Caged (Mastered, #4)(81)
“This is why I don’t talk about it. Because now it’s about me not opening up to you—not that my brother f*cking died.”
That remark knocked the breath out of her so fast he might as well have punched her in the gut.
She steeled her resolve and her spine. “I would’ve accepted not knowing specifics about your past if you would’ve told me there were things—like your brother’s death—that were too difficult to discuss. But this? All of this together—not knowing about your twin brother, finding out you changed your name, hiding your connection to your family business—goes beyond crossing a line of privacy into . . . some f*cked-up psychological thing of yours that I can’t even begin to understand.” She couldn’t stop the tears or her voice from cracking. “I trusted you. I thought you trusted me too. But apparently not.”
“Molly—”
“I can’t . . . I’m not doing this with you. Not anymore.”
“So what? You think we’re done?”
“Goodbye, Deacon.”
She walked away, and this time he didn’t chase after her.
? ? ?
MOLLY didn’t remember driving home.
She didn’t remember getting undressed.
She didn’t remember turning off her phone, locking her door, or downing four glasses of Rumple Minze.
That’s probably why she didn’t remember much.
The alarm went off at six a.m. She climbed in the shower.
How had everything gone to hell so fast?
She’d never been in this situation.
Where her anger outweighed the hurt.
Where she wanted to scream, not cry.
Why hadn’t he told her?
Because now it’s about me not opening up to you—not that my brother f*cking died.
And now . . . it was about her not being able to tell anyone why she and Deacon were over.
? ? ?
AT the office, Presley greeted her with, “Hey, ho-bag. What’s up besides your skirt?”
For a brief moment Molly feared she’d burst into tears. But she rallied, like she always did. “Not exactly the most professional way to begin an office conversation.”
Presley’s eyes widened. “I was joking. I’m sorry. We get along so great that sometimes I forget you’re my boss and I say the same stupid stuff to you that I say to the Divas.”
“I get it. But sometimes we all need a reminder of our place.” Like Deacon did to her last night. Now she had to call in to question everything he’d ever said to her. And she hated—hated—that she’d been so damn gullible. She’d opened up to him. She’d told him things she’d never told anyone.
What had he told her?
Nothing.
Fuck. Her chin wobbled.
“Molly, you’re not acting like yourself. What is going on?”
Just say it. “Deacon and I broke up last night.”
“What?”
“We broke up and I don’t want to talk about it.”
“But—”
“Seriously, Pres, I’m hanging on by a thread. I almost couldn’t get out of bed this morning. So please, don’t push me to talk about this. It’s over.”
“Did that f*cker hurt you?”
Molly shook her head.
Presley got right in her face and bit off, “Swear to me that Deacon didn’t do anything to you to cause physical harm anywhere on your body.”
“I swear it.”
“If you change your mind and want to talk . . .”
“Thanks for your concern, but get to work. We have a lot to do today.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
DEACON had self-medicated with a bottle of scotch after the shit had gone down with Molly and Tag. He woke up late in no better mood than when he’d passed out last night.
That f*cker Tag could just f*ck the f*ck off. The instant his cousin had walked in with Molly, Deacon had known the night would turn to shit. Maybe it made him a delusional dick, but he blamed Tag. What the hell had he been thinking, contacting his cousin’s girlfriend and inviting her to dinner? Especially when Tag had made it clear they’d be discussing family business.
You’re really blaming Tag?
Yes.
Tag knew how little Deacon talked about his brother. Tag also knew Deacon and Molly’s relationship was new. Tag should’ve expected that Deacon would share the ugly truth about his past gradually. But by convincing Molly to accompany him to dinner, he’d forced the issue before Deacon had been ready to discuss it.
So f*ck yeah, he blamed his goddamn cousin. If Deacon lost Molly over this . . . He clenched his hands on his steering wheel. Fuck. No way. He couldn’t think about that right now. Right now he needed to deal with the anger consuming him, not the fear.
So when he’d entered Black Arts training room nearly three hours after he was scheduled to start training, he felt every pair of eyes on him like he was a criminal walking death row.
Maddox waited for him, his arms crossed over his chest. “What the f*ck, Deacon. You’re late.”
“No shit.”
“Where you been?”
“Doin’ cardio outside. Thought you’d be happy.”
“I’d be happy if you didn’t disappear whenever the hell you felt like it.”