Rush (Carolina Bad Boys, #5)(22)

I broke free, greedily running my thumb back and forth across her generous bottom lip.

With my fingers cradling her face, I pecked a kiss once more at her upraised lips. “I’m sorry, baby.”

Her eyes were the palest gray, shining like polished silver, caressing my face.

“I was a shithead,” I said.

“I won’t disagree.”

My lips moved to her cheek. “You mean so much to me and . . . fuck. This all took me by surprise. Not proud of myself or the way I treated you, Shy.”

“I can be a little too much.” She shrugged, pulling away.

I grabbed her right back. “Bullshit. Not too much.” I cupped her head in my hands and sampled her plush lips again.

The drumming desire in my groin reared up—the taste and feel of her quickly tightening into corkscrews centered deep down where the heat grew.

I pulled my hips away from her body, my hard-on from her pelvis, my mouth from hers.

Laughing roughly, I reached for her hand and laid it on my pounding chest. “If we’re gonna do this thing, though, you need to tell me everything. I know you’re hiding something.”

Shy disengaged from me immediately. “How?”

“The prescriptions in your bathroom.”

“You ransacked my medicine cabinet?”

“The door opened when I was wiping off the mirror. Bottles fell out, Shy.”

“How much do you know?”

I pressed my fists to my lips, really fucking worried about her. “I know what some of the prescriptions do, but other than that, not a lot except something’s going on. And I want to know so I can be here for you.”

“Drink first.”

Taking the bottle of vodka from her, I tossed the bag onto the long kitchen counter and uncapped it.

I poured two shots, and I was pretty sure both our noses pinched at the thought of Popov burning down our throats.

“Old time’s sake?” I clinked my glass to hers.

“Here’s hoping we live through this.” She nodded. “Down the hatch.”

Taking the shot, I swallowed fast. Seasoned drinker and all, my eyes watered, my tongue felt like it was on fire, my throat—yup—burned. “You’re right to question this.”

“Fuck!” Swiping her mouth, she squinted. “Still gross.”

“Got any vino?”

“In the wine fridge.”

I poured another two drinks, that time of the good stuff, and carried the long-stemmed glasses to Shy who’d relocated to the couch.

She nervously bit her lip, patted the cushion next to her, kept her feet planted on the floor.

“This is really hard to talk about, Max.” Her eyes flashed to mine. “Should I call you Handsome?”

Setting my wine down, I rolled an arm around her shoulders. “Call me what you want. Bastard would probably be pretty fucking spot-on after the last conversation we had.”

She shifted away, looking out the window. “I’m not a whole woman.”

I curled closer to her. Personal space be damned. “I’m not a whole man either. Haven’t been for a long time just never had enough guts to admit it.” I grasped her chin, tugging her around to me. “Tell me.”

Shy pulled free and, with her lips trembling, she lifted her left leg to my lap.

I peered down at the bare foot resting across my thighs. To the skin that looked perfect, unblemished.

Too perfect?

My hand hovered above her ankle.

Those times she’d tripped.

The long dresses she wore.

The meds.

It wasn’t completely adding up.

“Touch it.” She dragged in a deep breath, her eyes shutting. “Touch me.”

I looked at her face with my hand just inches above her leg in my lap. Tears formed at the corners of her lids. Two fat drops fell, and her lips quivered before she inhaled again.

“Please touch me, Max.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whispered in a rush.

“You won’t.” A sad smile curved her mouth. “I can’t feel anything down there anymore.”

I sought her bare foot, her ankle, her calf. I’d held her and touched her and kissed her. Shy was vital, heated, woman, but this was . . . she was smooth and cool as glass down there.

My hands kneaded higher, roaming beneath her sweats. The shock of artificial flesh gave way to a bit of jersey-like fabric and finally warm comfort at her knee, and I curled my fingers around the living skin beneath my fingers.

Scooting back, I bent low. I kissed that unfamiliar ankle, caressed up the length of her lower leg. “What is it? What happened to you, baby?”

“I’m an amputee.” A deep breath gusted from her, and she turned her head aside. “It’s a prosthetic. Very expensive.” Her gaze slipped to mine—the silver-rich color tarnished by sadness. “I have bone cancer. But I’m beating it.”





Chapter Twelve


Truth Hurts





THE QUEEN OF THE soccer field in high school.

The track star. The surfer girl . . .

An amputee?

My hands convulsed on her. “Bone cancer?”

“Osteosarcoma. You know it’d be nice for a change if the names for cancer didn’t sound like death knells in and of themselves.” She reached for her wine and took a slow swallow.