Hottest Mess (S.I.N. #2)(50)

“Archie? I—I thought Mrs. Foster was getting Dallas.”

“I’m afraid he’s not available right now.”

“Not available,” I repeat, as cold chills race up my spine, caused as much by my own fear as by the stark, unfamiliar formality of Archie’s voice. “Did he ask you to say that to me?”

“Miss Jane …”

I close my eyes in defense against the truth that I hear now in Archie’s voice. The warm, paternal voice that used to comfort me and put Bactine and bandages on my skinned knees.

“If you want to leave a message—I’m sure he just needs some time to get back to you.”

“No.” I’m fighting not to cry. “No, that’s okay.”

I hang up. I actually hang up on Archie, and then I realize that my knees are weak, and that’s because I’m not breathing. I’m too busy choking on the tears caught in my throat to catch my breath.

I slide down the cabinets until my ass is on the tile and my back is against the wood, and I’m holding my phone tight and feeling lost and needing Dallas.

But Dallas isn’t here for me—and god only knows when he will be again.

Oh, shit. Oh, f*ck.

Maybe he really is going to walk away from me. Maybe he wants us to go back to the way we used to be, desperately wanting each other, but not having. Not touching. Hardly ever even seeing each other because it was just too damn painful to be together and not give in to passion.

I would hate him for that—and he damn well knows that. But Dallas would rather I hate him than hurt me, and the more I think about it, the more I fear that this is the end.

That he is going to leave me in order to save me.

But all that will really do is destroy me.

I have to do something—I have to get through to him somehow. I have to make him see me—really see me—and believe me when I tell him that I can handle whatever he needs.

But I don’t know how to do that. I’m lost, so damn lost.

And I can think of only one person who can help me find my way.

Brody.

I pull on loose-fitting jeans and a Moschino T-shirt and tie my hair back in a messy ponytail. I jam my feet into a pair of ratty Converse skids, grab my purse, and head out into the real world. The sun is bright, the clouds are fluffy, and the temperature is pleasant in the low seventies. It’s an absolutely gorgeous day—and I’m not enjoying it at all. Instead, I’m on auto-pilot. Standing in the street. Hailing a cab. Closing my eyes and letting the rhythm of the vehicle soothe me as the taxi speeds toward the Village.

Except, of course, I’m not sootheable at all.

I pay, get out, and then climb the stairs to the main door of Brody’s building. He and Stacey rent the entire third floor of the converted townhouse, along with the roof garden that’s accessed by a private staircase. I’m about to ring the bell when the door opens and Stacey says, “Oh!”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.” She’s wearing workout gear and carrying a gym bag. “Is Brody—I mean, is it okay if I go in?”

She studies my face, and I’m sure she can see that I’ve been crying. “Of course you can. He was in the shower when I left, but he’ll be out soon. There’s coffee in the kitchen and some croissants in a bag. Make yourself at home.”

I’m eating a chocolate croissant when Brody comes into the kitchen wearing absolutely nothing. And, with the kind of aplomb that is so very Brody, he doesn’t even blink when he sees me sitting there.

I, of course, am completely flustered.

“Oh, please,” he says, dropping into a seat opposite me at the table. “Like you haven’t seen my junk before.”

“But now your junk belongs to Stacey.”

He shrugs. “And yet I still rent it out.”

I roll my eyes. Brody may be a professional dom, but he’s also my best friend. And I happen to know that he’s very limited in the clients that he actual f*cks. Still, there are a few. And Stacey is actually cool with that, which impresses the hell out of me.

Right now, I’m just glad that he’s seated. He’s still shirtless, but at least the rest of him is hidden from view.

“Considering the early hour, I’m guessing this is either the apocalypse or you’re still having Dallas issues.”

“It damn sure feels like the apocalypse,” I admit, then cringe when an unexpected tear trickles down my cheek.

“Oh, kiddo, I’m sorry.” He reaches across and squeezes my hand. “Tell me.”

I start to do exactly that—and then I realize that in order for Brody to give me the advice I crave, I have to tell him everything. I have to share my secrets. More to the point, I have to share Dallas’s.

I take a breath. “I need to tell you some things. Lots of things. But they’re private—even more than what you already know about—but I need help.” I lick my lips. “I—I thought about talking to one of my therapists, but this is—it’s sex. Except it’s more than sex. And I—”

“Hey, whatever you need. You know I won’t break your confidence.”

I nod, because I do know that.

“So tell me what’s going on.”

I try to gather my thoughts. Brody already knows a bit of what happened during our captivity. He knows that Dallas and I were together, and he knows that Dallas was tortured. But he doesn’t know the extent of it—hell, I only just learned that myself. He doesn’t know that Dallas is afraid of physically hurting me. And he doesn’t know that Dallas hasn’t been able to penetrate a woman since he and I were fifteen.