His voice is thicker, raspier. Does he know?
“Now.”
I don’t. I can’t. It’s too hard.
“Look. At. Me.”
Slowly, I lift my head. The moment I see his face, I gasp. It’s as if someone has slapped me. Pain radiates right to my very core as I take in the face of the man I love so fucking much. I was right; he’s changed. So much I hardly recognize him. His once flawless face is sporting light scars, like I first thought. His nose has been broken, and he’s got a scar in his eyebrow.
Yet, even through all this, he’s so fucking beautiful he takes my breath away.
Once brown eyes seem almost black now, and his hair is shorter than I ever remember. His jaw is more masculine, and he’s got scruff on his chin. Two-day growth. It looks incredible on him. He’s kneeling before me, and up close his body is so huge I know he could crush me with one simple flick of his hand. I’m as small as I always was, and now he seems so massive.
“Ana?” he says, his voice thick.
I can’t do this.
“I c-c-c-can’t,” I cry, scurrying backwards.
He moves quickly, pushing his body forward towards mine, but I keep moving. When he shifts, I see a tattoo beneath his shirt. It’s my name. He never had that before. Something lodges in my throat and tears burn in my eyes. Why would he get a tattoo of my name when he completely destroyed me? Why? I don’t understand. He said he didn’t love me. So why the hell does he have that? Is it some sort of reminder of the mistakes he’s made?
“Ana,” he says again, lashing out, trying to grab me.
“No, no!”
I turn and get on my hands and knees, crawling through the crowd. I’m in a dress and heels, so this isn’t working out so well for me. As soon as I can, I launch to my feet and start running. I shove through the crowd, trying to escape, needing air so desperately I feel my throat closing in.
“Ana!”
No.
No.
No.
“Fucking stop!”
I can’t.
Max, I can’t.
I run as fast as I can, and when I hit the bottom of the stairs, a big hand wraps around my upper arm and spins me. I fly as if I weigh nothing and slam into a hard, massive chest. My face presses against it and I make a strangled, sobbing sound. I raise my hands and start fighting, pushing back, trying desperately to get away.
“Stop fightin’ me. Fuck, just calm down.”
“Let me go, I shouldn’t have come here. Max, please let me go.”
He doesn’t. His big hands stay on my shoulders and he holds me there effortlessly, as if I’m not squirming and trying to free myself. I don’t look up at him—I just stare at his chest, and I keep trying to break free. I can’t meet his beautiful eyes, because that means letting him see this raw, broken pain in my own. I can’t allow that.
“Please,” I cry.
He moves me, not answering, and not giving me the chance to fight further. He leads me up the stairs, his big body behind mine, his hands on my shoulders. I don’t fight, because the closer I can get to the outside, the closer I am to escaping. I need to run, and process this. I can’t do it right now; I’m not ready. I thought I was, but I’m not.
“Nice catch there, Max,” a tall, handsome man says when we get to the top of the stairs. “Better than the last one you took home.”
My body stiffens and his words hit me, so hard I can’t breathe. I bend forward and start gasping for air. When did I think I was ready for this kind of emotion? The thought of Max with another woman, his mouth on hers, his body inside hers, makes a pain I never thought I’d feel again rip through my chest.
“Fuck off, Josh,” Max roars.
“Jesus, dude, I was only joking.”
Fury takes over my pain, and the mix becomes a combination that’s consuming. I straighten and slam my elbow backwards, hitting Max in the stomach. He grunts and I make a run for it. I pump my legs as hard as I can, getting to the top of the stairs and taking a sharp left. I skirt around tables, knock over chairs, shove into people and trip a few times, but I manage to make it outside. Once there, I slip around to a dark side of the club and press my back against the brick wall.
With trembling fingers, I pull out my phone and start frantically looking for the number to call a cab. The phone is snatched from my hand before I even get the chance to dial anything. I look up to see Max staring down at me, panting with fury and God knows what else. “You’re not running again. Not until I’ve had the chance to fuckin’ talk to you.”
“No.” I gasp, pushing on his chest, trying to fight my tears. “I’m not ready for this, Max.”
“You’re not getting a choice,” he says, grabbing my wrists as if I’m not trying to fight him off. He brings them together in one of his massive hands and shoves them above my head. I thrash from side to side, but he does something that has my entire body going still. He brings his forehead down and presses it against mine.
I stop breathing.
He used to do this to me so often; it was his way of showing affection. When we were younger and we fought, he’d stop mid conversation and press his forehead to mine, and without fail, it would calm me. Over the years, it became more passionate than a kiss, more loving than words. It was our thing.
“Max,” I croak, my voice trembling.
“Blue Belle.”
I make a strangled sound, but I can’t pull back. I want to but I can’t. His skin is so warm, and this comfort is one I’ve wanted for what feels like an age. I’ve gone to bed alone and woken up alone for so long I can’t remember what comfort feels like. At least, I didn’t until this very second.
“You need to let me go,” I manage in a quiet, broken voice.
“I won’t.”
“Please,” I beg, trying not to enjoy the feeling of his warm breath against my mouth.
I move my eyes up to look into his, and I struggle to see the man I fell in love with. If it wasn’t for this simple gesture of love he’s showing me right now, I would be sure a stranger was standing over me.
“What happened to you?” I ask, before thinking.
He flinches. “I lost the best thing I had.”
I shake my head from side to side, trying to pull back. “No, you can’t do that. You can’t, Max. You pushed me away. You said . . .”
His words from that night haunt me; they have wedged into my soul, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t move them.
“I know what I said, Ana,” he rasps. “I didn’t mean it.”
“No!” I shout, jerking my hands. “You don’t get to do this, do you hear me? You don’t get to say you didn’t mean to rip my heart out!”
“Things were fuckin’ bad, Blue Belle. I wasn’t the same person.”
“No?” I cry. “You think I didn’t notice that? You think I didn’t feel the bitter, empty loneliness when you pushed me away, when you slept in different beds, when you started drinking and shut me out? You think I didn’t figure out you weren’t the same fucking person?”
I’m crying now. I can’t stop it. Big, fat, ugly tears roll down my cheeks. Max makes a pained, throaty sound and steps back, letting my hands go. “Baby . . .”