Pieces of Us (Confessions of the Heart, #3)(39)

His skin was dirty . . . covered in filth . . . clothes he’d been wearing this afternoon torn and mangled.

Under it, I could almost see the purple bruises blooming on his skin.

My own pain clutched me, every cell screaming out.

“Oh my god,” I whimpered.

Breaking out of the shock, I rushed the rest of the way down the walkway. “What happened to him?” I demanded. “Is he okay?”

Alarm rang through my being, horrified that after he’d left my house, things had gone so wrong.

So very, very wrong.

Maxon tried to focus on me, and his mouth hitched up at the side, words slurred together, nothing but a train wreck. “Hey, gorgeous. Musta died and gone to heaven for you to be standin’ there. Fuck . . . so pretty. Why’re you so pretty?”

Oh yeah, he was definitely drunk.

Hurt and drunk and saying nonsensical things.

That was all.

I looked at the guy holding him up. “What happened to him?”

He sighed, but it sounded in resignation. Guessed there was no missing the fact that Maxon wanted me there.

Wasn’t about to admit to him I was pretty sure that was only the alcohol talkin’.

The guy angled his head. “Dumbass left a bar and had four guys jump him. He got lucky.”

“Lucky?” The word was pure disbelief.

It sure didn’t look like the man had gotten lucky tonight, and I meant that in every way.

He smelled like a pit, the stench of stale alcohol and rotting garbage coming off him in waves.

“Pretty sure he has a couple busted ribs. But this asshole refused treatment, so who knows what the fuck is wrong with him.” This was anger from the man, totally directed at Maxon.

Maxon grunted. “Fine now . . . just wanna go home.”

God, how did I end up in the middle of this? I twisted my fingers together, contemplating what I was supposed to do. Figured the best thing was to shove off the emotion, the reason I’d been here, and be glad that I’d come when I had.

Maxon needed help. I could give him that.

My brain shot into action. “Okay. Let’s get him inside and get him cleaned up. Maybe if he sobers up some, I can convince him to go to the ER.”

Going to the opposite side of the man, I wound my arm around Maxon, ignoring the rush of tingles slipping across my skin.

It just wasn’t fair the effect he had on me. I should be repulsed. And I really didn’t want to be anywhere else.

Maxon leaned on me more, his presence consuming, mumbling something incoherent.

Something sweet.

“We’ve got you, Maxon. Don’t worry. You’re gonna be okay. I promise,” I whispered in a hush.

What was I even sayin’?

Doing?

This was crazy.

“Maxon, huh?” the guy questioned me, and I could almost hear the grin in his voice.

Shyness worked its way to my face. “I’ve always called him that.”

“Seems like you two have known each other a long time?”

Without a doubt, this guy was doing his best to figure me out.

“All my life. And you?” I asked as we slowly made our way up the porch.

Formal introductions, and all.

“Pete. Maxon’s partner.”

“I really think you should have taken him to the hospital.”

Pete laughed as if any of this was normal. “Know he looks bad, but believe me, he’d probably be in worse shape if our sergeant found him like this. Better for her to read the report than witness this disaster in person. Actually, saved his ass, bringing him here.”

God, I didn’t understand that world. The danger of what Maxon did. The life he led.

Getting sloshed at a bar and then getting in the middle of a fight.

That was just . . . stupid and reckless and made my aching heart bleed in worry and pain.

“Owed me, asshole,” Maxon slurred, smiling a big, sloppy smile at Pete.

“Which is why you’re here, and I didn’t dump your ass at the ER instead.”

“Fine. Got Izzy. Gonna keep her.” At least, that’s what I thought Maxon said, and my stupid heart skittered.

No, that wasn’t helpin’ things, either.

God, I really was getting in deep. Deeper than I should. But I didn’t know how to let go. Didn’t know how not to care when this man used to mean everything to me.

We made it to the front door, and I grabbed the keys that were dangling out the front pocket of Maxon’s jeans, fumbled to get the right one into the lock, and opened it.

Dim light spilled out, his house only illuminated by the muted lights that glowed from under the kitchen cupboards, the inside just as quaint and perfect as the outside.

We stepped inside, and Pete moved to prop Maxon against the wall. “Can you stand?”

“Yup. Good as new.” His words were almost filled with a laugh.

“Hardly,” I scolded a little, not sure how these two could make light of this.

“You good?” Pete asked, moving toward the door and pointing at Maxon.

Um . . . what? Did he think he was just going to leave me there with him?

“I’m good,” Maxon said, leaning against the wall, all of this attention trained on me.

Redness flared, and I tried to tamp it down, to keep this unsettled feeling from turning into something else.