“Are you just that good? Or am I just that easy to read?”
Nash shrugs. “You seem like a martini girl.” He glances at me from the corner of his eye, his expression dark and steamy. “And, when you’re not kissing ass, I’d say you’re a dirty one.”
I brush off the first part of his comment and focus on the latter half. I feel my face flush. It spreads all the way down my chest, making me feel hot and damp. I resist the urge to fan.
I don’t know how to respond to his suggestive assessment, so I simply don’t. “You don’t seem like a beer guy. I would’ve thought something harder.”
The words are out before I realize my response is every bit as suggestive as his was.
Ohmigod!
“I can get a lot harder,” he says in his low, velvety voice. “But tonight, I think drinking a beer will cement their trashy impression of me.”
“So you want them to think you’re less than them?”
“No, they can think whatever the hell they want. I’m definitely not less than them, regardless of my hair or my drink. I ordered a beer because, not only do I happen to like it, I also get a kick out of knowing that it bugs the shit out of these judgmental ass**les having someone like me, someone with long hair and tattoos, walking around at their fancy party.”
I can see by the twist at the corner of his mouth that he’s pleased with himself and his rebellion. I wish I could be so blasé about what they think and how they judge. But right now, I can’t. I have to fight it every step of the way. Every baby step of the way.
Maybe one day I’ll get there. Maybe.
So many maybes lately, and I keep piling them on. The disequilibrium of it, the uncertainty of it suddenly feels like a suffocating hand over my mouth, much like the one that I felt just before I passed out and woke up in captivity a few days ago.
Panic sets in and a cold sweat pops out on my forehead. All I can think of is the need for air. And wide open spaces.
Freedom.
Frantic, I search for a way out. I spot the balcony doors directly across the room, behind Nash. The never-ending expanse of black night just beyond them looks like heaven.
“I think I need some air,” I say before I set off in that direction, not waiting for Nash’s response.
Thankfully, the balcony is empty when I step out onto it. I go straight to the railing and lean my hip against it. Reaching out, I lay one palm along the cool wrought iron, letting the refreshing temperature of the metal permeate the rest of my body like a soothing summer breeze.
I remind myself I’m safe, that I’m here in this moment, not back in the most terrifying one of my life.
I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.
“Are you okay?”
Nash’s voice is a barely discernible rumble in the moonlight.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Something happened. Tell me what it was.”
He’s about as sensitive and tactful as a bull in a china shop, stating the obvious and then demanding answers. But I know that’s just the way he is. I’m not sure he’s capable of more. Or ever will be. Nash is hard, rougher around the edges than probably anyone I know. And profoundly broken, I think.
But then again, so am I.
I turn around, putting the rail at my back, ready to give him some semblance of an answer, but the words die on my tongue. He’s standing in front of me, taking a sip of his beer, watching me with his raven eyes. Something about the scene—the balcony, the balmy air, the beer, Nash, me—seems so familiar. It’s almost like déjà vu.
A gush of warmth sweeps through me, stealing my breath. I have no idea where it came from or why, but I’m so aroused I feel hot all over. And moist.
“What is it?” he asks, his eyebrows knit together in a frown.
“I don’t know. Something about you and . . . and this balcony and you drinking beer . . . I don’t know. It’s just . . . I don’t know. Familiar almost. Weird,” I say casually, trying to blow if off, but feeling anything but nonchalant.
Don’t tear his clothes off! Don’t tear his clothes off!
My palm is sweaty beneath the bowl of my glass. The fingers of my other hand curl around the wrought iron at my back when he takes a step closer to me.
He stops only inches from me. He stares down into my face for a moment, thoughtfully, before he raises his beer bottle to my mouth and rolls it across my bottom lip. “Yeah. Weird.”
We stay like this for a couple of torturous minutes. All I can think about is how much I want him to kiss me, to touch me, to take me in his arms and drown out everything and everyone else.
But he doesn’t. Without a word, he steps back, turns slightly to the side, and takes another swig of his beer.
Almost like he didn’t feel a thing.
THIRTEEN
Nash
“So, why have you never asked questions about me and Cash? Why weren’t you surprised, or at least confused, when I drove you to your father’s house after the kidnapping? You can’t tell me you didn’t at least wonder who I was.” I stare out into the night, careful to keep my eyes off her.
I hope Marissa doesn’t think my abrupt change of subject is suspicious. I didn’t want her to keep thinking about the balcony. She’s getting too close. Too close to a memory I don’t want her to find. Too close to something I want to forget. But something I can’t forget.
I force it from my mind, determined not to think on it. I see now that it was a mistake to follow her out here.
I can’t help but be curious what she knows, though. If that’s why I catch her staring at me so often. What will she think of me if she ever puts two and two together?
“I’ll admit it was shocking to see you, but more shocking than confusing because I already knew what was going on.”
I turn my head slightly, just enough to see her. I arch my brow. “And you expect me to believe that? That you just figured it out?”
She frowns. “Oh. No. That’s not how it happened. I found out while I was being held captive. I overheard two men talking.”
“Ahhh,” I say. That makes much more sense. Marissa is astute enough to catch on, but I’m sure Cash limited the amount of time he let anyone who knew him see him as both Cash and Nash. He wouldn’t take a reckless risk like that. It would have been difficult for Marissa to realize the truth—especially when she had no reason to suspect he was playing both brothers. When I think of her answer, though, it still doesn’t make sense. No one should’ve known until after we had possession of Marissa. “Exactly what did they say?”