Break Me Down Page 8

  He headed to the right, looking at the signs that demarcated the aisles. Whoever had organized the store seemed to be into alphabetization. When he spotted Sam a few yards away in the C section, she was standing with her fist on her hip and an annoyed expression on her face. A beefy guy with a full beard and a tattooed neck was grinning down at her like she was some adorable puppy.

  “What part of ‘go away’ did you miss?” Sam asked, tone bored. “Shoo.”

  “Oh, come on, sweetheart. You don’t mean that. I could show you what it’s like to be with a real man.” He nodded at Sam’s handbasket. “You don’t want some pussy who wants you to do all the work. Why don’t we grab a burger and talk about it? Me and my buddy are driving down to the coast tonight. Lots of room in the rig for a pretty thing like you.”

  Oh, hell no. Gibson strode forward but didn’t get to her before the guy put his hand on Sam’s shoulder. Her reaction was instant and swift.

  She dropped her basket, grabbed the guy’s hand, and bent his wrist at a painful angle.

  “Motherfuck—” The guy bent over, trying to yank his hand back.

  Sam caught sight of Gibson heading her way, and despite the fact that she was clearly handling things herself, relief flashed in her eyes. She shoved the guy’s hand away. “Touch me again, and I will fucking break it.”

  “What the hell’s your problem?” The guy grabbed his wrist.

  Gibson reached them, seeing red and ready to throw down. “Better listen to the lady and walk away, asshole.”

  Sam put a hand on his arm before he could get in the guy’s face. “It’s all right. Come on.”

  The dude was massaging his wrist, his skin flushed with anger. He gave Gibson an up-and-down look, his expression twisting into an ugly snarl before looking back to Sam. “So this is your bitch, huh? You buy some pretty panties for him? Looks like he’s got his in a wad.”

  Gibson’s teeth clamped together and his fists curled. He’d seen this kind of guy before. They’d lived in his broken-down neighborhood where he’d grown up. Men who didn’t have a brain in the head but got off on strutting around like they were hot shit, tossing out threats and starting fights. Gibson wanted to give him one. But Sam’s nails were digging into his bicep.

  Sam tugged. “Come on. Don’t waste your time.”

  “What’s taking so long, man?” another voice came from the left as a guy who looked much like his friend—worn jeans, heavy boots, trucker hat—rounded the corner of the aisle. He had a stack of DVDs in his hand. “Whoa, what’s going on?”

  The guy in front of Gib relaxed a little, smiled, sat back on his heels like they were all just friends here. “Nothing, Jimmy. Just trying to help this pretty lady and give her the option of a real man tonight.” He reached down into the basket Sam had dropped on the floor and pulled out what to Gibson’s horror looked to be a strap-on. “Seems she’s got one who doesn’t know how to use his dick.”

  The other guy looked Gib’s way, disgust on his face. “Dude, you let her do you with that? That’s fucking gay.”

  Gibson didn’t give a shit if the other guys thought he was gay, straight, or otherwise. But that old familiar anxiety was creeping in at their ridicule, making his chest tight and his words disappear. And in that look of derision from the other two men, Gib could see his father’s face, the judgment.

  One of his father’s favorite insults had been calling Gibson a fag. He hadn’t played sports. He’d been a quiet kid. He had known how to take a punch but not throw one. His father had itemized his weaknesses on a regular basis, stabbing, stabbing, stabbing at those soft spots until they bled into every part of his life.

  But, oh, when he’d gotten old enough, he’d learned that last one. He’d fucking learned. Hours in a garage after school with a guy who knew how to street fight. Gibson hadn’t just learned. He’d learned to fight dirty, how to take the pain, and how to win. And by the time he was sixteen, even his father had become wary of him. If his brother hadn’t stepped back into his life a few years later and gotten Gib’s head on straight, Gib would probably be locked up in jail somewhere. But right now he wanted to display those old street skills to the fullest and wipe the smug looks off these guys’ faces.

  But before he could act, Sam yanked the toy from the guy’s hand and dropped it back into her basket. Then she got in his face, looking ten feet tall and vengeful despite her petite form. She gave him a saccharine smile, one edged with murderous promise. “And look who’s going home with me and look who’s buying a big stack of porn so you can jack each other off later. Because, let’s face it, we both know no woman or gay man in their right mind would touch either of you without getting paid first.” She stepped back and picked up her basket. “Enjoy your circle jerk, fellas.”

  She linked her arm with Gibson’s and started walking away.

  “Stupid cunt.” The words sounded from behind them, and Gibson didn’t think that time.

  He let go of Sam, turned around, and laid the guy out on the floor with a solid right hook. When the guy’s friend jumped into the fray, Gibson didn’t even feel the hits. He took that guy on, too.

  Sometimes having a high pain tolerance had its perks. He threw another punch and felt the satisfaction of hearing that fucker howl.

  He was so focused on taking the guys down that he didn’t see the horrified look on Sam’s face or hear her yelling. He didn’t see when she left.

  He didn’t see or hear anything until two cops grabbed him from behind and slapped cuffs on him.

  He’d figured he’d end up in restraints tonight.

  This was not what he’d had in mind.

  Chapter 7

  Sam paced the waiting room at the small police station, fuming. Smoke was probably trailing behind her, she was so freaking pissed. Gibson had gone after those guys in the shop like some rabid bulldog, and not only had he gotten himself punched, he’d gotten picked up by the cops. She’d told him to walk away and it’d been like she’d said nothing at all. They could be home right now having a nice night together. But no, they were here. Because of male fucking pride.

  One of the officers had come out a few minutes ago to let her know that the other guys weren’t going to press charges. The store clerk had given a statement that the truckers had been giving Sam trouble. There was video. So that was a huge relief. But Gibson was still back in the bowels of the tiny building, finishing up giving his own statement. And she was stuck here.

  She hated police stations. Goose bumps had prickled her skin since the moment she’d walked in. The smell of the place the same as all the others—old paper, stale coffee, and astringent cleaning products. Phones ringing. Lights that were too bright. All of it brought back memories better left buried. She’d been in stations like this one far too often as a kid for minor shit—shit that got her kicked out of homes over and over again. But she’d also spent the longest night of her life in one. She glanced down at her hands, almost expecting to see the dried blood on them. She shivered and rubbed them along her jeans, even though the only thing on them was smudges from the finish she’d used on the chair.

  “Sam?”

  She jumped at the sound of the voice and then spun around to see Gibson sauntering through the door that led to the back. His cheek was swollen on the right side near his eye and he had a taped-up gash on his forehead, but other than that looked to be all right.

  Good. Because she was going to kill him.

  He reached her and put his hands on her arms. “Hey, baby, you okay?”

  She shrugged out of his grip. “Are you done here?”

  He frowned. “Yeah.”

  “Good.” She spun on her heel and strode out, not looking back to see if he followed. She pushed open the door and took a deep breath, letting the damp night air wash away some of that police station stench, trying to get her nerves back in order.

  “Sam.”

 
She didn’t pause, and Gibson’s heavy footsteps sounded behind her.

  He grabbed her elbow. “Hey, wait up. What’s wrong?”

  She kept walking. “Nothing. I’m just ready to get home. We’ve already wasted the whole night.”

  Gibson stepped in front her, blocking the sidewalk. His confused gaze searched for answers on her face. “You’re shaking, Sam. Tell me what’s going on.”

  She glanced away, focused on the handicap parking sign behind his right shoulder.

  “Come on, Sam,” he said softly.

  She pinned him with a look, letting the fire well up and take over. “You want to know what’s wrong? You acted like a goddamned idiot in that store. I told you to leave it be, and you had to go all Mike Tyson. You ruined the whole night, got yourself hurt, almost got arrested, and made me spend time in that godforsaken police station because your precious pride got dinged.”

  He frowned. “I was looking out for you. What he said . . .”

  “No.” She held up a finger. “No, you didn’t. Don’t even. I had it handled. That fight was so not about me. That was about you. You proving that you’re not . . .” She made air quotes. “‘A pussy.’ Which, by the way, pisses me off even more because I have one of those. And they’re spectacular. And being called one shouldn’t be some ultimate insult.”

  His lips parted. “I—”

  “Or maybe what set you off was being called my bitch. Well, guess what? You’d be fucking lucky to get that spot. You know how many guys at the Ranch would happily, proudly volunteer for that role?”

  A thundercloud of an expression descended over his features. “I’m doing the best I can, Sam. This . . . what we’re doing is private.”

  “Secret.”

  He grimaced.

  “Yeah, I get it,” she said, words clipped. “I know all about being someone’s secret. One of my foster brothers introduced me to the concept.”

  Gibson’s angry expression fell.

  Fuck. Where the hell had that come from? She never talked about Jesse and their screwed-up relationship. The revealing words seemed to scream between them. “Sam . . .”

  She shook her head. “Just don’t.”

  She skirted around him and headed to the SUV, her shoes slapping hard against the pavement.

  Gibson followed her, getting into the driver’s side and sending her a sidelong glance as he turned the ignition. But no way was she in a place to talk right now. As soon as the engine roared to life, she reached over and dialed the volume knob of the radio to earsplitting. Hard rock blasted from the speakers.

  She leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

  But after a few minutes on the highway, Gibson turned down the radio. “We’re not going to do this.”

  She glared over at him.

  He didn’t look her way, his eyes steady on the road, his one-handed grip on the steering wheel tense. “You don’t have to talk. But maybe you can listen.”

  Her teeth pressed together, and she jerked her head forward, staring out at the lines of the road disappearing beneath their tires. She wished her own car hadn’t been towed to the shop, wished she were alone on this drive.

  Gibson cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for acting like I did at the store. You’re right. There was nothing noble about it. It was about me.”

  She sniffed and resisted the urge to blurt out, You don’t say?

  He shifted in his seat. “You’ve only known me in the After. Gibson Andrews, executive, PR guy, Kade’s stepbrother, cocky asshole, whatever labels people put on me. But that’s not who I’ve always been. The labels used to be very different. White trash. Freak. Fag. My own father could barely stand to look at me. When I asked him what happened to my mom, he told me she’d overdosed when I was four because I was such a pain in the ass to care for—too needy, weak. Apparently I cried a lot, always wanted her attention. I was just too much, I guess. He blamed me for her death.”

  Sam’s chest constricted, and she turned toward him, but his gaze was still drilling holes through the front windshield. The proud, beautiful man holding the pieces together for that little boy he used to be. She’d been through her own shit childhood, but she couldn’t imagine what that had been like for Gib. How does a kid walk along carrying that kind of weight? You were too much for your own mother. When, in truth, any kid was probably too much for a drug addict.

  Gibson continued without looking her way. “I’ve spent most of my life trying to figure out how not to be the person he said I was. To be strong. Tough. To make sure no one could laugh at me or make me feel the way he did. To make sure I could take care of myself and not need anything from anyone.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Having anyone look at me like I’m weak or less than puts this knot in my gut, makes me sick inside. Makes me think of him. And some part of me starts to wonder if he was right. If something’s not quite right with me.”

  The quiet pain that laced his tone threaded through her and made her hurt for him. She knew what it was like to wonder if something inside was broken or deficient, if you had somehow missed the day God gave out the normal stuff. Every time a family had passed her over for adoption, she’d had that thought. Why not me? What’s wrong with me? “Gib . . .”

  He scoffed, this humorless sound at the back of his throat. “I mean, what would the old man think if he saw you defending me in that store? Or worse, saw me getting on my knees and being ordered around by a woman, getting off on it?”

  She reached for his free hand and pressed hers over his. “Submission doesn’t make you weak or less of a man, Gib. It takes more strength to give up control than to hold it. You’ve got to know that.”

  He wet his lips, still not looking at her. “In theory, I know that. I’ve watched subs at the Ranch take more than most people could ever handle. But when I’m in that moment, skirting that edge of really giving up control, I can’t get his voice out of my head. All this shit gets kicked up. Why do I want a woman to take me over? And what is begging if not being needy? I’m afraid if I let you push me past that line, I’d be disgusted with myself and hate you for it, that it’d all merge into that black pool, that I’d lash out like I did in the store, only it’d be directed at you instead.”

  “You would never hurt me,” she said with absolute confidence.

  He looked over at her, his eyes sad. “Not with my fists, Sam. But there are things that are far more hurtful than that.”

  “Like when you ended things with us before they could go anywhere.”

  He peered back out to the road. “Like caring about the opinions of two rocks-for-brains scumbags over yours. Like acting ashamed to be with you when I should be on my knees thanking the fucking universe that someone as smart and sexy as you wants me in her life. You’re like hitting the girl lottery, and I can’t even get out of my own way to appreciate it.”

  The words pricked her, bitter and sweet. Gibson. Sweet, sexy Gibson. He had no idea what a gift he was, what a gift he could be if he could cut those ropes that tied him down. But the yearning in his voice was like balm for her soul. He wanted this, even though he didn’t believe he could get there. She could work with wanting. This was hard for both of them. Tonight had been a disaster, but maybe there was still some hope. She just had to figure out how to help him navigate through all the crap tangling them up.

  His hand flexed against the steering wheel. “Maybe the kindest thing I ever did was walk away from you. Being here this week, accepting the deal, I’m starting to think that was the cruelest—for us both. You deserve better than this, Sam. You know you do.”

  She leaned back in her seat, keeping her hand tight over his, and took a leap, hoping to hell it was the right move. “I don’t think I like you presuming what I do and don’t deserve. That’s not your choice to make. And I definitely don’t approve of my sub insulting himself. Pisses me off.”

  He gl
anced at her, confusion cutting lines around his mouth and eyes.

  “You agreed to a week,” she reminded him, the words coming on pure instinct. “I expect you to honor that.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I just—”

  “I heard what you said. And unless there was a safe word I missed, it doesn’t change our deal. Are you calling your safe word?”

  “Sam . . .”

  She smiled inwardly. That wasn’t it. Her confidence buoyed.

  He had to look away so he could make the turn onto the road that would lead up to the farmhouse, but she could almost feel his pulse tick up, could see the push and pull going through him. She’d thrown him off track. He was scrambling to get his footing, figure out her game.

  “You know why I was at Viv’s in the first place?”

  He didn’t answer, but the tilt of his head said he was listening to every word.

  “I’d already planned on making a stop there. I was headed that way when I hit debris on the service road and shredded my tire. And guess what? With all the commotion of the cops hauling you guys to the squad cars, the clerk comped everything I had in my basket. So nice of him, don’t you think?”

  Gibson sent her a sharp look but then turned away and stayed focused on the road until he pulled into the makeshift driveway next to the darkened farmhouse.

  Once again, that wasn’t a no or a safe word. Sam charged on, her heartbeat thumping against her throat. “Tell me your hard limits, Gib.”

  He turned his head slowly this time, something dangerous flashing in his eyes. Warning. Don’t do this, Sam.

  But she wasn’t stopping unless he said red. “Tell me.”

  After a long pause he said, “Nothing public.”

  The words sounded like he’d had to force them from his lips, like their jagged edges had torn his flesh on the way out.