.

Neither does whatever else is haunting him.

But underneath it?

Heat.

Immediate.

Intense.

Unmistakable.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

My embarrassment evaporates.

Maybe it’s the tone.

Maybe it’s the fact that he kissed me senseless and walked away.

Maybe I’m simply tired of Bain deciding when this thing between us exists and when it doesn’t.

I tighten the blanket around myself.

“What?”

His eyes narrow.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“That’s what you were doing?”

“None of your business.”

His nostrils flare.

Interesting.

“You left,” I remind him.

“I know.”

“You made it pretty clear nothing else was happening.”

“I know.”

“So I found an alternative.”

His gaze flicks toward the bed again.

His jaw tightens.

Is he—

No.

He cannot possibly be jealous of an inanimate object.

Then I remember the water bottle.

Oh my God.

I almost smile.

“Don’t,” he warns.

“Don’t what?”

“Whatever you’re about to fucking say.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Your face says otherwise.”

“Maybe I’m wondering whether you’re jealous.”

“Of what?”

I glance toward the bed.

His stare follows mine.

When he looks back at me, his expression could cut steel.

I bite the inside of my cheek.

“You are.”

“Rumer.”

“You’re jealous of a sex toy.”

“I am having a really fucking bad night.”

The amusement dies immediately.

There it is again.

That fear.

I straighten.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s handled.”

“That doesn’t answer me.”

“I didn’t come back to talk about it.”

“Then why did you come back?”

He opens his mouth.

Stops.

For the first time since meeting Bain, he seems genuinely lost for words.

I clutch the blanket tighter.

“Bain?”

“I got downstairs.”

His voice is quieter.

“I got outside.”

He stares at me.

“I made it all the way to my fucking car.”

My heartbeat begins climbing again.

“And?”

“I couldn’t leave.”

Oh.

Four words.

Four simple words.

They hit harder than the kiss.

I swallow.

“Why?”

His eyes move over my face.

“Because I kissed you.”

“That generally isn’t considered an emergency.”

“Don’t.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

He steps into the bedroom.

One step.

My entire body notices.

“I kissed you and then walked away like that somehow fixed the problem.”

“What problem?”

His stare burns into mine.

“You.”

I should be offended.

Instead, heat unfurls low in my stomach.

“I’m a problem?”

“A massive fucking one.”

“Charming.”

“You’ve been a problem since the second you walked into that gym.”

He moves closer.

“I think about you when I shouldn’t.”

Another step.

“I watch you when I shouldn’t.”

Another.

“I give a shit about things that are none of my fucking business.”

Closer.

“I nearly broke some asshole’s hand tonight because he touched you.”

My breath catches.

“And then I kissed you.”

His gaze drops to my mouth.

“And for the first time in years, I forgot.”

Everything changes.

The heat remains.

But something deeper slides beneath it.

“Forgot what?”

He looks away.

“Sara.”

There she is.

The invisible woman standing between us.

Except suddenly I don’t resent her.

How could I?

She died.

She loved this man.

He loved her.

Maybe still does.

Probably always will.

“What do you mean you forgot her?”

His face tightens.

“Not her.”

He shakes his head.

“The pain.”

Oh.

My heart cracks.

“For a few seconds, when I was kissing you, I wasn’t the man whose wife died.”

His voice gets rougher.

“I wasn’t Samantha’s father trying to figure out how to raise a little girl without her mother. I wasn’t the guy everyone watched for months because they were afraid I’d fall apart if they left me alone.”

His eyes find mine.

“I was just a man kissing a woman he wanted.”

I can’t speak.

“And it felt fucking good.”

Something wet burns behind my eyes.

Bain laughs once.

There’s no humor in it.

“That’s the fucked-up part.”

“No, it isn’t.”

His eyes sharpen.

“You don’t understand.”

“Then make me.”

“I enjoyed forgetting.”

His voice breaks.

Barely.

But I hear it.

“I enjoyed one goddamn minute where missing Sara wasn’t the loudest thing in my head.”

He looks disgusted with himself.

“And afterward I felt like I’d betrayed her.”

“Bain.”

“I know she’s gone.”

He presses his fist against his chest.

“I’m not fucking delusional. I know she’s not coming back. But knowing that and figuring out how to live with it are two different things.”

My anger disappears completely.

This man isn’t rejecting me.

He’s terrified of what wanting me means.

And somehow that hurts worse.

I step toward him.

The blanket nearly slips.

His eyes drop automatically before snapping back to my face.

Even now.

Even shattered, he wants me.

“Wanting me doesn’t mean you stopped loving her.”

His jaw clenches.

“You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.”

“How?”

“Because you’re standing here looking like wanting me is tearing you in half.”

Silence.

“You don’t feel guilty over something you stopped caring about.”

His eyes close.

I take another step.

“I’m not asking to replace her.”

His eyes open immediately.

“I couldn’t.”

“I know.”

The answer comes easily.

Honestly.

His expression changes.

I continue before he can misunderstand.

“I don’t want to be Sara.”

“Rumer—”

“I never met her. I don’t know what kind of wife she was or mother she was or what the two of you had. And I’m not going to compete with a woman who isn’t here to defend the life she built with you.”

His face tightens with emotion.

“But I’m also not going to pretend that whatever is happening between us isn’t happening just because it scares you.”

“It should scare you too.”

“It does.”

That surprises him.

“Why?”

Because men who want my body don’t frighten me.

Men who can hurt my heart do.

I don’t say it.

Not yet.

Instead I shrug.

“Because you’re fucking complicated.”

A faint smile touches his mouth.

There.

Just for a second.

Then it’s gone.

“So are you.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“I’d like to.”

My heart stumbles.

That’s more intimate than anything he could’ve said about my naked body.

I look away.

Dangerous.

This man is so fucking dangerous.

Not because he could hurt me physically.

Because he makes me want to tell him things.

Things I don’t tell people.

Things I’ve spent years turning into jokes and sarcasm and walls.

“Why did you really come back?” I ask.

His face changes again.

Abruptly.

The fear returns.

I notice the phone still gripped in his hand.

“Bain?”

He looks down at it.

“Something happened after I left you.”

My stomach knots.

“What?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he looks toward the hallway as though suddenly remembering we’re standing in an unlocked apartment.

Then he walks out of my bedroom.

“Bain?”

I follow, clutching the blanket around myself.

He checks my front door.

Locks it.

Deadbolt.

Then tests it.

“What are you doing?”

“Do your windows lock?”

I stare at him.

“What?”

“Your windows.”

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“Show me.”

My irritation returns.

“I’m standing here naked in a blanket and you’re conducting a fucking security inspection?”

“Rumer.”

Something in his voice shuts me up.

“Show me.”

I point.

“Living room. Bedroom. Both lock.”

He checks anyway.

“What happened?”

Nothing.

“Bain.”

He pulls the curtain aside and looks down at the street.

“Tell me.”

His shoulders rise with a deep breath.

Then his phone vibrates.

He looks at the screen.

Every bit of color drains from his face.

“Who is it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Bain?”

His thumb moves over the screen.

I step closer.

“Is Samantha okay?”

That gets his attention.

His head jerks toward me.

The terror in his eyes gives me my answer before his mouth does.

“I don’t know.”

My stomach drops.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“She was with Jade.”

“Was?”

His jaw locks.

“Is. She is with Jade.”

But he doesn’t sound convinced.

I forget that I’m naked.

Forget the ridiculous toy sitting on my bed.

Forget the kiss.

Forget everything.

“Call her.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“No answer.”

“How many times?”

“Six.”

Fuck.

“Maybe she’s asleep.”

“She knows tonight.”

“Tonight?”

His eyes meet mine.

“The anniversary.”

Sara.

Of course.

“Jade wouldn’t ignore my calls tonight.”

The pain in his voice guts me.

“Okay.”

I move toward my bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“To put clothes on.”

“Why?”

“Because we’re going to Samantha.”

His expression changes.

“No.”

I stop.

“What?”

“You’re staying here.”

“Fuck that.”

“Rumer.”

“You came storming back into my apartment looking like someone ripped your heart out, you won’t tell me what’s happening, your daughter may be in trouble, and now you think I’m going to crawl into bed?”

“This has nothing to do with you.”

The words hurt.

I hide it.

“Fine.”

I shrug.

“Then you can tell me that again while I’m getting dressed.”

“Goddammit.”

I start toward the bedroom.

His hand closes gently around my arm.

I stop.

He immediately loosens his grip.

Doesn’t force me.

Doesn’t pull.

Just touches.

Exactly like earlier.

The difference matters.

“There’s something else,” he says.

I look at him.

“What?”

His eyes move toward the door.

“When I got downstairs, Lawson called.”

I wait.

“Someone came to the gym asking questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

“About me.”

“That doesn’t sound unusual. You’re famous.”

“About Sara.”

Oh.

“And Samantha.”

My blood cools.

“What about Samantha?”

He doesn’t answer quickly enough.

“Bain.”

“They knew about her scar.”

“What scar?”

“From the accident.”

I stare at him.

“The surgery she had that night.”

“How would a stranger know about that?”

“Exactly.”

The room suddenly feels different.

Smaller.

Less safe.

“What did Lawson say?”

“The guy left something.”

“What?”

“A photograph.”

Bain’s voice turns hollow.

“From the accident.”

I watch something fracture behind his eyes.

“There was writing on the back.”

My skin prickles.

“What did it say?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Bain.”

His eyes meet mine.

“Ask Bain why they never told him Sara wasn’t alone.”

I forget how to breathe.

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t fucking know.”

“Was someone else in the car?”

“I don’t know.”

“You never knew?”

“No.”

He starts pacing.

“I was told Sara was driving. Samantha was strapped into the back. Some asshole ran the light and hit them. That’s it. That’s what I’ve known for years.”

His breathing gets harder.

“What if someone else was there?”

“Then there could be a reasonable explanation.”

“Then why hide it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Exactly.”

His phone vibrates again.

We both look down.

Unknown number.

Bain goes perfectly still.

“Don’t answer it,” I whisper.

He already is.

He lifts the phone.

“Who the fuck is this?”

Silence.

I can hear faint static.

“Where is my daughter?”

My stomach turns.

“Answer me!”

A voice says something.

Too low for me to understand.

Bain’s entire body changes.

His face empties.

Not anger.

Shock.

Recognition.

“Who is it?” I whisper.

His eyes meet mine.

Then the person speaks again.

This time the apartment is quiet enough that I catch part of it.

“…remember me…”

Bain staggers backward.

Actually staggers.

I grab his arm.

“Bain?”

The call ends.

He stares at the screen.

“Who was it?”

Nothing.

“Bain, who was that?”

His breathing becomes ragged.

“I know him.”

“Who?”

He looks at me.

I’ve never seen terror like that on another person’s face.

Not even my own.

“I know that fucking voice.”

My heart pounds.

“From where?”

His phone vibrates again.

Not a call.

A text.

Bain looks down.

So do I.

There’s a photograph attached.

A little girl asleep in bed.

Samantha.

My blood turns to ice.

“Bain—”

He makes a sound I’ve never heard come from another human being.

Something between rage and terror.

Then I notice the room behind Samantha.

The curtains.

The lamp.

A stuffed animal beside her pillow.

The photograph wasn’t taken years ago.

It was taken tonight.

Bain is already moving.

I grab his arm.

“Wait.”

“Get the fuck off me.”

“No.”

“My daughter—”

“I know! But whoever sent that wants you terrified and running in blind.”

His chest heaves.

“I don’t give a fuck what they want.”

“You will if running in gets Samantha hurt.”

That stops him.

Barely.

I point at the phone.

“Call the police.”

“No.”

“What?”

“No police.”

“Bain, someone is inside the house with your daughter.”

His eyes move back to the photograph.

Then his expression changes.

“What?”

He zooms in.

I watch his face.

“What do you see?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Bain?”

His fingers spread across the screen.

He zooms farther.

And then I see it.

In the darkened mirror behind Samantha’s bed, there’s a reflection.

Part of a man’s body.

Just an arm.

A shoulder.

And something around his wrist.

A watch.

Bain stops breathing.

“What?” I ask.

His hand begins shaking.

“What is it?”

“That watch.”

My stomach twists.

“You recognize it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Bain.”

He looks at me.

And suddenly the fear in his face isn’t for Samantha anymore.

It’s disbelief.

“No.”

“What?”

He shakes his head.

“No fucking way.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve seen that watch.”

“Where?”

He looks down at the photograph again.

Then at me.

His voice is barely audible.

“The night Sara died.”

Cold crawls over every inch of my skin.

“What?”

“At the hospital.”

My heart stops.

“Who was wearing it?”

Bain’s eyes lift to mine.

Before he can answer, someone pounds on my apartment door.

Three hard knocks.

Bain immediately moves in front of me.

“Bedroom,” he orders.

“Like hell.”

“Rumer.”

Another knock.

Then silence.

Bain reaches for the door.

I grab the back of his shirt.

“Don’t.”

He looks at me.

For one second, neither of us moves.

Then something slides underneath my door.

A photograph.

Bain and I both stare at it.

“Don’t touch it,” he says.

Too late.

I crouch and pick it up.

“Rumer—”

The picture is old.

Faded around the edges.

A hospital waiting room.

Lawson is in the background.

A younger Bain is sitting in a chair with his head buried in his hands.

And standing at the far edge of the photograph is another man.

I turn it over.

Four words are written across the back.

ASK LAWSON WHO WAS DRIVING.

My stomach drops.

“Bain.”

He takes the photograph from me.

Reads it.

His entire face changes.

“No.”

“What?”

“No.”

He looks toward the door.

Then back at the photograph.

“Lawson told me Sara was driving.”

Another text arrives.

Bain’s phone.

Unknown number.

This time there are no words.

Only a photograph.

A hospital security image.

A timestamp from the night of Sara’s accident.

And in it, Lawson is standing beside a man I don’t recognize.

They’re arguing.

Lawson has blood on his shirt.

But that’s not what makes Bain go completely still.

It’s the object in the other man’s hand.

Sara’s purse.

Bain whispers one word.

“Griffin.”

I look at him.

“Who’s Griffin?”

He doesn’t answer.

Another message appears.

ASK YOUR BEST FRIEND WHY YOUR BROTHER LEFT PHILADELPHIA.

Brother?

My eyes fly to Bain.

His face has gone white.

“Bain?”

Nothing.

Then the final message comes through.

And whatever is left of Bain’s composure disappears.

YOU’VE BEEN RAISING A LIE FOR YEARS.

Bain stares at the words.

I stare at Bain.

And suddenly I understand something terrifying.

Whoever is doing this isn’t trying to scare him.

They’re trying to destroy him.

One truth at a time.

Bain’s phone rings again.

Lawson.

He answers immediately.

“Tell me the truth.”

Silence.

I can hear Lawson’s muffled voice but can’t make out the words.

Bain’s face twists.

“Don’t fucking lie to me.”

More muffled words.

Then Bain closes his eyes.

His knees almost buckle.

I grab him.

“What?”

He looks at me.

For the first time since I’ve met him, Bain Alexander looks completely broken.

“Lawson says Samantha’s safe.”

Relief hits me so hard I nearly sag.

“Thank God.”

But Bain doesn’t look relieved.

Not even slightly.

“Then what’s wrong?”

His eyes fill.

“Because Lawson knows who sent the pictures.”

My stomach drops.

“Who?”

Bain looks toward the locked apartment door.

Then back at me.

And the words that leave his mouth change everything.

“The man who was in the car with Sara the night she died.”

I stare at him.

“I thought you didn’t know anyone else was there.”

“I didn’t.”

“Then how does Lawson know who he is?”

Bain doesn’t answer.

He doesn’t have to.

Because his expression tells me the truth before either of us says it.

Lawson knew.

All these years—

Lawson fucking knew.