The Game Plan (Game On, #3)(81)

The bed creaks and he sinks into it, pulling the pillow free and gathering me into his arms. I flow into his embrace, a sob breaking free despite my best effort.

“Ethan.” I wrap myself around him, clinging tight.

“Cherry, baby.” His hold is so hard it aches. I love it. He holds me like he’s trying to make me part of his body—strong, capable, a sentinel against all the shit the world has thrown at us. His hands stroke my hair, my back, everywhere he can touch.

“Darlin’,” he whispers. “Cherry…I…” A ragged breath tears out of him and he shakes. “Fuck. I’m so sorry. I’m so f*cking sorry.”

I cling to him, fisting his hair. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” he snaps, low and angry. He takes a deep breath that ruffles my hair. “It was my fault. I let you down.”

He sounds so broken that I turn my head and kiss the sweaty crook of his neck, feeling his throat move as he swallows.

“What happened?” I ask.

Ethan swallows again, another tremor running through him. His lips press against my head as he takes deep, hard breaths. And I’m afraid. What has he done?

When he begins to tell me what happened, I’m no longer afraid. I’m enraged. It runs through me like wildfire, heating my blood and setting my heart racing.

He finishes on a garbled sigh, his head sinking as if he can no longer hold it up.

I lean back to face him, touching his cheek so he lifts his head. His bleak expression hurts to see. “You want to hear the f*cked up thing?” I ask.

He frowns. “What?”

“My brain stalled out at the naked woman in your bed.”

A sad smile drifts across his face. “That was the least important part of the whole story, Cherry.”

“I know. But I have this mad urge to hunt her down and punch her in the tit.”

Ethan laughs as if he can’t help it. “Her tit? That’s…oddly specific.”

I shrug. “I’m not thinking very rationally at the moment.” My eyes begin to water again. “I guess I have tits on the brain.”

As if the word tit flips a switch, I start to cry, an outright bawl that has my chest heaving. Ethan curses and pulls me tight against his body once more. “Fi…angel, baby…” He murmurs endearments as he strokes my back, runs his fingers through my hair.

Gently he rocks me as we lie in bed and I cry.

“You’re killing me, Fi,” he whispers brokenly.

“I know.” My breath hitches. “I just can’t seem to stop.”

I want to pull it together, get on with life, and forget all of the shit. But it doesn’t work that way. I have an endless supply of tears and rage.

His embrace goes tighter, near the point of pain, but I welcome it, want him to hold me this way forever. He nuzzles my temple. “Then cry all you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

Strange thing is, the moment he gives me permission to let loose, I calm. After a while, my body stops shaking and feels heavy with fatigue.

Ethan never stops caressing me. My nose is pressed into the center of his chest. I breathe in his scent and clutch his shirt.

When he speaks again, his voice rough and cracked as if he too has been crying. “Gray texted me a joke the other day. Want to hear it?”

“Knowing Gray’s terrible jokes, probably not. But okay.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “What do you call a cow with no legs?”

I caress his waist where muscles ripple. “What?”

“Ground beef.”

We’re both silent for a moment, then I burst out laughing. “God, that’s just wrong.”

“It’s terrible.” Ethan turns to his side and touches my cheek. “But it made you laugh. That’s all I care about.” Pain and regret darken his eyes. “I want to fix this, Fi. But I don’t know how. I don’t know what to do.”

For a guy like Ethan, being helpless must burn. I can feel it in the way his muscles keep bunching and releasing, as if his entire body wants to act, lash out.

My gaze drifts past him, focusing on a distant point, and my voice comes out hollow. “Thing is, Ethan, you can’t.”

I know it doesn’t sit well with him. He’s scowling like he wants to punch something. I empathize. But for the first time, I really don’t care. I’ve lost the ability, it seems.





* * *



Dex



As soon as I tell Fi her dad is here, she sits up like a shot, her eyes wide, and her hair sticking up at odd angles. She looks heartbreakingly beautiful and completely freaked out.

“Mother f*ck.” Hauling her little ass out of bed, she pads to the bathroom and starts washing her face. “Just f*ck it all. I do not want to face Dad right now.”

I get up and follow as she starts to put makeup on with a deft hand. I have no idea how she doesn’t poke herself in the eye with that mascara wand thing. Regardless of the situation, watching Fi make herself up is fascinating. It’s such a private thing, and I get to witness it.

“Well, he’s here, and I don’t think he plans on going anywhere,” I say as she dabs some sort of ivory cream under her eyes. “Why are you putting on makeup, anyway? You look perfect.”