I will her to give in and speak, but when she does, it’s not what I want to hear.
“No.”
Who knew one word could hurt so badly?
“Please,” I implore.
“Seriously?” Her voice screeches at the end.
“Come on, Skit. Ple—”
“DON’T.” The word comes out as a whisper and a yell. “Go home, Mason. I’m not getting into this here.”
I hate that she’s calling me Mason. It’s like we’re back to when we first met, when she did her best to keep me from getting close, like dropping the shorthand of my name is just one more way to keep me at arm’s length.
I didn’t put up with it then, and I’m sure as shit not going to now. I widen my stance and cross my own arms. I’m not going anywhere.
“Dennings.” Bad Boy—I think she called him King earlier—holds up a small black card, similar to a hotel keycard, pinching it between his fingers. When Kay glances his way, he jerks a chin at the warehouse-looking building.
I don’t think my heart beats at all while Kay stares at the tiny piece of plastic.
“Thanks, King.” Her entire body sags under the weight of the sigh she expels, but she accepts the offering, not even waiting to see if I’ll comply before pushing herself up and striding toward the structure.
Every eye in the vicinity is on me, each of them asking, Well? You going to go after her or what?
Inhaling a deep breath and a nod of encouragement from Trav, I jog to follow, my hand catching the door a second before it latches.
I pause at the threshold, taking in another deep breath, praying I can find the right words to fix my epic mistake.
“Kay?” My voice echoes in the vast space, the scent of leather and motor oil hitting my nose as I take in the handful of sick sport bikes and the matte black Camaro she’s perched on the trunk of.
My steps falter at how broken she looks with her feet propped on the bumper, elbows braced on her spread knees, face buried in her hands.
Seeing her like this makes every muscle inside me feel like it’s been pummeled and in need of an ice bath.
She doesn’t move when I call her name. In fact, she doesn’t react at all until I lean a hip against the car and reach out a hand to touch her back.
“Don’t.” It’s a strangled plea.
“Please, Kay.”
Her head whips around and she shoots daggers at me with her eyes. “What, Mason? What could you want from me?”
There’s my full name again. I swallow it down and ask, “Can we talk? Please?”
Her eyes widen in shock. “Talk? Talk? Are you kidding me with that?”
It feels like I’m buzzing underneath my skin. I’ve admitted to myself and to others that I fucked up, but I don’t think I understood the extent of it until now. I’ve never seen her seem this…distraught before.
“Please?”
“What’s different about today?” She drops her gaze, running her thumb back and forth over the skinny purple metallic paint outline of the glossy black racing stripes. “I wanted to talk to you the other day and you shut me down. It didn’t matter what I had to say, or that I could explain. It didn’t matter that that particular post was taken out of context. No. All that mattered was what was posted on social media. So please, please tell me why I should talk to you when you wouldn’t give me the same courtesy.”
Her words and the pain evident in them tear my already beaten heart to shreds.
“Look.” I grip the back of my neck to keep from reaching for her again. “I’m sorry, okay.”
“You’re sorry?” she squeaks, each sign of her pain stabbing me like a hot poker.
“Yes, Kay.” I put every bit of sincerity I have into my words. “I fucked up, I know.”
“Yeah you did.”
I hate that she still won’t look at me.
“You know what I don’t get?” she says, finally lifting her head so I can see her face, the rims around her eyes red. “You”—she points to me—“pursued me”—points to herself. “You were the one who actively sought me out.” She repeats her pointing. “You barreled your way into my life.”
She’s right. From the moment I saw her—even when I thought she belonged to another—I felt drawn to her. If she thinks I’m going to give up after having her, loving her, knowing what it feels like to be loved by her, she has another thing coming.
Two days ago, the ghosts of my past had me throwing in the towel. Not anymore. Time to leave the past where it belongs—in the past. I’m recovering my fumble and running it in for the most important touchdown of my life—my future.
“Lord knows I haven’t been perfect in our relationship.” She buries her hands in her hair, fingers tangling in the straightened locks with a tug. “I was scared and kept things a secret because of my fears, but I never lied to you.”
“So what I really want to know, Kayla—if that’s even your real name—”
I shake off the memory. “I kno—”
She throws up a hand, cutting me off. “Yet that’s exactly what you accused me of doing.”
“Were you even bullied? Or is that just some lie you used to get me to stop pushing the issue of posting about us on my social media?”
My mouth opens to speak, but nothing comes out. I genuinely don’t know what to say. I decide to go with the truth. “You weren’t the only one who kept secrets.”
“What secrets could you have that would lead to you coming over to my dorm only to accuse me of cheating on you by thrusting a picture of JT and me in my face? A five-year-old picture was your great proof, proof that PF was some alternate identity I used to…what? Have
