Let Me (O'Brien Family, #2)(38)

The rage I did know about, not only because he told me, but primarily because of his chosen career. Boxers, MMA fighters, people who get paid to knock someone out, don’t just fight because it’s something they’re good at. There’s always more to it: a history of pain, some past trauma. I don’t know much about Finn’s childhood. But he’s mentioned his absentee father who cheated on his mother, so I know enough to assume it wasn’t ideal. Recognizing as much should scare me, yet it never has. That numbness, however, does scare me.

“When you say you feel numb, what do you mean?”

He shrugs, kicking at bits of remaining salt littering the lot. “It’s hard explain. I sort of check out. My mind’s still there, but my body isn’t. It’s like if someone were to come up to me and stab me in the gut, I’m not so sure I’d feel it, at least not as much as I should. The initial sharpness of that knife going in might be there, but the twist and burn would likely fade away.”

My mouth falls open as the power of his words dig in. Everything he says should have me stepping further away. This is a man who’s deeply hurt. So then why is it taking me everything not to throw my arms around him?

He frowns as he looks up to where a crowd of young men have started to gather at the corner, motioning in our direction.

“Check her out,” one of the bigger ones says.

“Get in the car,” Finn tells me, as the entire group looks our way.

I do as he asks and lock the door, quickly starting the engine. It’s not a bad area since we’re outside of the city, but teens sometimes do stupid things and it’s best not to wait around for them to act on their stupidity.

Finn, being street, doesn’t rush to the other side, even after I hurry to unlock the passenger door. He pushes off the car and walks in slow careful strides toward one of the older teens when he leaves the group and treads in our direction. Another young man follows behind him, but the way the remaining few exchange glances, they aren’t far behind.

“You have a problem with me?” Finn asks, meeting the leader square in the face.

The command in his voice freezes them in place, but Finn doesn’t wait for them to change their minds and continues advancing. The teens know they’re in trouble, and begin to back away fast.

It’s only then Finn stops. He keeps his eye on the group, returning to my car and slipping inside only after they disappear around the corner.

When you’re a city kid, you learn real fast who’s just talking to talk and who has the goods to back it up. Thank you baby Jesus in the manger playing with his toes, those kids knew enough to back away.

I shift into gear and drive around the building. “Where are you parked?” I ask, trying to keep my motions steady.

“Next building, rear lot. There wasn’t an open spot on this side when I arrived.” His body is relaxed, but I know he remains on edge and it’s not solely because of those dumb kids.

“You were saying you don’t feel numb around me,” I remind him, knowing I can’t let something so serious go and that we’re almost out of time. “Is that a good thing?”

“Very good,” he says, placing his hand on my thigh.

The movement is light, innocent, avoiding any intimate parts, yet so sexually charged, it hitches my breath. However, I’m Latina by heritage and Philly by nature. So despite his panty-dropping performance back there, and the way his light strokes make my girl parts zing, I lift his hand and fling it away.

“You don’t get to touch me this way,” I tell him. “Not after the way you treated me.”

“All right,” he says.

“All right?” I ask, my brakes squeaking to a stop in front of his truck. “Is that all you have to say?”

And there’s that dimple. “I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to.” The corner of his mouth tilts. “And maybe kiss you, too.”

I set my car in park and sigh. “Finn, what are you trying to do to me?”

“I’m just trying to tell you I like you, Sol.”

“Then why did you push me away when I―” I can’t even bring myself to say what I did. “I don’t like games,” I tell him, wanting to sound stronger than I feel.

“So you don’t want to hear it’s me, not you?” he offers.

If he means to make me smile and ease the tension, he failed. “Only if it really is you,” I say, the sadness in my voice so evident, I know I can’t mask it.

“It is, baby,” he says, leaning in. He lifts his hand to caress my face, but then pulls away as if remembering he’s not supposed to touch me. He slumps back in his seat, or at least he tries to, but the muscles along his shoulders remain rigid. “I liked what you were doing, it felt really damn good.”

I don’t typically talk about sex and foreplay with the men I’ve had sex and foreplay with. It’s something that simply happens, and then becomes this unspoken fact after all is said and done. But as young as we are, we are adults, so it’s time to step up and behave like one.

When I speak, I mean to keep my voice firm, but my insecurities from that night spill into it, reducing it to a whisper. “That’s not what it seemed like. You kept jumping, like I was hurting you. But when I tried to be less aggressive it didn’t seem to help.”