Losing You (Stars On Fire Book 4) (21 page)

Tom put his arms on her biceps and spun her around, his cock now resting between her ass cheeks. Not any better, but at least he wasn’t looking into her sorrowful eyes. He yanked her towards him so her back was against his chest, and his cock fell between her thighs.

Her hands gripped his hips and she turned her head so they were eye to eye, the conflict in her dark-as-night eyes easy to see. Easy to fall back into and he did. He kissed her hard, groaning when her lips opened for him. He assaulted her mouth, her fingers digging into his hips as he did so. With a simple lift of his hips, he could easily slide his dick in her. He teased them both with that knowledge, rubbing the head against her wet opening.

Too much . . .

He ripped his mouth from hers, moving his lips to her ear, his hands going to her breasts and squeezing them. His cock was so close to the heat of her pussy that he could feel it flutter with his actions.

Enough.

He had to stop.

He had to say goodbye.

He had to walk out of there with his dignity intact.

Nipping on her ear, he began his goodbye. “I should have felt you up the day I met you. I should have claimed you then. I should have screamed, ‘She’s mine.’ But I didn’t. What a fool I was. I love you, Mia. God . . . I fucking love you,” he said, using his hands on her breasts to pull her to him in an embrace. Then he released her breasts, his hands sliding down her torso and over her hips until they were by his side again. With a strengthening breath, he stepped away from his heart. “Goodbye, baby girl.”

Tom

He had no idea how he got on the highway. The numbness clouded his mind. He was on auto-pilot and found it hard to even care. Before he went home, Tom stopped at the liquor store and picked up a few cases of beer. He had a feeling he’d be getting trashed tonight.

After he finally pulled into his driveway and went inside, he grabbed a beer and put the rest in the fridge. Then he stood there, looking at his empty house. All those fucking dreams of spending the rest of his life with Mia, of filling this house with their children . . . gone.

A guttural scream tore through him, full of pain and dis-fucking-belief.

The bottle in his hand flew at the wall, shattering all over the place, and he didn’t fucking care.

The fridge rattled when he yanked the door open to get another beer. Setting the cap on the counter, he hit it and watched as it sputtered to the floor and the hoppy foam trickled out of the bottle. He put it to his mouth and took a healthy drink. With his beer in hand, Tom crossed the open space to the living area and stared at the couch . . . the same one he fucked Mia on. If he sat down on it, he was sure he’d smell her on it. The same with his bed.

Tom changed course and went to his office. First thing he did was to head to the mantel and slam the picture of him and Mia over, then he went to his desk and turned on the TV, hoping that the Cubs were on late. He didn’t even know what fucking day it was. Normally he could recite the schedule if asked, but he had no clue now.

At least one damn thing was going right tonight
, he thought as the Cubs game came on the television screen. Up four to nothing in the bottom of the second.

He let the game numb his mind as he drank beer after beer so that when his phone rang, it took him a moment to register it. When he picked it up and saw Lizzie’s name, he answered.

“Tom? You there?”

“Yeah . . . I guess,” he answered, turning down the volume of the game.

“You guess?” she laughed. “You sound drunk.”

“’Cause I am.”

“Alone?”

“Yes,” he said tersely.

“Well, I’m headed over.”

“I’m not good company,” Tom protested.

“At least you won’t be alone.”

“It’s late.”

“Do you really want to be alone?” she asked.

“No,” he answered. He wanted to be in Mia’s bed, wrapped up in her. And even though he loved his best friend, his broken heart wanted Mia.

“I’m on my way. Can I get in?”

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. From the garage.”

“Fifteen minutes,” she said then hung up.

True to her word, Lizzie arrived, cursing when she stepped on the glass in the kitchen. He heard her clean it up but couldn’t make himself get up to go help.

“Tom?” she called out.

With a sigh, he pushed himself up from his desk and shuffled out of the room. When he saw Lizzie, it looked like she had a frown on her face, but she was blurry, so he moved closer. His feet didn’t want to cooperate with him and he stumbled right into her.

“Sorry,” he said, gripping her arms.

“You’re plastered.”

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

“Too much talking,” he said, trying to walk away, but tripping up on his own feet. Without another word, Lizzie linked her arm with his and led him to the living room where she deposited him on the sofa. While she searched for the TV remote, he wiped the tears from his eyes. He couldn’t smell Mia.

“Movie or SportsCenter?” she asked, sitting down beside him.

“SportsCenter,” he answered. She switched to the program and he caught up on the scores from the day’s games. Then the show shifted focus to football and when Ethan’s picture flashed on the screen, he asked Lizzie to change it to a movie.

When his head fell to her lap, she ran her fingers through his hair. It felt good and he focused on it.

“Tom, what’s wrong?” she asked after a few minutes of silence.

He didn’t know what to tell her. Every fucking thing was wrong. Everything.

“Tom . . .”

“He’s in rehab, Bits,” he blurted out. “So for twenty-eight days or however long people stay in rehab, he’ll be safe.”

Her hand stopped in his hair, and he cursed himself.
Not smooth, Tom.

“How did you find out?” she asked.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does too!” she protested.

“No, Lizzie. It doesn’t. None of it matters. Marc’s in rehab. You know where he is. Does it matter
where
you got the information?”

“What happened to you tonight?” she asked, switching gears on him. He got up and went to the kitchen.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said over his shoulder as he grabbed another beer.

“It does too,” Lizzie countered. It fucking felt like this conversation kept repeating itself.

“None of it fucking matters,” he yelled. “The outcome is still the same. Nothing we can do to change that. Nothing. They have minds of their fucking own. They don’t care that their choices hurt others.”

“Who’s ‘they’?” Lizzie asked.

Her question had him look over in her direction. She gripped the island’s counter, her knuckles white, as she regarded him, her eyes wide and glassy. He knew his words were hurting her, but he couldn’t stop them. She needed to stop asking him questions, then maybe he could shut the hell up.

“I’m heading to bed,” he announced instead of answering her question. He placed the full beer on the island and headed towards the stairs.

“Tom!” Lizzie shouted, her voice full of frustration stopping him at the foot of the steps.

“Bits, I want this night to end so I’m going to bed. You want to be with me, that’s where you’re going too,” he answered and continued up to his bedroom.

After a few moments, he heard her stomping footsteps, but didn’t know whether it was to the back door to leave or to the stairs to be with him. He entered his room just as he heard her footsteps on the stairs.

Methodically, Tom took off his shirt and placed it on the chair, then sat down on the bed to take off his jeans. When he looked up, his pint-sized best friend stood angrily in front of him.

“You’re a rude drunk,” she accused, swiping his T-shirt from the chair.

Tom tossed his jeans where his shirt once was and watched as Lizzie spun around and went to the other side of the bed. Craning his neck, he stared at her while she ripped off her jeans and her blouse with angry movements and stood there in only her underwear. He wasn’t so drunk as to not notice her, and he did.

“Stop staring at me,” she said, pulling his shirt over her head, blocking his show.

He didn’t know how it happened but she was pulling her bra through one of the sleeves and tossed it on the rest of her clothes. Magic.

She got into bed, her legs stretched out in front of her. Tom fell back, his head landing in her lap. He situated himself so he was further away from her knees and closer to her hands that rested on her stomach. His eyes didn’t leave hers, not when he reached out and placed his hand on hers. Nor when he took her hand and put it on his head. She smiled sadly at him.

He pushed his head at her hand, like a dog wanting to be petted. When her fingers began to comb his hair, he sighed contently, but turned around because her green eyes were trying to find a way to get him to crack. His eyelids got heavier with each caress of her hand. He focused all his energy on that magic, the way she absently drew shapes on his scalp, the way she seemed to touch each and every hair on his head.

She stopped when his lips found her inner thigh. He pressed them to her soft skin and with his mouth still moistening the skin, he spoke. “I love her, Bits, but she loves another more,” he admitted, the words like daggers to his heart. His face fell into the thigh he’d just kissed as his tears fell. “I love her so fuckin’ much.”

Lizzie

Rehab.

Her boyfriend was in rehab.

Or was it ex-boyfriend?

She didn’t know the answer to that and wouldn’t until she spoke with Marc.

But there was a part of her that knew. Lizzie repeatedly beat that part down with a bat.

She wanted her boyfriend. She wanted him right here in front of her. She wanted to see him, touch him, and know that he was okay.

Knowing he was in rehab did nothing for her. It didn’t answer her questions. Actually, she only had more. Who told Tom? Was it his girlfriend? If that was the case, how the hell did she know about Marc?

Too many damn questions.

She needed answers.

Leaping off the sofa, she stalked off to her study and flipped open her laptop. After it booted up, she loaded her internet browser and typed two words into the search engine: Beckett Kerr.

Her eyes widened at all the results. Not as easy as she’d hoped. Pushing away from her desk, she stood up and went to the kitchen for a glass of wine, because going through all this definitely called for it.

Sitting back down, Lizzie took a sip of the wine then went to work, reading through the search results. She still couldn’t believe that Beckett Kerr, bestselling author, was Marc’s father. The Beckett Kerr whose dark and suspenseful novels had been made into seriously successful movies, some of which Lizzie had seen.

When she got to the articles about Beckett’s suicide, that’s where she gleaned the most information. Marc’s parents divorced when he was three. His mom quickly remarried and had Clark within a year. Marc spent school breaks and holidays with his dad. The day of his suicide, Marc had arrived to spend Spring Break with his father who, according to reports, failed to pick up his son from the airport. Marc had taken a taxi to his father’s house and arrived just as his dad had pulled the trigger.

“Holy shit!” Lizzie said to herself when she read that line. Even though Clark had told her that, reading it along with everything else came as a shock.

Marc saw it. He’d called for help and while he waited, watched his dad die.

“I’d have nightmares after that,” she said, gulping down her wine.

Lizzie understood a little better why Marc had used drugs, but not the day she found him. Though she hated to admit that her choice to see Tom over him before heading out on another business trip may have contributed to him using that day. Her choice influenced his. If she had made a different choice . . .

What? What would have happened?

He wouldn’t have used?

He wouldn’t have run away?

Maybe.

But she
had
made that choice and he had made his. It wasn’t going to change because she knew more.

He’d still be gone.