Hating Beauty (The Vegas Titans Series Book 6) Page 13

  This doesn’t come naturally. He has practiced this cavalier attitude of his. It is a way to protect his heart.

  I wonder, when he looks at me, is it as easy for him to see through my masks?

  Can he tell that my carefully organized protections and defenses have failed?

  “What do you think,” he yawns, interrupting my thoughts. “Wanna stop at that motel? It’s almost 3am, I don’t know if I can drive any more tonight, and we are pretty close. Might as well get a little sleep and head over in the morning when everybody’s awake.”

  “We are pretty close.” Keto might be close. I should want to go to her now; I should want to skip sleep and rush to the ending of my life’s work, the fulfillment of my mission.

  But once my mission is finished, my time with Knox might be finished too.

  “Alright, let’s stop,” I agree.

  He pulls the car off the highway and into the parking lot of a tiny roadside inn. I wait in the car while he checks in to a room, and then I follow him inside.

  When I see there are two beds, I actually laugh out loud. It strikes me as hilarious: we’ve had sex, spent hours handcuffed together, fled for our lives all day, and now he is the one person on earth who knows all of my intimate, carefully guarded secrets. But he doesn’t want to sleep in the same bed with me?

  “What is this for?” I ask, tapping one of the beds with my thigh. I give him my best come-hither look. “Are you trying to get away from me?”

  Knox chuckles. “Just wanted to make sure you were comfortable.”

  Without thinking, I turn and find myself launching into his arms. He catches me instinctively, like a reflex, his muscles closing around me like a pleasant imprisonment. I like his strength, his size. I like that he makes me feel contained. I like that I know he is strong enough to hurt me, and that he chooses tenderness instead.

  My body is pressed against him, and I feel his arms closing around my back loosely, as if he is afraid to hold me too tight. I didn’t mean to be so forward, so aggressive, but there’s no backing down now. My hips strain toward his, my arms twining around his neck like a vine.

  “Now I am comfortable,” I whisper. “Thank you very much for your concern.”

  I press my lips into his with a sigh, feeling an odd mixture of relief and rightness when his tense shoulders finally soften and he angles his head gently, kissing me back.

  “I could definitely use more of that myself,” he murmurs. “Very, very comfortable. Better than comfortable.”

  “There’s more where that came from,” I promise.

  “Thank god.”

  His hands spread across my back, pulling me in tighter, as he claims my lips again. He tastes delicious, as intoxicating as wine, and my head is already spinning with the pleasure of his touch. It feels so right, so bizarrely right, when he holds me.

  How can that be so? How can he feel so right when there is nothing sure, nothing normal about any of this?

  This is not the time to think. Not now, with his firm body pressing up against mine, with the hunger burning in every drop of my blood. I want him. I want him now. And as he kisses me, I know he wants me too.

  No, not want—need. I need him.

  It doesn’t have to make sense. There doesn’t have to be a reason. I just know that somewhere through the madness of this day, my feelings for him have journeyed from one place to an entirely different conclusion. It started with lust, but now the longing is deeper. Now I need him inside me, filling me up, making me stronger and more alive from the inside out.

  I want to make love.

  My fingers roll his t-shirt up and he lets me lift it off over his head, tossing it on the floor. He mirrors my action, lifting my dress until it slides off completely. Now our bare stomachs are pressed together and he is undoing my bra until I am free, my breasts crushed into his chest. His skin is warm, and I can feel his heart hammering through his ribcage.

  “Come here,” he groans.

  His strong hands lift me by my thighs, wrapping my legs around him, as he carries me over to the bed. I can feel that his arms are trembling with how much he wants me and it fills me with hope. It feels like it’s been forever, much too long since our last coupling, and it soothes my pride to know he too has been yearning for me. That his body is hungry.

  God, one kiss was enough to make my body already wet and aching for him.

  “Take me, Knox,” I beg. “Quickly. I can’t wait. I want you. I want you inside me. Now.”

  “Oh god, yes, baby, please. I need you.”

  This time, there is no banter. There is no silliness. I can feel that his need for me is as serious as mine for him.

  He works himself out of his jeans quickly, pulls my underwear off, grabs my hips and thrusts himself into me in one primal act of dominance. His dick is hard and long and feels like heaven. The impact is like a homecoming, like fireworks.

  “Yes,” I moan. “Oh god!”

  “Oh, baby.”

  “Oh, yes! Knox, yes. Again. More.”

  We are together again. It’s right, so very right, the way he fills me to overflowing, the way his weight presses me, the way his skin smells. His touch is tender and wild at the same time, his pulsing thrusts urgent as he rocks his hard cock deeper and deeper into my body.

  “Oh god!”

  Our lips cling and part, my nails dig into his back. He is crushing me and resurrecting me with each thrust.

  “Yes! Yes, Knox! Make me yours.”

  My body molds to him as he rocks his hips against me, taking possession.

  “God you’re perfect,” he moans. “You’re everything.”

  Faster. Harder. More.

  I know I can never have enough.

  His body, his cock, his love. I want it all. I moan and cling to him, sweat breaking out on my skin as he works my body relentlessly toward climax. We are gasping in tandem: straining, laughing, whispering, and burning. The memory of this will smolder in me forever: his hands on my breasts, his cock in my body, his tongue pleasuring and pillaging my mouth. He’s beautiful. He’s everything I want. And right now, he is mine.

  “I’m gonna cum, baby. I’m gonna cum.”

  His voice is strangled, wild, his rhythm stunning.

  And then we are trembling, shouting, and exploding together. Climaxing as one, the fire and heat bursting through my body, and making my heart thunder in my own ears.

  “Yes!”

  Knox’s whole body is shaking, his face is euphoric, his eyes drilling into mine with wonder and hunger and passion, something deep and primal under the surface. We stare at each other as we writhe in pleasure, hardly believing that such sensation exists. Hardly believing it’s real.

  “Oh, baby. Yeah girl.”

  Even once the first fire of orgasm fades and our trembling grows calmer, he doesn’t pull out. He holds me against him tightly, and kisses me until I can’t breathe. Then I bury my face in his neck, smiling, satisfied, as I run my fingers through his hair. I can feel him in every pore of my body, in every thought in my mind. And I know why.

  I have to tell him. I have to say it. I can’t hold it in any more.

  “You are like my guardian angel,” I whisper. “You came out of nowhere to help me when I needed you most, to touch me when I was loneliest, to be my partner: a dark angel, a dangerous angel, but my angel nonetheless. I love you, Knox. I know it’s crazy, but it’s true. I love you.”

  For a long moment he is still, and I wonder if he has fallen asleep. Perhaps that is better. Perhaps I shouldn’t have said it. Perhaps I am a fool.

  “Knox? Did you hear what I said?”

  But then he moves. His lips trace over the crown of my head to my mouth, his kiss filling me again, his hand covering and squeezing my breast, pinching my nipple with his fingers, sending another spiral of agonizing pleasure through my body. His touch is heavy, rougher this time, and I feel him slide his cock out as his touch changes to a fierce embrace, squeezing my body to him tenderly. He kisses my cheek,
my neck, my shoulder. He clings to me like a life preserver.

  “Shhh,” he whispers. “I heard you, baby. I heard you. You’re so beautiful. I don’t deserve it. Now let’s get some sleep.”

  The disappointment is crushing and instant. Those are not the words I longed for. It is not what I wanted to hear.

  But it tells me everything I need to know.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Knox Cole

  Just Outside Bum-fucking God Damn Nowhere, Ohio

  Sure, call me an asshole. Call me a dick. Call me a loser, a jerk, a user.

  She loves me, and I didn’t say it back.

  I know, I know—I’m an asshole, a typical womanizer panicking at the first glimmerings of genuine feeling or intimacy—unable to be emotionally present and blah blah blah. I get it. I’m not an idiot. I know how women think…sort of. Well, most women.

  Not Tatiana—I mean Rusudan—her I can’t figure out. She’s constantly blindsiding me, confusing me, amazing me, scaring the shit out of me. Just when I think I’ve got her figured out she lays something entirely new and unforeseen on the table, like this love business.

  And I have no idea what she’ll think of me when she wakes up tomorrow.

  But others, other women, they’d say I’m being a withholding, cold, selfish prick for what I did—or didn’t do—last night after she said she loved me. They’d say I’m totally game until someone needs me, until the L-word gets tossed around, and then I backpedal the fuck away faster than Lance Armstrong with both nuts. That’s what anyone would think about me about right now, right?

  Because I didn’t say it back.

  Well if you think that’s bad, how about this next choice of mine: abandoning Tatiana—I mean Rusudan—when she’s asleep in the hotel and hitchhiking the hell out of here, taking the first available ride to anywhere else.

  Yup, I must be an asshole. Dick. Loser. User.

  I know that is what would flash through a “decent” person’s mind at this point. Even I am tempted to pronounce a grim judgment of my character as I finish writing my goodbye note for Rusudan and place it on the pillow beside her, where I am supposed to be.

  Then I move quietly toward the door.

  I can’t help but look back at her one last time, sleeping. She’s so…god…I don’t even know the word. Beautiful. Complicated. Dangerous. Even in sleep her face is impossible to read, as many characteristics mixing in her features as she has aliases. Her lovely face is a conflicted canvas where youth, passion, mystery, strength, and determination vie for top billing. She’s like watching a thunderstorm, constantly changing, powerful, surprising.

  It doesn’t matter what name I call her—her essence is what gets to me. She’s so fragile and so strong at the same time. I’ve never met anyone like her: anyone so fascinating, infuriating, confusing, and impressive. It’s not that I don’t want her. Obviously I do—when was the last time I slept with the same woman twice? I’m just afraid. So afraid.

  I just…I can’t…I don’t know.

  I can’t.

  What else would you call me but the worst, lowliest coward for abandoning her at this moment? I get it. I do. Here I am walking out on her when she’s confessed she loves me, when she needs my help finding her sister, when Breslin’s after her, when she’s so close to either despair or triumph.

  I admit it looks bad.

  But you know what? I am not being an asshole. How do I know? Because at this very moment, the moment when I click the bedroom bungalow door silently shut behind me and trudge toward the highway, I am actually being a fucking stand-up guy. I know that leaving her will increase her chances at a happy, healthy, non-murdered-by-Breslin life.

  I know it is the right thing to do.

  I left her the address where I am positive she will find her sister, or at the very least the next clue. I left her the car and the keys. I left her duffel bag with all her money untouched, in spite of our initial agreement that she pay me double for turning against Breslin for her.

  I’ve left her every chance of success—and actually, my leaving will give her better odds. See, if I turn up somewhere else it will throw Breslin off her scent. I can distract him. If I stayed with Rusiko I’d only increase the chances that Breslin would track her down and ruin her chance at a happy ending with her sister, which is what I know she really wants.

  I am doing this for her, not because she freaked me out by saying she loved me. I am doing this for her, for her own good.

  See? Stand-up guy.

  I slip out the door into the dark early morning, leaving Katja/Jana/Tatiana/Rusiko/Mystery Girl, knowing I am doing the right thing, damn it.

  Let’s not forget that I am bad news for women. If I stayed I’d only hurt her. I am doing this for her. I am doing this for Rusiko.

  I am doing this for her.

  I am doing this for her.

  If I keep saying that, maybe it’ll make it true. Maybe it’ll do away with this dull throb of guilt I am feeling. Maybe if I keep whispering it like a mantra; I can absolve myself of whatever might or might not happen to her after I leave her alone, asleep, innocent, and in love.

  Shit. Who am I trying to convince, anyway? It doesn’t matter in the end: regardless of motivation, I just know that I have to get the hell out of here. I have to clear my head, think of what to do now. I still have to survive too, and I can’t afford this swirl of feelings and thoughts that I have no clue what to do with.

  I still have to take care of #1.

  I still have to outsmart one of the richest and most twisted guys in the country.

  To be completely honest, as the cool morning air outside washes over my skin, I feel a wave of relief. The crunch of the gravel under my feet is like the rhythm of freedom. Now I only have to worry about saving my own skin. On my own again, the only person I can fuck over is myself. On my own again, I can’t hurt her any more than I already have.

  And I can live with that.

  I don’t know where I am going as I wander towards the highway, thumb in the air. The world has divided itself into two places in my mind: with Mystery Girl, and away from her. Even though every fiber of my being wants to stay with her, I know I have to get away.

  It’s so early that only the semi-trucks are out on the road. I manage to get one to stop, and when he asks me where I am going I just say “wherever” and hop inside. The truck smells like beer and the seat is covered in dog hair, but it’s my ticket out. With a squeal of breaks and the rumble of 600 horsepower, I am on my way to nowhere.

  Luckily the driver doesn’t ask me any questions, just continues muttering gibberish and code into his ham radio. He’s probably talking to a call girl, for all I know or care. At last he’s leaving me alone.

  Jesus, I miss her already.

  I’ll just have to suck it up. I watch the hotel fade away in the side-view mirror and try to ignore the hollow feeling in my chest, the nagging doubt that I am actually making a huge mistake.

  Nah.

  I’m doing this for her.

  I close my eyes and let the distance between us increase. I don’t need to watch the road; I can feel the miles building up like a lump in my throat.

  What next?

  Probably I should put a few hundred miles between myself and Rusudan, then I should find a phone booth somewhere and call Breslin—give the bastard some cookie crumbs to lead him in the wrong direction, keep her safe.

  Probably I should get myself to South America somewhere, learn Spanish, hide out. I’ve heard good things about the ex-pat community in Panama. Colombia’s supposed to be up-and-coming too. Actually it doesn’t matter where I go. Breslin’s web is huge, but if I could get out of the country maybe I’d have a better shot. Maybe I’d live to see 30. Where did Rusudan say she was from? Georgia? I could start over somewhere, change my name, change my mind. Be a better man.

  The kind of man who’d deserve her.

  Fuck.

  Just like that, my entire brain centers on Rusiko again.

/>   Try as I might, I can’t stop thinking about her face asleep back in the hotel, so peaceful. I hate knowing that I will be just another thing she’ll have to survive, another person she’s loved and lost. But I haven’t defeated my own demons, so how could I possibly help her with hers? She told me so many things, so many big hard things.

  She needs someone else. Someone better.

  Now will be my chance to prove myself, though. I’ll lead Breslin off her trail, and then I’ll work on myself. I’ll sort through the shit I’ve avoided for years. I’ll scour my soul until I’m clean. I’ll be ready the next time there’s a Rusiko. The next time there’s a chance to do the right thing.

  Right. As if there could be another Rusiko. As if I believe in second chances.

  When the hell have I ever had a second chance?

  I think back to my glory days, when I was riding high on success and damn near famous. The Rager, they called me in the ring—Afghanistan War Veteran, former Army Ranger turned UFC contender. Ladies wanted me. Men wanted to be me. God, it was fun shooting up through the ranks from challenger to champion. The world was my fucking oyster. Everything was available—women, money, fun. Not even the war nightmares brought me down, not even the night sweats or the antidepressants. Not even the booze and the amphetamines. No, in the end, it was my own fucking idiocy. With everything at my fingertips, I had to choose to self-destruct and have an affair with a politician’s wife. It all came out in the papers, the way everything does, and I lost most of my sponsorships. Got arrested a couple times. But that wasn’t what ruined me. No press is bad press, after all, and it was my temper that got me in the end.

  It wasn’t until I lost my cool that I lost it all.

  I’ve replayed that fateful fight in my head so many times, my last fight, when I beat media golden boy Terence “El Torro” Ruiz to death on national television. I know exactly which punch did it, exactly the moment that I could have gone another way.