His to Take (Wicked Lovers #9)(137)
Author: Shayla Black

She’d been even stupider to fall in love.

Everyone stared at her like they all expected her to fall apart. In the past, she probably would have. She still might later, when she was alone. Right now, she was too damn shocked. And furious.

“I’m not surprised,” she managed to mutter and not sound bitter—much. “Damn him.”

“It’s a totally chickenshit move.” Kata picked up the verbal torch and ran with it. “When I get my fingers around his neck, I’m going to squeeze hard. He’ll learn the value of family if I have to choke it into him.”

Hunter cut a sidelong stare at his wife. “Pregnancy has made you bloodthirsty.”

“Am I wrong?” Kata asked, her voice picking up volume and emphasis.

“No, honey. But you don’t have to choke him. I’ll beat the shit out of him for you.”

Kata crossed her arms over her chest. “Thank you. Make it hurt. He’d better learn something, damn it. I’m tired of my brother running for the exit all the time.”

“He doesn’t know how to grieve,” Bailey said. “He isn’t sure how to deal with the pain. He doesn’t do it to hurt you. He just works so hard to preserve himself.”

“I don’t give a shit. He’s not twelve anymore. He’s a damn adult, and this is unforgiveable.” Kata wagged a finger at her. “Don’t you dare defend him.”

“Just explaining because I understand.” Her issues of abandonment were the reason she’d never had any close friends herself. Bailey saw that clearly now. She understood Joaquin’s belief that pulling away would make him feel better. He had just proven what she’d begun to suspect after meeting him: Self-isolation didn’t do anything but create misery and loneliness. “I can’t defend it. But I can’t hate him for it, either.”

She could, however, be crushed and cry and wish with everything inside her that he’d come back to her, offering his heart. But he wouldn’t. Instead, she would learn from her time with him and from his desertion. The only life worth living was one in which she opened herself, bared her soul, and was surrounded by love. Going forward, that’s what she’d do. She would spend tonight mourning what could have been and say a prayer that Joaquin would find life and love in the future. Then she’d let nothing stop her from finding her own.

Chapter Twenty

JOAQUIN woke in his apartment Friday morning after three hours of broken sleep. His hangover wasn’t a welcome friend. Neither was his past-due rent notice.

With a groan, he sat up. His head hurt. The sunlight filtering through the blinds he hadn’t bothered to close threatened to split his head open like an overripe melon.

Grimacing, he stooped and dragged himself to the bathroom, where he yanked open the medicine cabinet. No pain relievers. Great. Just like he’d gone looking for food in the fridge last night and found it empty.

Until last night, he’d never realized how little it looked as if someone lived here. He couldn’t escape noticing it again as he shuffled back to bed. Not a single picture on the walls or nightstand. Nothing personal around the place. No family mementoes, no record of achievements, no gag gifts from friends or reminders of loved ones. White walls, a generic black leather sofa, a chocolate-brown comforter, and an inch’s worth of dust on all the garage-sale furniture surrounded him. It had never looked so fucking sad until he’d imagined what kind of place he might have shared with Bailey, if he were a different man.

Last night, he’d made a run to the liquor store a few miles down the road, thanking fuck that it wasn’t Sunday so he could still get a bottle. Joaquin hadn’t cared much what type. He’d been all kinds of eager to numb the constant tide of pain of being without Bailey and worrying if she was all right.

Had she been released from the hospital? Did she hate him half as much as he hated himself right now? Or had Sean been right? Knowing her, she’d understand him all too well. She’d feel sorry for him. Jesus, that idea almost hurt worse.

This morning, Joaquin understood far too clearly that he couldn’t drink enough to numb the torment of being without her. He’d really hoped he could pass out last night. Instead, he’d damn near thrown up after three-quarters of a bottle of Cupcake vodka. What the fuck had he been thinking? And what the hell was he going to do now?

Shaking his head, he flung himself back on the bed with a long, shuddering breath. God, he felt old. He probably looked it, too. And what did he have to show for his age? A crappy apartment he’d get evicted from if he never came home often enough to pay his bills. And . . . not much else. Hell, he’d never even wanted the commitment of a pet. No, might as well be honest. He hadn’t wanted to risk loving a four-legged friend and suffering its loss well before he found his grave. He really didn’t know how to find his mother anymore. His youngest sister was, no doubt, plenty pissed at him right now.