Breathless (Players to Men) by Georgia Lyn Hunter

Author:Georgia Lyn Hunter [Hunter, Georgia Lyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Published: 2016-12-19T18:30:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Max

I stared at my paint-smeared hands, didn’t look up, couldn’t bear seeing the disgust on her face. If she walked, I had no idea what I’d do. I only knew she made life bearable again.

My gaze fastened on her name stained on my forearm. I’d left that bit of skin blank; wanted an etching of my mother duplicated in ink, but now, Logan had claimed that spot.

She kneeled between my parted thighs, forcing me to look at her. Her face and hair streaked with green and yellow paint had never looked lovelier. “That can’t be true.”

“I was driving, I’m responsible.”

“Tell me what happened.” She laced our paint-smeared fingers. “Because I see the shadows in your eyes and feel your pain, and I know you don’t sleep much.”

I stared at our joined hands. “I don’t remember—none of it, and that kills me. Because I was in the driver’s seat, that’s what they told me when I woke up in the hospital weeks later, with no memory of it. Everything’s one big fucking blank.”

“Is that the reason why you destroyed the studio at the Conservatory?” she asked then.

At her words, my lungs felt as if a huge fist was squeezing them. It took a moment before I could respond. “It was the anniversary of her death. I was practicing…hoping to lose myself in my music. Mitchell—the dickhead from the coffee shop—walked into the music room, said the place reeked of crap. Then he ripped my notes, said it was better for toilet paper. All because some girl he liked came after me. I wanted to smash his face, but told him to leave me the fuck alone, and find a chick that actually wanted him. A low blow, I didn’t care. Then one of his pals said something about money and killers getting off scot-free, and I lost my shit…” Anger strangled me at the memory.

“I’m so sorry, they’re idiots.” Then she wrapped her arms around me, flooring me with her actions. Most didn’t give a fuck about me. Girls just wanted my body, or to say they’d screwed the black sheep of the Meade-Sinclair dynasty. Others, money.

I buried my face in her hair and just held on. “Now I’m summoned to the mansion for a damn barbeque.”

She pulled back, her eyes searching my face. “You’re not going?”

“No. All it does is—”

At a whirring sound, I looked up and swore.

“Come on, Max, give us a name,” the reporter piped out. “Who’s the girl beneath all the paint?”

Damn fuckers! Rising to my feet, I pulled Logan up and shoved past the photographer.

“You’ve been gone for several months—where were you? Rehab again?” she asked, following us like a bloodhound.

My fingers fisted, and my teeth ground down hard. I had never been in rehab, but, of course, that was a more interesting story. The urge to punch something grew, had from the moment Logan’s ex made an appearance. That cheating scumbag appeared like someone Logan would care about—suave, charming. When he’d looked at me like he knew he’d win her back, I wanted to break his jaw.

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