Fall Into You (Morally Gray, #2)(5)
He shrugs. “Only everybody.”
“It doesn’t bother you?”
“You ever watch one of those documentaries on serial killers? Ted Bundy, Jeffrey Dahmer, those kind of guys?”
“Yes. Why?”
“The first thing the neighbors always say when they find out they’ve been living next to a guy who chops people up and eats them is, ‘He seemed so normal.’”
“So you’re telling me you’re not going to dismember me for your weekend barbeque?”
“I’m telling you that the more normal someone seems, the more skeletons they’ve got buried in their backyard. Which you already know.”
“How so?”
“I’d bet my house your clown of an ex seemed like the most well-adjusted man you’d ever met…at first. Then eventually the mask fell off, and you saw the monster underneath.”
It’s like he read a script of my entire relationship with Chet. The accuracy of all his assumptions is unnerving. But only because it makes me feel so naked. So seen.
A feeling I haven’t enjoyed in a very long time.
“Yes. But he never regarded himself like that. It takes a man with a good heart to recognize when he’s the monster in someone else’s story. The courage it takes to break his own heart to save another’s proves he’s not really a monster. He’s a hero. He just wants to think of himself as the bad guy so he never gets hurt again.”
The silence stretches until it’s taut and thrumming. Now we’re not even trying to pretend the eye contact is anything but sexually charged.
When the waiter arrives at our tableside and asks if we need something, we both say “Yes” at the same time without looking away from each other.
Many months later, after both our hearts are battered and bloodied, after all our tears have been shed and we’re strangers once again, I’ll look back on this moment and realize I was already lost.
Cole
She’s beautiful, this woman with green eyes, a razor wit, and a weakness for men who need therapy. Beautiful, smart, and observant, which makes her the kind of dangerous I should be walking away from right the fuck now.
My feet have other ideas. They refuse to move, though I keep insisting they take us as far away from her as we can get.
They’re not my only body part she’s mesmerized.
My dick, my heart, and every nerve under my skin all ache for her.
Into the awkward silence, the waiter clears his throat. “Another whiskey, sir?”
“Make it two.”
I say it in a tone he understands correctly as a dismissal. He withdraws, leaving Shay and me alone in our tense little bubble.
I say, “Don’t romanticize me.”
“I’m not. It was simply an observation. The bad guys never think they’re the bad guys. They’re too busy pointing fingers and blaming everyone else for making them do what they did. Besides, I don’t have any romance left in me. Chet cured me of that.”
I curl my lip in disgust. “Chet? Even his name sounds clownish.”
“Really? I think it’s a nice name. Masculine.”
“Not masculine. Boyish. I’m picturing a sporty blond with perfect teeth and too much product in his hair.”
She smiles.
I wish I could take a picture of that smile. It could end wars.
“That description is so accurate, it’s disturbing. Tell me more.”
“He works out every day. Gets spray tans. Calls everyone ‘bro.’ Never shuts up about his Rolex. Watches himself in a mirror when he fucks. Has one of those smug, entitled faces you want to punch as soon as you see it.”
Shay blinks rapidly, shaking her head. “This is uncanny. Do you know him?”
“I know the type. Prep school frat boy fuckwit.”
Her laugh is so attractive and disarming, I have to clench my molars together to stop from kissing her.
I can’t remember the last time I had this kind of physical response to someone. Maybe never. There must be magnets under our skin, drawing us closer together.
“You and Chelsea would really get along.”
“Why’s that?”
“She calls him the twatwaffle.”
I pause to think. “Interesting visual. But how the fuck—and I mean this in the most respectful way possible—did a woman like you fall for a cunt like that?”
Her laughter dies. She sits there looking stunned, which makes me feel like an asshole.
“I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
“No, not at all. It just struck me that I’ve never heard a man call another man a cunt before. It’s strangely satisfying.”
“It’s a very versatile word.”
We’re staring at each other again. It’s becoming a habit. I never want to stop.
What the fuck is she doing to me?
Because I’m so unsteady, my words come out more angrily than I intended. “So he cheated on you.”
“Oh my God.”
“What?”
“How do you know that?”
She’s visibly upset. The pulse in the side of her neck is throbbing. I want to press my lips against it. I want to bury my face in her hair. Instead, I stare into her eyes and fight the desire heating my entire body.