Elizabeth Finn - Unforgiven

The last five miles were the hardest. She could barely sit still in the seat, and she caught her expression in the side mirror once just to see a full-on grimace. Her mother reached for her hand, giving her a reassuring squeeze.

“Bailey.” Her voice was quiet now, and she kept her eyes on the road as she wound them through the hilly curves slowly getting closer to home. “The rest of your life starts today.”

Bailey breathed steadily as she watched one curve in the road disappear after another. “What if I can’t do this? These people hate me.”

“This isn’t going to be easy, but I know how strong you are. You can do this.”

Bailey stared straight ahead. She refused to look around, though she recognized everything now. She was too afraid to look. She wanted to curl up on the floor and hide like a child. Could she really come back to this place after so long? Her family had fallen apart; she was responsible for destroying another family as well. However recognizable this place might be, everything was different. And he was here.

Somewhere he was near. Could she handle that, knowing he was so close? She couldn’t conceive of seeing him again, and she closed her eyes and prayed she wouldn’t. He must hate her, and there was just no getting past hate like that. She knew in her gut that friendship was gone. That respect and admiration had been destroyed. He could never see her as anything other than the cause of his sister’s death. It was hopeless. How could it not be?

Now

Her bike was in the driveway when he arrived home a few days later. He hadn’t expected her to stay, and now he was nervous. His heart started pounding, and he sat in his car for a moment before finally climbing out.

When he opened the front door, she was already there. She looked about as nervous as he was, but she had a small smile on her lips that hurt like a stab to the gut under the circumstances.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” At least he could return a greeting at this point.

“Um . . . I was thinking I could make dinner.” She tried for a nervous smile again, and his heart fell. “I owe you after the disaster—”

“I have a date with Veronica Gregson.” Her smile froze on her lips for a moment before her face fell. Her nostrils flared as she tried to breathe, and he could see the tightness in her throat muscles. “I have to jump in the shower.” He walked away from her, leaving her staring at the floor in the entryway. He felt like an asshole. He was doing it again. Hurting her.

In truth, he hadn’t expected to throw it in her face. Had he wanted to use this to hurt her, he certainly could have, but that wasn’t his goal. He’d said yes to a date. He’d said yes because after the way things had ended the other night with Bailey, he was confused, and he needed to unconfuse things. He couldn’t be with Bailey. He just couldn’t. A man didn’t date the woman who killed his sister. It was socially unacceptable. Fuck, it was just absurd.

She didn’t trust him, and he didn’t blame her. He didn’t deserve her trust, and since there was no hope of a future for them, there was just no sense perpetuating this flirtation. That was all it was. A flirtation. He’d gotten swept up in the moment. He’d always been attracted to Bailey, and now was no exception, but he wasn’t doing either of them a favor by letting this go on. But he hadn’t meant to throw it in her face. He truly hadn’t.

He’d run into the lovely and tall Dr. Veronica Gregson, who had fired his little flirtation thanks to a bit of leaked information on his part, of course, at the gas station the morning before. She’d picked up her own flirtation right where she’d left off in the vet clinic lobby three months before. Had it really been three months since he’d first seen Bailey again?

He agreed to the date on the spur of the moment, though he wasn’t sure why. He’d decided there was no reason to continue confusing things between him and Bailey, and he thought a distraction was in order—at least that’s what he was telling himself. The distraction was beautiful, and he hoped she would do the trick. Now though, he wasn’t convinced. He stood in his shower, imagining the hurt on Bailey’s face. It destroyed him to see that hurt, and he sat on the built-in bench in his shower for nearly ten minutes as he came to terms with what he was going to do.

There was a knock on the door five minutes after he jumped out of the shower. He’d given Veronica his address. Her house was twenty minutes outside town, and he’d suggested she just stop by once she was finished up at her clinic. She wasn’t exactly sure when that would be, and for the five free minutes he had after showering, he started hoping it might be never. But alas, the doorbell rang. He ran his hands quickly through his hair, and he bounded down the stairs for the entryway.

“Hi.” Her greeting was seductive, and for some reason he hated it. He liked Bailey’s tentative one. The one that said she cared more than she should about what was going on in his head. Veronica’s greeting said she’d rather fuck him than know him, and he was going to do just that, but it was one hell of an empty feeling coursing through him at the moment.

“Come in. I’m about ready.” He turned from her, but he paused when he heard her voice.

“Thought we could just stay here. I rented a couple movies and brought a bottle of wine. I’ve had a long day, and I was hoping for something a bit more intimate than a night out in Savoy.” Her voice was still seductive, and when he turned back to her, he saw that her expression was too as she held up the bottle of wine.

“Sure. Let me take that for you.” He grabbed the bottle of wine, and she followed him to his kitchen.

“I love your home, Darren. It’s beautiful.”

“Thanks.” He was struggling to keep a conversation going already, and he hoped she’d be ready to watch a movie soon so he could ignore her for a while.

He moved to the kitchen drawer, not finding the wine opener where it should be. He ran into this problem constantly. Bailey had only worked for him for a little less than a month, and she didn’t quite know where everything went yet, and he was forever finding utensils in the wrong drawers. He smiled for a second before the moment passed, and he realized he was nowhere near Bailey.

He found the bottle opener in the silverware drawer, and he set about opening up the wine bottle. He didn’t expect to feel Veronica’s hand snake up under the bottom of his shirt from behind him and work its way around to his stomach. She caressed, and he gritted his teeth. Her lips next met the back of his neck, and she moaned as she rubbed her breasts against his back.

His breath lurched, and he groaned. It wasn’t a groan of pleasure but of absolute desperation. He couldn’t have what he wanted. How the fuck had he gotten back to wanting Bailey again? What the fuck was wrong with him? This woman he could have. He could have her, and he could replace the need he felt for Bailey with this woman. She was beautiful, and she wanted him. She was the type of woman he was supposed to be with—not the ex-con responsible for his sister’s death who had no education and no real future outside of cleaning his house and entertaining his dog. This was a fucking no-brainer, and he was going to see it through.

He turned to her, attacking her mouth as she groaned loudly. She thrust her tongue between his lips, and he broke away from her mouth, moving down her neck just to get her tongue out of his mouth. He was panting, and she likely thought it was arousal driving his gasping and lurching breaths. Hardly. But he yanked the straps of her slinky top down her shoulders, sucking on the skin of her neck. She tasted like perfume, and he wondered for a moment if he could get drunk off her skin.

“Oh, God, Darren. Please fuck me.”

He was absolutely going to fuck this woman.

She showed up the next morning, dreading walking through his door. Her night had been filled with nothing but pain, and she was kicking herself for letting her mind go to a place where she and Darren could actually be something more than enemies. She’d not expected him to ask her out or anything, but she sure as hell didn’t expect to come face-to-face with this part of his life.

What the hell did she expect? Did she think the man was celibate? No! He’d not hidden that fact. The half box of condoms and the tube of lube in his nightstand said it clearly enough. He’d all but kicked her out after the other night. She’d challenged him on his intent with her, and he hadn’t appreciated it. Why the hell would he? There was an empty wine bottle in the sink and two glasses. The house otherwise looked fairly normal . . . that was until she walked into the bedroom.

The bedding was in disarray, and it was quite obvious two bodies had slept there. The sight of his bed alone caused a gut reaction that she couldn’t stifle. She sank to the side of the bed and started to cry. It had always hurt to know what he did with other women because she’d always wanted to be the woman. But they didn’t have that relationship, and that was as much her unwillingness to go there as it was his to some extent, but this was different. They obviously still didn’t have that relationship, but it wasn’t for lack of want, at least not on her side. He knew damn well she wanted him, and the fact she didn’t have him obviously still had the power to hurt like a razor to the skin.