I wanted to be angry with him. I wanted to be upset and sad. But I couldn’t be. Not when he touched me and held me like his life depended on it. Not when my own feelings were jangled and raw from my burst of self-realization.

I loved Maxx Demelo. I felt it deep in my bones.

I was bursting with wanting to tell him. To lay my heart at his feet as easily as he had done. I imagined the way his eyes would light up when I told him. I fantasized about his reaction. He would kiss me, make love to me, worship me with his beautiful words.

But I love you was quickly being swallowed by other things.

Primarily it was the life he led when we were apart, the life I hated as surely as I loved the man who lived it.

The need to protect what little hold I had left on my heart rendered me mute. So the words remained unspoken, even as they tattooed their presence on my heart.

“I won’t be there long. Just a few hours. Why don’t you stay here, just like this? So that when I get home, I can do this,” Maxx replied huskily, rolling me onto my back and fitting himself between my thighs.

I had learned that Maxx used sex as a way of shutting me up. When I questioned him or expressed concern, he’d flop me on my back and fuck me into silence.

And while I couldn’t help but enjoy the methods he used to control the direction of our conversations, it was also frustrating.

So when he pressed the tip of himself between my wet, warm folds, kissing me so that our talk was finished, I resisted.

I pulled my hips back even as my body begged to join with his. I tore my mouth away and turned my head to the side. I pushed against his chest. “I want to go to Compulsion, Maxx. Please, take me with you,” I pleaded.

I’m not sure why I was making a big deal about going to the club with him on Saturday. Except that I was tired of spending my weekends wondering what he was doing while he was there, though I didn’t have to imagine too hard to figure it out.

While he tried really hard to keep the drugs away from me, I knew they were still there. The bitch demanded so much of his time. While he denied his addiction was there at all, it was a constant presence in our relationship. And he gave her, his need for pills, more attention than he gave me.

I was jealous.

I was scared.

Maxx was turning me into a mess of emotions both good and bad. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to help him. Here I was, studying to become an addictions counselor, and I couldn’t do anything for the man I had fallen in love with.

Every time I had tried to bring up his drug use, he claimed that there wasn’t a problem, that I needed to stop worrying about him. He didn’t see himself the way I did, as a sad, desperate man who had no idea of the destruction he was unleashing on himself. He thought he had it under control. He thought he was in charge. He thought that he could hide the worst of it from me, that I’d never know.

He was so, so wrong.

I could tell the difference between the Maxx who was high as a kite and the Maxx in the grips of withdrawal, both of which were starting to occur with more frequency and severity, and the Maxx who fell somewhere in between.

The two extremes were quickly becoming the only state he lived in. The in-between Maxx was slipping away. I knew he struggled, he hurt, he craved. And though he didn’t use in front of me, not since that time after we went to see his brother, I knew he still spent the majority of his time high.

I wanted to press him, demand to know the truth, but I was scared to. I knew that if I did, he’d freeze me out, and then I’d never have a chance to help him. So I let myself be quieted, hating that I was allowing it, yet frantic for him all the same. I was letting him use our bodies to make us both forget the truth.

But I was growing weary of my willful ignorance. I was frustrated with the levels of my own denial. I was sick and tired of turning a blind eye even as Maxx shredded us both.

I wanted to go to the club with Maxx.

I had decided that being with him was a hell of a lot better than obsessing about it all alone. All I could think about in those dark hours until I saw him again was whether this would be the time he wouldn’t come home at all. I was afraid that eventually the limits wouldn’t matter and he’d go over the edge.

Maxx let out an irritated breath and sagged his body, resting his forehead on my collarbone. “Why is it such a big deal to you?” he asked, sounding annoyed. “You’ve been there, and I can tell it’s not your scene.”

I pushed out from under him and rolled onto my side. I folded my hands beneath my cheek and regarded him steadily. “Because I want to be with you. I hate waiting around for you to come home, wondering what you’re doing,” I explained.

Maxx folded his arm under his head and looked up at me, lines forming between his eyebrows. “You know what I do there, Aubrey,” he said softly. Yes. I knew what he did at Compulsion. He made money selling drugs to the miserable and hopeless. How could I ever accept this part of him?

“You don’t want to see that,” he finished, running the pad of his thumb along my bottom lip.

I kissed his finger before saying, “But I want to be with you.”

“How can I ever say no to you?” he asked me, smiling. My stomach knotted up at his statement.

Because it was a lie.

I didn’t have the power to make him stop using drugs. He’d deny me if I asked him to never sell drugs again. I knew what his response would be if I insisted he stay away from Compulsion and all the temptations it held for him.

As much as Maxx wanted me, as much as he loved me, my influence went only so far. And he was still saying no to me each and every day.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at nine. I have some stuff to do before then,” Maxx said, wrapping an arm around my waist and dragging me across the bed. “Now can we get back to this?” he asked, picking up my leg and hooking it up and over his hip. He dipped his hand between our bodies.

“Yes,” I breathed out, followed by a guttural groan as Maxx pushed two fingers inside me. He moved his hand, his mouth conquering mine, and once again I let myself forget.

* * *

“So I’m finally going to meet the mystery man?” Renee asked on Saturday evening. I was getting dressed to go to the club with Maxx. I was a bundle of nerves. This was a big step for us. He was taking me into his world, by his side, where it would be obvious who we were to each other.

We had gone through the early days of our relationship within the walls of his apartment. We had a connection built in secret. Aside from the day we went sledding, we had spent very little time in public. We had been out to dinner a few times, a movie twice. But the majority of our time was spent in the safety of his home.

This was taking our relationship out into the open. This was announcing to everyone that he was mine. It was exciting and terrifying at the same time.

Because I knew who I’d be walking into the club with. It wasn’t my Maxx. It was the Maxx who belonged to everybody else.

I was forcing two worlds to smash into each other.

I was nervous and fitful about the possibilities this night would bring. While Renee was happy to finally meet the guy who had twisted me up inside, I wished my feelings could be that simple.

“I suppose,” I answered, pulling a short red dress over my head. I was borrowing my outfit from Renee, who had insisted. And it was short, as in barely-covering-my-ass short. I felt way too much air where I shouldn’t be feeling it.

“Well, you look amazing. What are you guys doing tonight?” she asked, but before I could answer, her phone vibrated in her hand. Without bothering to look at the screen she turned it off.

“Was that Devon again?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Renee said, giving me one of her all-too-common forced smiles.

“Still being his charming self?” I couldn’t help asking. Renee gave me a look but then snorted.

“Of course,” she replied, walking over to my jewelry box and digging through it. I wisely let the subject drop. I knew she didn’t want to talk about it, and I was freaking out too badly to dig for more than she was willing to give.

“I knew you still had these!” she accused good-naturedly as she held up a pair of dangly earrings with huge sparkly stones at the bottom.

“I am not wearing those,” I told her. I remembered all too well how Renee got when she wanted to play makeover. When we first became friends she had made it her mission to revamp my wardrobe, getting a lot of joy out of introducing me to stilettos and earrings the size of melons.

I hadn’t been subjected to her ministrations in quite some time, but it was easy to recall how much I hated them.

“Oh yes you are. And . . .” She trailed off, going through my shoes and coming up with a matching pair of black strappy things with heels as tall as skyscrapers.

“I’ll break my neck!” I complained, but Renee put them down in front of me, and I oh so carefully slipped them on.

I tried standing up in the four-inch heels Renee was insisting I wear. I stuck one foot out and examined the modern torture device attached to my foot.

“Really, Renee? Why not put spikes on the bottom of my feet? These bitches are gonna kill my toes! I’m going to need to amputate a few by the end of the night,” I groaned, hating the way the shoes pinched my skin.

Renee rolled her eyes and laughed at my pained expression. “You always did make dressing up a chore. Just trust me. Your man will be drooling at your feet,” she said, smiling at my reflection in the mirror. I met her eyes, and there was a moment when I thought things would be okay.