Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(66)

“Hi, honeybunch.” This man—Viggo—closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Oliver, pulling him close, before he smacks a kiss on his cheek.

The world darkens. Blood roars in my ears. I want to rip his arms off. I want to yank him by the collar and throw him out the window and wipe every trace of his touch off Oliver’s body.

Fuck. I’m shaking, rage and shock and possessive hurt slicing through me, revealing the raw, undeniable truth: I want Oliver. All of him.

I know I can’t have him forever, but I want him for however long I can. Until whatever it is that finally finishes me off from professional play and I disappear to lick my wounds and figure out what the hell to do with myself. I want him to myself. To drive wild and hold and give him hell and please and protect him from handsy, lanky, mangy-bearded fuckers with no respect for personal space.

“Get off,” Oliver tells him, wiping his cheek as he scowls at this Viggo. “What are you doing?”

“I came to help,” he says, shrugging and going back to raiding the fridge.

“He already has help,” I growl, then turn toward Oliver. “Do you want him out?”

Oliver blinks my way, eyes wide. “What?”

“Do. You. Want. Him. Out?” I ask. “I will gladly remove him from your property.”

The man glances over his shoulder as he tosses a handful of blueberries into his mouth. “Not very hospitable of you.”

“Not the hospitable type,” I tell him. “Especially if he doesn’t want you here.”

The man flashes a smile beneath that gnarly beard that makes the hair on my neck stand on end. It feels…vaguely familiar. “What’s he to you?” the man asks.

“Viggo,” Oliver says sharply. “This isn’t funny. Get out.”

The man shuts the fridge with his hip, glancing between us. “I take it I’m not needed, then.”

“Absofuckinglutely not,” I snap.

Oliver peers at me curiously, before he turns back to Viggo and glares. “I know what you’re doing, and it’s messed up. I told you I was going to figure this out on my own, and I did. Now go. Raid someone else’s fridge.”

Viggo sighs. “Fine.” Pushing off the fridge, he walks back through the living room, tugging on his shoes. He flashes another wide smile Oliver’s way, then at me. “Enjoy your evening, gents.”

With a salute, he swipes his keys off the table and slips out the door, shutting it quietly behind him.

I turn back toward Oliver. “What the hell was that?”

Oliver crumples onto a stool at his kitchen island and buries his face in his hands. “A man trying to make a horse wear swimming trunks.”

“What the fuck does that mean? Are you delirious? Dehydrated?”

His laugh echoes inside the space of his hands. “I’m going to throttle him,” he mutters.

“Oliver,” I growl, making his head snap up. “What was that? Who the hell was that?”

Silence hangs in the space between us. Too late do I realize how…intense I sounded. How much I’ve just revealed.

Slowly, Oliver spins on the stool and cocks his head. “What does it matter?”

I glance away, dragging a hand through my hair, wracking my brain for how to salvage this and cover my ass. “A man just…walked into your house and raided your fucking refrigerator.”

He stares at me, then finally says, “So?”

“So?” I throw up my hands. “That’s weird, invasive shit.”

Oliver snorts. “Viggo to a T.”

My jaw clenches. “Why…was he here, just, walking into your house like that…” I try to hold back the words, but they force their way out. “Touching you like that?”

His fingertips drum softly across the counter. He stares at me. “I’m going to ask you again, why does it matter?”

“It doesn’t,” I lie, anger and panic knotting inside me. I can’t stay. I can’t care. I try to find that place inside myself that I slip into every day—cold, contained, detached. But it’s like the lights are out inside me and I can’t find that familiar door, that escape I so desperately need as Oliver pushes off his stool and walks toward me, hands in his pockets.

“Fine, then,” he says, shrugging. “If it doesn’t matter, then you don’t need to know.”

“Goddammit, Bergman.”

He rolls his shoulders back, chin high and proud, holding my eyes. “What, Hayes?”

I hear the air sawing out of my lungs, feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears, in my limbs. “Don’t push me.”

He takes another step closer. “Now you want answers. What happened to ‘We agreed we’d move on’?”

My hands are tight, aching fists. I don’t trust them not to wrap their hands around him, pin him against me, hold him tight while I give that tart mouth what it deserves: a deep, punishing kiss. Many of them.

“This is different,” I finally manage.

He tips his head. “How? You’ve made it clear you’re past what happened. What does it matter to you who’s in my house or what goes on with them?”

I don’t have an answer for that. I can’t explain myself. I can’t admit how the past three weeks have been the worst kind of torture.