Pieces of Us (Confessions of the Heart, #3)(38)

Harder this time.

Nothing.

I frowned, bit my lip, wondered what to do.

Resolution brimmed within.

I wasn’t going anywhere until the two of us had this out.

Talked.

Maybe found some closure.

I moved over to the steps and sat down on the top one.

And I waited.

Waited and waited.

The night drew deeper, bugs trilling in the shrubs, the hot summer breeze rustling through the leaves on the enormous tree that grew in the middle of Maxon’s yard.

I got lost in the peace of it, my mind wandering far. To fantastical things that I hardly allowed myself to contemplate anymore.

I was so deep in my thoughts that I jolted upright when the blinding glare of headlights came up the road. It had to have been the first car that passed in probably an hour.

A lump climbed my throat, thickening everything when the car slowed and pulled to a stop behind mine.

The sedan gave off the same vibe as Maxon’s Suburban, completely white with those blacked out windows, strange antennae sticking up on the rear window.

An unmarked cop car.

A shiver sped across my skin.

Cold and hot and sticky.

I had no idea who he was with. If he’d even want to talk to me. Had no idea what I was gonna say.

The driver’s side door opened. A super tall, thin man stepped out, wearing a rumpled suit.

I pushed to standing, waiting, this worry rising up so fast, this feeling that somethin’ was . . . wrong.

The man eyed me speculatively as he rounded the front of the car. “Probably not a good night for Maxon to have any company,” he said, though what I really was hearing him say was get lost.

Discomfort crawled beneath the surface of my skin.

He thought I was there to . . . to sleep with Maxon.

God, that hurt, too.

No doubt, Maxon had women hanging all over him. Waiting for him. Wanting him.

That face and that body and those hands.

He was gorgeous. Compelling and striking and sexy.

I stood ground, refusing to back down because none of that was what this was about.

“Is something wrong with him? What’s goin’ on?” I tried to keep the tremor out of my voice, but I failed that task miserably.

Ignoring me, the man pulled open the passenger door, and a stir of that energy came blasting out.

Disorder and disease.

I felt it like a punch.

A blow to the chest.

Bowling me back.

Anxiety flamed, and I started to come down the steps, unable to stand still for a second longer, when the man dipped inside the door and helped Maxon out.

He held him upright, and Maxon had an arm slung around his shoulders. His head drooped to the side, his body slouched, hardly holding up any of his weight.

Wings of dread flapped in my stomach, and my heart lurched in a violent careen to the right. I reached a hand out to the porch railing to steady myself.

“Maxon?” I questioned, panic laced through my voice. “What’s wrong with him? What happened?” I demanded, my voice hitching higher.

Through the shadows, I could barely make out the expression of the guy who was helping him, though I was pretty sure he was glaring at me like I was an obstacle.

An annoyance.

Or maybe like I was trash.

“Think you’d better go on your way. Told you it wasn’t a good night for company.”

Was it wrong that I wanted to toss it right back at him? Tell him, good, he could go on his way?

Maxon groaned. It was this . . . horrible, pained sound. Agony that cut me like a knife.

But in it contained some semblance of my name.

The sound of it enveloped and warmed.

Urges hit me.

I wanted to be the one helpin’ him. The one there for him. To soothe whatever he was going through.

And I knew that made me nothin’ but a fool, but it didn’t matter.

I was drawn.

Shackled.

Chained.

Just the way I’d always been, unable to stand beneath the force of the man.

I was a little terrified that I might just offer myself up as a willing prisoner.

I hurried down the two steps, not even caring that the man helping him threw me an annoyed glare.

I got that he was bein’ protective. But this was my Maxon he was protecting.

Oh, and that right there should have been a good enough warning for me to go running, but I just took another step toward the two of them, trying to get a hold on what was happening.

“Is he drunk?”

I mean, why wouldn’t he be? I’d wanted to drink myself into oblivion, too. I’d just had two babies I had to think of first.

“You might not want to be too hard on the guy. He hasn’t exactly had the best night.” More frustration and spite coming from the stranger.

My attention shifted from the silhouette of Maxon to the man at his side, questions of what he meant on the tip of my tongue, when every cell in my body froze.

Because that was right when they took a lumbering step forward and came into the glow of the light cast from the porch.

Horror raced up my throat, dragging like razor-sharp claws.

A sob followed it, and my hands shot to my mouth to cover it.

Hold it back.

But it was no use.

It ripped free.

Maxon was . . . bloody. So bloody.

A gaping wound flapped open over his left brow, and his bottom lip was split wide open.