CRAVING THE WRONG MAN

A DIFFERENT HIM

MIA

The first thing I notice when I wake is the dull throbbing behind my forehead. It isn't unbearable, but it is enough to make me lie still for a moment with my eyes closed, trying to understand where I am.

The last thing I remember is Rhett's arms around me as he carried me toward his truck, my cheek pressed against his chest. Then my eyes open, and the unfamiliar ceiling above me immediately tells me that I am nowhere I recognize.

I push myself upright slowly, waiting for the room to settle before I look around. The bed beneath me is narrow and covered with a dark blanket, with a small metal cabinet beside it and a glass of water sitting on top.

The room doesn't look like an ordinary bedroom. It looks as though someone took a section of a garage bay and turned it into a place where someone could sleep when they needed to. A workbench takes up most of one wall, covered with wrenches, screwdrivers, sockets, and pieces of motorcycle parts I don't recognize.

Several helmets sit on a shelf above it, some scratched and worn from use, while heavy black cables hang from the ceiling beside two industrial lights. Near the opposite wall is a motorcycle lift with an old engine resting on it, and the faint smell of motor oil.

Then every memory comes back in my head.

Rhett.

God damn it.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand carefully. My knees feel weak, but they hold, and although my body aches, nothing feels broken. My wrists are still sore from the restraints but the pain is manageable. I cross the room and reach for the door, opening it carefully enough that it makes almost no sound.

Voices drift toward me from outside.

I peek through the narrow opening and see Rhett beside the massive black Silverado he arrived in last night. Except he isn't simply standing there. Half of his body is underneath the truck while two men stand nearby. One holds a flashlight, and the other has a toolbox open beside him.

Rhett reaches out from underneath the truck, takes a tool from the man's hand, and disappears beneath the chassis again.

I stare at him, completely caught off guard.

What the hell?

Saint has never touched grease in his life. If one of the bikes needed repairing, he called one of the mechanics. If a truck needed work, someone else handled it. Saint had never needed to know how anything worked as long as somebody else could make it work for him.

But Rhett is different.

He finally slides out from underneath the truck and gets to his feet. He wipes his hands with a dark cloth, says something to the men, and then turns. His eyes land directly on me.

For one second, we simply stare at each other.

Embarrassment rushes through me, and I close the door before he can say anything. I move back to the bed and sit down, trying to slow my breathing.

I don't know why I'm embarrassed. Rhett has already seen me at my worst. He saw me bleeding on the roadside. He saw me crying. He carried me when I couldn't even stand on my own, and yet I don't want him looking at me now, not like this.

I look around the room again, wondering what kind of life he has built for himself during the three years he disappeared. Whatever he does with Black Reign, it is clearly more complicated than I ever understood.

The rumors about him suddenly feel different. People called him ruthless, dangerous, a merchant who could move almost anything through almost anywhere. I used to think those were exaggerated stories men told about rival presidents.

Now I'm not so sure.

The door opens, and I immediately look up.

Rhett walks inside carrying two cups. His expression is unreadable as he closes the door behind him and approaches the bed. When he reaches me, he holds one cup out.

“Drink this.”

I look at the cup instead of him. “What is it?”

“Something for your headache.”

“It doesn't look like medicine.”

“It's not meant to look like anything.”

I finally take it from him and bring it toward my face. The smell makes my nose wrinkle before I've even tasted it.

Rhett notices. “Don't make that face.”

I glance at him. “What face?”

“The one you're making right now.”

“It’s because I don't like it.”

“You haven't even tasted it.”

“I can smell it. I wouldn't like it”

“Drink it.” There is something about the way he says it that makes me take a sip. I immediately grimace.

Rhett's mouth almost twitches. “That bad?”

“It tastes horrible.”

“It'll help.”

“You could have warned me.”

He looks at me for a second before holding the second cup toward me. “Finish the first one.”

I sigh and take another drink, forcing myself to swallow the bitter liquid until the cup is empty. Rhett waits until I finish before giving me the second one.

“Water.”

“Oh.”

I take it and drink, and when I lower the cup, I realize he is still watching me.

“You don't have to stare at me.”

“I'm making sure you're okay.”

“I’m fine.”

“You fainted. You're still trying to convince me you're fine.”

I look at him then. His face remains calm, but there is something firm in his eyes.

“I don't know what you want me to say.”

“I don't want you to say anything.”

The answer is so simple that it catches me off guard.

Rhett pulls the metal chair from beside the workbench and sits across from me, leaving enough distance between us that I notice it. He isn't trying to get close. If anything, he seems determined to keep space between us.

That should make me feel relieved. Instead, I find myself wondering why.

“You've changed quite a lot,” I say quietly.

His eyes remain on me. “Three years will do that to anyone.”

“I mean more than that.”

“I know what you mean.”

“Then what happened to you all these while?”

“Nothing.”

I almost laugh. “You don't look like nothing happened.”

His gaze drops briefly to his tattooed arms before returning to me. “People see what they want to see.”

“And what am I supposed to see?”

“You're not supposed to see anything.”

His answer makes me quiet. There is something closed off about him now, something that wasn't there when I knew him before. Rhett used to be easy to talk to. He teased me, argued with me, and could make me laugh when I was angry. This man barely gives me anything.

“You really don't want to talk to me, do you?”

“I brought you here because you needed somewhere safe.”

“That wasn't what I asked.”

“I know.”

“Then answer me Rhett.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “I don't think talking about the past is going to help you right now.”

“Maybe I want to understand it.”

“Understanding something doesn't always make it hurt less.”

I stare at him.“You're avoiding the question.”

“Yes. I don't see the point in lying to you.”

The honesty catches me off guard. That makes my chest tighten, and I look down at my hands.

“Then don't lie to me about my father.”

The room goes quiet the instant I drop the words.

Rhett doesn't move.

I slowly lift my eyes to him. “Saint told me you had a hand in my father's death.”