Fade Into You (Shaken Dirty #3)(46)
He shook his head, and she could tell he was going to refute what she’d told him. Could tell he was going to come up with another reason as to why he wasn’t good enough. Why he couldn’t be trusted. And it made her crazy.
Before she could think better of it, before she could even try to choose her words with care, she exploded. “Jesus, Wyatt. Wake up and look around you. You’ve got a really good chance here to turn your life around, and everyone—with the exception of the label douchebags—is behind you. You should be ready to take on the world. Or at least not so hell-bent on cataloging your sins that you’re hiding from it. Can’t you see—”
“I went to a bar today,” he interrupted. “I ordered a tequila.”
For a moment, just a moment, it felt like the whole world had frozen, as all her hopes and fears came crashing down around her at the same time.
She tried to think of what she was supposed to say to that, of how she was supposed to convince him to try yet again. But then she looked at him, really looked at him, and she knew.
“You might have ordered that tequila,” she whispered, “but you didn’t drink it.”
Chapter Fifteen
For a second, he couldn’t believe that he’d heard Poppy correctly.
He’d just told her that he had ordered a drink. And her response was to have faith in him. To believe that he hadn’t taken a drink. That he hadn’t f*cked up his sobriety.
The fact that she was right, that he had left that bar completely stone-cold sober and headed straight here, mattered less than the look on her face. Less than the fact that she believed in him when she had no reason to.
For a moment, the little baggie of heroin in his pocket weighed heavy on him. Much, much heavier than the three grams it was measured out to be. He hadn’t touched the stuff since Rollo had handed it to him. Hadn’t even gone looking for a head shop to buy needles and a new kit.
Oh, he’d thought about it. Of course he’d thought about it.
He’d thought about the anticipation he felt when he was heating the powder on the spoon.
He’d thought about the sharp prick of the needle in his vein.
He sure as hell had thought about the sweet lassitude that came after he shot up, the slow burn followed by the bliss that came from nodding out. He’d thought about that a lot.
But in the end, he’d shoved the bag deep in his pocket and driven in the opposite direction from his apartment. He’d driven here, to the label’s apartment, because his need to hold Poppy, to kiss her and feel her come, was even greater than his need for the drugs.
From one addiction to another, he thought wryly. And how ironic was it that her name was Poppy, when for years that little red flower had been the biggest nemesis in his life. And now there was her. Somehow, after only a few days, what she thought of him—how she looked at him—was more important than being numb.
He didn’t get it, would probably never get it, but for now he was going with it. It was so much better than the alternative, after all.
“How’d you know?” he asked hoarsely, his hand shoved deep in his pocket where he could feel the cool plastic of the heroin baggie. “I could have chewed gum before I got here.”
“Because I’m getting to know you,” she answered, crossing the room until she was only a few scant inches from him. “And no matter what you tell yourself, no matter how bad the cravings get, I know you’re so much stronger than that.”
“Just because you believe that doesn’t make it true.”
“Sure it does. That’s the power of positive thinking.” She reached for him then, wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled his body flush against hers. “Besides, it’s not whether I believe it that matters. It’s whether you believe it.”
Her hand slipped under his T-shirt, her fingers dancing lightly up his spine as she pressed her breasts against his chest, her sex against his thigh.
And just that easily, she had him. Just that easily, the edges dulled on the craving that had been riding him hard ever since he’d woken up that morning, replaced by the desperate need for her currently pounding through his blood. Through his brain.
Through his dick.
“Fuck,” he told her on a groan. “You feel good.”
“So do you,” she said, her voice just a little breathier than it had been mere moments before. “So, so good.”
She slid a hand into his hair, pulled his face down to hers. And then her mouth was on his, her tongue licking its way along the seam of his lips. He opened to her because he had to, because he couldn’t not let her in when she was holding him so carefully. Kissing him so tenderly. Making him feel so much—and so good—when earlier all he’d wanted was to be numb.
But standing here with her right now—breathing in the sweet strawberry scent of her breath, feeling the way her soft breasts rose with each jagged inhalation, hearing the broken little cries she made as her body strained against his—he wouldn’t trade this feeling for all the numbness in the world. Wouldn’t trade Poppy in his arms for any amount of heroin.
It was a terrifying thought—and a tantalizing one. This idea that with her he could find surcease from the torment that had ridden him for far too long.
With a groan, he pulled her closer. Held her tighter. Kissed her harder, until she was moaning, too, her hands clutching desperately at his hair as she nipped and sucked and licked at his lips, his tongue, the corner of his mouth.