Beneath This Ink (Beneath #2)(58)

“Ohhh...” All became clear. “You thought…”

“Yeah.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets and watched me.

“I’m glad you didn’t let me leave then.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because we really do need to talk. About this—” My hand shook holding the envelope. “And about what we realistically think is going to happen next.”

Con jerked back as though I’d slapped him. And I suppose maybe I should have chosen my words better. “I mean—”

Con’s grunt cut me off. “Yeah, I guess we do need to be realistic. Because it’d be a goddamn f*cking fairytale if this was anything more than a short-lived affair. You need to go back to your world, and I need to quit stepping outside of mine.” He shook his head.

Well, there was a reality check if ever I’d had one. But his words didn’t add up with his actions.

“If you’re so ready to end… whatever we’re doing… then what’s with the caveman impression you just pulled off? I would’ve thought you’d been happy to see the back of me.”

His fists clenched and he stepped toward me. “I didn’t say that’s what I wanted, princess. I just said that’s how it’s gotta be.” Even in my low heels, he towered over me by a good five inches. “We don’t always get what we want. At least I don’t.”

I stared up into his deep blue eyes. This was the moment. He was giving me an out. I could walk away, deed in hand, and get on with my life. A life without Con.

I imagined seeing him on the street again like I had that night two years ago. Except in my imagination, he had his arm around some other woman and was leading her back to this very apartment. Jealousy for that faceless, nameless, nonexistent woman pooled in my belly like battery acid.

“I’m not ready.” The words were out before I could even consider their impact. I just knew, with a certainty borne of nothing but the feeling in my gut, that I wasn’t ready to let go of whatever this was.

Con’s eyes blazed.

“Excuse me?”

The words came just as easily the second time. “I’m not ready for this to be over.” I held up the deed in my hand. “Even without this between us, I’m not ready to walk away.”

He shifted closer, the heat from his body burning through my dress. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

I nodded jerkily. Whether I really knew what I was saying was up for debate, but the alternative was utterly unacceptable. “I think so.”

“Then God help us both. Because that was your one shot to walk away clean. I don’t know if I’ve got it in me to give you another.”

I swallowed. “Guess we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” I looked at the clock on the wall and sighed. “I hate to say this, but I really do need to go. I can’t be late for the memorial service.”

A predatory smile spread across Con’s face, and in that moment I knew I would follow him even if he led me straight to hell. “You ain’t leaving until I get another taste of you.” He stalked me until I was pressed against the wall, and memories of the coatroom at the Boys and Girls Club dinner infiltrated my mind. I guess that was fitting, because we were sealing another kind of deal, and there was no telling how this one would end.

“Can you be quick?” I asked, partly joking, partly not.

“Guess we’ll find out.”

Yep. I’m going to hell.





I made it home in time to smooth my hair up into a respectable chignon and slip into a black sleeveless sheath. It was one of my least favorites, which might seem odd because it was the only dress I considered wearing today. My only explanation: once you’d worn something to a funeral, it was impossible to put it on without thinking of death. I’d prefer to taint something I wasn’t particularly fond of rather than a favorite. The dress I’d worn to my mother’s funeral when I was fourteen years old still hung in my closet. It had hung there for sixteen years—never worn again after that day—and I still couldn’t bring myself to give it to charity. It seemed wrong, like I’d be sending away a piece of my mother.

I hurried through my makeup and dashed out the door. Ten minutes later I was slipping into the pew beside my father, one row behind Archer. A form slipped in beside me as we rose for the processional hymn.

I glanced sideways and cringed.

Titan. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him here, but there was no earthly reason why he needed to be sitting in the pew beside me.

I opened my mouth to whisper something to that effect, but the choir quieted and the priest started to speak. Unless I wanted the entire parish to overhear my tirade, it was going to have to wait.

As luck, or something, would have it, my father never seemed to notice the occupant of our pew who sat an arguably-appropriate distance away from me. He was too engrossed in the service. For that I was thankful.

An hour later, when six pallbearers were carrying the casket away, I tried to follow my father out of the pew, but the crowd swallowed him up. Herzog had attracted a full house. I suppose if he were sitting in heaven looking down on this, he’d probably be pleased with the turnout.

I tried to use the number of people to my advantage, but Lucas stayed close on my heels and even grasped me by the elbow to lead me through the throng and out the side door of the church.