Lust Is the Thorn (15 page)

“Yes, we're fine,” Thorn said slowly, his grip on me flexing on my lower back. “This man attacked my friend.”

“No, we're not
fine
.” I forced myself to let go, my heart pounding hard against my ribs. “I want his ass thrown in jail, and I want you to throw away the key. I never want to see this fucker's face ever again. You hear me, Officer?”

He blinked at me. “Yes, we'll—”

“Are you sure? Because no one locked him away before he could find me—
again
. I just want to make sure he's not going to walk back out of the jail tonight and come right back here to finish what he started.” I paused and glared at the officer.
“Again.”

Thorn pressed his hand against my lower back. “Easy, there, slugger. He's not the bad guy, here.”

“No. I won't be easy,” I spat, trembling with rage. Deep down, I knew the rage was directed at the fucker on the ground, just as I knew it was my way to protect myself, because if I wasn't angry, I'd fall apart. But that didn't make it any less real. “I want these cops to do their
jobs
.”

The cop glowered at me. “And we will, miss. Just tell me what happened.”

I opened my mouth to make another scathing reply, but Thorn beat me to it. “This man attacked my friend here for the second time, and I helped subdue him until you could take him away in cuffs.”

The officer glared at the guy on the ground, a brow raised. “Subdued, eh?”

“Yeah.” I crossed my arms. “He
subdued
him.”

“Yes, Officer,” Thorn said far too politely, squeezing my shirt in a silent warning. “This
is
the
second
time he attacked her, so we're obviously upset.”

The officer pulled out a notebook and nodded. “When was the first attack?”

“A few weeks ago,” I said through my thick throat. “I…I…”

Thorn entwined his fingers with mine, lending me his silent support. “He tried to rape her a few weeks ago. You'll see the report in the files when you get to the station. I've been watching over her since, so it's only by the grace of God that I was here to protect her this time.”

The officer eyed me and Thorn as if the two of us together didn't make sense.

He was right. We didn't.

“All right. We'll bring him in,” the officer said, tucking his notebook away and motioning another officer forward. “I assume you're pressing charges?”

“Fuck yeah,” I said.

At the same time, Thorn said it, too. “Every charge we can throw at him, we're pressing, please.”

I gave him the side-eye.

He frowned at me.

The officer studied us with a cocked brow. “You'll need to come down to the station. I'll have to take your statements. Both of you.”

“Of course,” Thorn said.

I nodded. “Can't fucking wait.”

“We'll just put our stuff away first, if that's okay,” Thorn said, forcing a smile. After we collected my bags and headed toward my apartment, he hissed, “Knock it off. They're the good guys. We want them on our side.”

“I don't
want,
or
need,
anyone on my side.”

Thorn rolled his eyes. “Yeah. You've made that pretty clear. Just tone it down a few notches until we get home, and then you can yell all you want. Okay?”

I didn't say anything. Just pressed my lips together.

The next few hours passed in a blur of repeating the same thing over and over again, and by the time Thorn and I walked out, I was exhausted both mentally and emotionally. I clung to him, letting him lead me outside to his car with a hand pressed to my lower back, right above my ass. They'd let him drive himself in, but they drove me and then questioned us separately. Thorn protested when he realized how things would play out, until I placed a hand on his arm and shook my head.

He opened the car door for me and I slid in, slumping against the seat as I buckled up. When he started the car, I rolled my head to the side and tried to read him. He was still pissed as hell, and he held the wheel so tightly it was a miracle it didn't crack. After all, I knew just how strong he was. “Where did you learn to hit like that?”

His jaw flexed. “I never unlearned. Punching isn't a skill you forget. It's just there.”

“Yeah, but you just up and beat the shit out of the guy, like you do it every day.” I gripped my knee. “There was no memory about it—it was instinct.”

“I box for exercise.” He stopped at a red light. “With a bag, not a person.”

“Oh.” The idea of him shirtless, sweaty, and flushed while beating the shit out of a punching bag wasn't exactly a
bad
one…“Cool.”

He didn't say anything to that.

Just glowered through the windshield.

I sighed. “Go ahead.”

“What?” he asked, frowning at the road. “Go ahead for what?”

“Yell. Scream. Tell me what an idiot I am for going on the L without Mace or the pepper spray you bought me last year, or whatever it is you want to yell at me for.”

He stepped on the gas, a laugh escaping him. “No.”

“Why not? You clearly want to.”

“Sounds to me like you've yelled at yourself enough already.” He didn't say anything, just pulled into a parking spot in front of my apartment. “I'm spending the night tonight. In the living room.”

I undid my seatbelt, my pulse soaring at the idea of us under the same roof again. But at the same time, I knew it was asking for trouble. Despite the way I felt about him, I'd sworn not to interfere with his dreams of becoming a priest, and the easiest way for me to keep that promise was never to be alone with him. “I don't think that's a good idea.”

“I wasn't asking for your permission,” he snapped, turning to me with flashing eyes. “I'm spending the fucking night, Rose.”

I sucked in a breath. “Hey, don't take that tone with me. I know you're angry and all, but—”

“Yes, I'm
angry
. But I'm not angry at
you
. I'm angry with
myself
.”

I pursed my lips. “Uh…Why?”

“I shouldn't have let you go on the L yet. Not until they caught the guy.” He dragged a hand through his hair and let out an agitated breath. “You should have been with me, so I could—”

“Protect me? Guard me? Hide me from the world? Put me in a bubble?”

He scowled. “Your sarcasm is not appreciated.”

“Neither is your incessant penchant for blaming yourself for things that have nothing to do with you.” I opened my car door and got out, slamming it behind me. I didn't bother to wait for him, since I knew he'd follow me. Sure enough, his car door shut immediately after mine. “News flash: everything bad that happens to me isn't your fault.”

He grabbed my arm and spun me around right outside my door, growling low under his breath. He pressed me against the door, his body touching mine in places it hadn't touched since that night I'd tried my best to forget about. “News flash: I don't care if you think I should feel responsible or not. When it comes to you and your safety, I will always feel responsible—and nothing you do or say will change that.”

I held my breath because his face was in mine, and oh my God, I wanted to kiss him
so
bad. It was as if industrial-strength magnets were pushing us together, refusing to cease until our lips connected and never let go. “Then you're an idiot.”

“So be it,” he shot back. “I'll gladly be an idiot over you.”

I sucked in a breath, not saying anything in return. Really, what was there to say? Instead, I settled for “If you insist on spending the night, you're going to have to sleep on the floor. I don't have a couch yet. I'm saving up for a brown leather one I saw at Goodwill. I'm hoping it doesn't sell before I can buy it.”

His jaw twitched, and he ran his thumb over my shoulder gently. “Rose…”

“What?” I said, not looking at him because his body was still pressed against mine, and he was still touching me, and I was convinced that God hated me or something. Why else would he do this to me? “What now?”

“I don't give a damn where I have to sleep, all I know is it's going to be here.” His thumb stilled. “With you.”

I shrugged. “Whatever.”

“You always say that when you know there's no use arguing with me, but that's not why you stop.” He leaned in and stopped when our noses touched. “You stop arguing because deep down, you want me to do whatever I say I'm going to do, and you're simply arguing out of principle.”

I glared at him, refusing to give him any hint whether he was right or not. He totally was, though. “Whatever.”

He smirked and ran his knuckles over my cheek, like he always did. And my body leapt to life, as it always did. “I like it when you're sassy.”

“I like it when you're quiet, which is never.” I ducked under his arm and escaped his hold before we both did something we'd regret. “Did you go to confession?”

He stiffened. “What?”

“Did you confess what we did?” I unlocked my door and peeked at him over my shoulder. It might have seemed to come out of the blue, my question, but it was a strategic reminder of why we shouldn't do anything tonight…for both of us. Something told me we
both
needed it. “Confess all the things you did, and that I did to you?”

He followed me inside, his focus zeroed in on me. “Yes.”

“And all was forgiven?” I headed up the stairs, listening as he closed and locked the door. “I mean, obviously it was, since you weren't kicked out. But how exactly does that work?”

“I confessed. I was given penance. I swore not to do it again.” He came to the top of the stairs as I shrugged out of my coat. “And I haven't.”

“Not with me, anyway,” I said lightly, undoing my scarf.

“You're the only one I would do it with,” he said, leaning against the wall. “I think I was pretty clear about that.”

“Crystal.” Tossing my scarf with my jacket, I picked up the bags we'd deposited inside before leaving with the cops. I peeked inside one and the anger I'd been clutching like a life vest faded away, and sadness hit me for the first time tonight. Dangerous, terrifying sadness that I had a feeling wouldn't leave me alone. “Son of a fucking bitch.”

Thorn came forward. “What's wrong?”

“He broke my painting.” I tossed the bag aside, covering my face, and drew in a deep breath. It was as uneven as the concrete outside my office. “It was the first thing I paid for with my own money that wasn't food, or a bill, or shampoo, and
he broke it
.”

I knew I was being ridiculous, getting upset over a stupid painting. But it was more than just the painting. It was heartbreaking because some asshat who'd decided I owed him a fuck because I danced on a pole for a few days had taken something I'd worked hard for. Something I'd earned, fair and square. No matter how hard I fought, or how far ahead I got, someone would always be there, waiting to snatch it out of my hands.

And I had had
enough
.

I was
over
it.

I couldn't keep fighting like this, keeping my hands at the ready twenty-four hours a day. When I moved here, I'd thought I'd be able to let my guard down. Thought I could maybe just enjoy life a little and stop worrying about what might go wrong.

Obviously, I was wrong.

That part of my life would never go away.

I couldn't be happy. Couldn't get the guy I'd loved my whole life. And I couldn't even walk home from work without someone deciding I looked like an easy target.

My life was cursed. And I'd just have to accept that.

“It's pretty,” he said softly. “The painting is okay, it just needs a new frame.”

“Yeah, well, I can't afford one.” I dragged my hands down my face and shook myself off, trying to lose the heavy heart weighing me down. “You know what? Whatever. It's fine. I'll be fine.”

He watched me, the painting still in his hand, then set it down gently. I could see the shattered glass over the rose with one thorn reflecting the light. When I'd seen it at the Goodwill shop by the campus, I knew it had to be mine. I have a weakness for roses with one thorn. “It's okay to be upset. You're allowed to be angry about stuff that doesn't work out as planned every once in a while. It's okay to cry.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” I snapped, closer to tears than he'd ever know. But he didn't know why, and he never would. It wasn't just the stupid painting, it was the fact that I loved Thorn with every fiber in my being, and he would never—could never—be mine. And that wasn't fucking
fair
. But what would crying accomplish? Nothing. That's what. “But you know what I'd rather do?”

He cocked his head to the side. “What?”

“Take a bath.” I rubbed my temple, which throbbed. “And forget all about the asshole who took my stupid painting from me.”

Swallowing hard, he nodded. “Go for it.”

“Oh, I will.”

Without another word, I headed into the bathroom and closed the door behind me, embracing my solitude like a warm blanket. Leaning against the closed door, I took a ragged breath, trying to stop the thoughts rampaging through me. Between having Thorn's body pressed against mine and the asshole who'd tried to hijack my life yet again, I was a mash-up of anger, frustration, and pain.

So much pain
.

I heard the apartment door close, and I sagged against the door even lower. Guess he decided not to stay after all. Which was really for the better. We both knew it.

And yet…it hurt anyway.

I took a long, hot bath, and by the time I came out, my skin was puckered and red, and I felt about 2 percent less stressed. Walking up to the plastic nightstand I'd bought, I pulled out my last pack of cigarettes—the ones I'd brought to the lake house. I hadn't smoked any yet. Flipping open the lid, I grabbed one and tugged it halfway out before stopping. Staring at it, I mouthed a few curses, shoved the unlit cigarette back into the box, and tossed it back inside the drawer, slamming it shut as hard as I could.