Reveal (Wicked Ways #2)(87)

“All women have their ways, dear.”

“Apparently.”

We fall into a lull as the waiter comes and goes, and my thoughts veer toward the women currently fucking with my life.

“You’re still not talking,” my mother says.

“I never talk much.”

“It’s not that. What is it that’s bothering you?” she persists.

“I told you. There’s nothing.”

She narrows her eyes and studies me, her hands stilling on her silverware. “Are there holes in the drywall, Ryker?”

“A shit ton,” I say without thinking, my mind preoccupied and already out of this stuffy restaurant I don’t even want to be at.

“What happened?” she asks.

“Fuck if I know.” The four words come out in a sigh. The same four words I’ve been saying a lot of late.

“Your mouth is very unrefined at the moment,” she scolds.

“Yeah, well, it matches my mood.” I toy with my knife for a moment, trying to think about anything other than Vaughn and the goddamn hole she poked through my heart with her tears and puffy eyes and complete misery she wouldn’t explain to me yesterday. “Tell me something.”

“Yes, darling?”

“Did you ever hire a divorce attorney, pay him a retainer, but never actually file the papers?” I ask.

Her laugh is low and telling. “Considering you’ve been my lawyer for two of them—”

“Before me. Your first two marriages. Did you?”

She purses her lips, and then a soft smile spreads on them. “Not that I can remember. If you hire an attorney, you’re pretty serious. Most of the time, people file, and once it becomes real is when they decide they want to talk to their spouse, and sometimes they work it out. Why?”

“Nothing really. It’s just that I have a client I can’t figure out is all. She’s connected to my life in certain ways, and . . . I don’t know. The longer I work with her, the more I question her reasons for contacting me.”

I can’t put my fucking finger on it. Any of it. Vaughn. Bianca. And only one of them I really want to.

“Her?” she asks in surprise.

“Yes. A woman.”

Her eyes narrow, and a slight smile paints her lips. “You’ll figure it out, dear. You always do.” She pats my hand, and I order another drink.



“Hey, you okay?” I ask, Vaughn more than surprising me when she answers the phone.

“Mmm. Yeah. Getting there.” She sounds sleepy, like I want to curl up behind her and pull her against me.

“Want to talk about it?”

“Yes . . . but not yet.”

“If you’re looking for some grand gesture to make you feel better—me holding a radio outside your bedroom window—I’m afraid boom boxes are dead, and Bluetooth speakers don’t exactly have the same effect.”

Where the hell did that come from, Lockhart?

But it earns a laugh from her, and God, does it do things to my insides I’d rather not admit.

“Have you ever done something you know is wrong, but you do it anyway because it’s the right thing?” she asks and totally throws me for a loop.

What is she getting at?

“I think everyone has at some point in their life, don’t you?”

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?” I ask. “Does this have anything to do with the other day?”

She doesn’t answer.

“Vaughn?”

“If you made a mistake, I’d forgive you, you know. Just like I’d hope you’d forgive me.”

“You’re not making any sense. Are you sure you’re okay?” In my mind I’m already halfway across the bridge to her house.

“Yes. I’m fine.” Her breath hitches. “I’ve had a glass or two or three of wine. I miss you, Ryker.”

“I miss you too. When can I see—”

But I don’t get to finish my sentence because she ends the call.

She might have just told me she misses me, but hell if it doesn’t feel like that was a goodbye.





CHAPTER FORTY

Vaughn

The pounding on the door startles me awake.

The family room is pitch black, and for a moment I sit there thinking I’ve just had a nightmare.

Then it starts again.

Instinct has me moving toward the peephole, fearful it’s the police—that something has happened to Lucy—when it should have me pretending I’m not home and dialing 9-1-1.

And I’m not sure if it’s the remnants of the bottle of wine still in my system, but when I see Ryker standing on my porch in the middle of the night—or is it early morning?—I open the door without question.

His fist is midknock when I pull it open. There’s anger etched in the lines of his face, and concern owns every muscle in his expression as we stand a few feet apart.

Without speaking a single word, Ryker frames both sides of my face and brings his lips to mine. The kiss starts out slow—a silent show of desperation—and has us both moving into the house, the door being kicked shut behind us.

It’s heaven and hell at my fingertips. It’s certainty and doubt in my touch.

It’s him.