She took it without reservation. Her skin was smooth but clammy. She shivered, her grip tightening in my hand each time her body gave an involuntary shudder.
We sat like that for a few minutes, neither of us really saying anything.
A knock came at the door. “You guys ready?” It was Nixon. He sounded anxious. It wasn’t as if he was the one getting married.
“Honest.” I licked my lips and gripped Mil’s hand harder. “I won’t let you down. I may be a lot of things, and I may be a terrible husband, since I’m still nursing a broken heart and all that, but I’ll be loyal. I’ll help you. I’ll protect you. That’s what family does. Broken heart or no broken heart.”
“I don’t need your heart,” Mil whispered. “Just your gun, maybe some of your millions, and your balls — preferably both of them.”
“Well, it may just be your lucky day!” I slapped my thighs with my hands and winked. “I’m in full possession of two.”
“Lucky me.” She laughed.
And suddenly, whatever humor had invaded my body left me to be replaced with absolute obsession at the way her laugh echoed across the bathroom. It was like hearing a symphony for the first time, all the moving parts of the instruments playing together yet separate to create such a haunting melody that a person was left speechless. Mil’s laugh reminded me of that. It was deep, throaty, and when she let go, her face erupted from a pinched look to a dazzling smile that had me staring at her damn mouth like I’d never seen one before. I swallowed the dryness in my throat and kept watching — hell, as long as she didn’t catch me staring, I’d stare all morning.
“Let’s go.” She stood and held her hand out to me. I took it, and tried not to look affected. It was probably all the whiskey I had snuck in before the ceremony. Sure, I had two balls, but really that was all I could offer.
The whole heart issue?
Well, let’s just say, my heart had broken into a million pieces a few weeks ago, and I was still trying to decide if it was worth finding them again. After all, some things are better left broken.
Chapter Four
Nixon
“You look pale.” I touched my girlfriend’s face and noticed that she had dark circles under her eyes. I knew that she hadn’t been sleeping for the past few weeks, ever since I’d miraculously come back to life. Things hadn’t been easy for her.
Losing Chase.
Gaining Mil.
Losing Phoenix.
Damn, but there had been a lot of loss, and now Chase and Mil getting married was just one more thing causing her stress. She’d never come out and said it — but when you’re in crazy, obsessive, I-will-die-for-you love, you know those things.
I noticed everything.
Like the way she tapped her foot when she was annoyed with me, or the soft moans that escaped her lips when I kissed her just below her neck, or the way she’d roll her eyes when she thought I wasn’t looking — or even just the way her breathing would change depending on her mood.
“It’s just weird.”
Thank God, at least she was talking.
“What is?” I played dumb. Hell, I knew exactly what was going on in that pretty little head of hers, damn it, and I didn’t like it. Freaking hated it.
Her eyes darted to her hands, and she shrugged and said, “Chase.”
Hearing his name on her lips still made me want to commit murder. I hated to admit how many times I’d imagined his face on the other side of my gun in the past few weeks. He still longed for her. I’d even told him to cut it out with the puppy dog eyes. I knew it wasn’t on purpose, but it was still irritating as hell. Up until Mil asked him for a favor, he’d been planning on leaving. Things were just easier without him being part of our weird triangle. And it wasn’t as if he was leaving the family, just moving to the other side of town so he didn’t have to see me and Trace go into the same bedroom at night, or eat breakfast across from us when her face was flush with pleasure.
If the positions had been switched, I probably would have run myself over with my car by now.
Either that or sailed to Europe and drowned my sorrows in enough wine to kill anyone who wasn’t Sicilian.
“What about him?” I kept my voice from sounding angry, though it came out as more of a hoarse whisper than anything. I fought like hell to keep my hand from squeezing the life out of hers — I was a great actor when it came to the job, but when it came to Trace? I struggled. I was weak. Her love made me both weak and strong.
“He’s getting married.” The way Tracey said married made my entire body tense, as if she was going to be that one psycho who stood up in the middle of the ceremony and yelled, “I object!”
“Right.” I nodded. I’d like to think I’d come a long way with the whole anger-management thing. At least now I could be decent and ask questions without pulling out my gun first. “Does that upset you?” Wow, I was borderline channeling a therapist with that deep-as-shit question. I inwardly groaned.
“Do you know anything?” Trace’s eyes pooled with tears. I lifted my hands in surrender.
“Trace, I—”
“I love you!” She all but shouted, causing people to look in our direction. I know I shouldn’t have laughed, but I couldn’t help it; her expression was so confused.
“I love you too,” I said slowly, my smile fading as her eyes laced with more sadness. “So what is this about?”
Her nostrils flared just a bit as she lifted up her left hand.
I narrowed my eyes.
She pointed at her hand.
I kept staring. Did she cut herself or something? Hell, did she know I was packing and was pissed that I had a gun a few feet away from the priest? Or had Chase’s nuptials caused her to lose her mind?
She pointed at her ring finger.
And then, I felt like an absolute idiot. “Oh!”
“Shh!” Tex nudged me then kicked me in the calf. We were all standing side by side waiting to go in to the ceremony, but Chase and Mil had yet to return.
“You mean you’re…” I couldn’t find the words. When had that ever happened? I was born to talk my way out of any and every situation. If the President of the United States needed me to sweet-talk a terrorist, I wouldn’t even blink, but now? Nothing. Game over.
“She’s not pregnant, you idiot.” Mo hissed from behind me. “What I think she’s trying to say, you know, without actually saying it—”