Read Online Make You Blush by Macy Beckett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Macy Beckett
Ads: Link
her another chance. It was pathetic. He should walk away, but damned if his feet would listen. They remained glued to the sidewalk in hopes that Joy could explain away all the evidence and life could go back to normal.
But that didn’t happen. Joy just stood there, dumbstruck and crying.
“Never mind,” he said. “I guess it doesn’t matter.” Ryan scraped together what was left of his dignity and handed her their souvenir picture from the
Belle
. He didn’t want it anymore. “Here, take it. Now you can destroy all evidence that you slummed it with a guy like me.”
Then he turned on his booted heel and left her behind. He didn’t look back.
Halfway up the block, the pain he’d been too shocked to feel caught up to him with lethal force. It started as a white-hot pinprick behind his breastbone and, within seconds, spread outward until he could barely breathe. Ryan had inked and pierced nearly every part of his body, but he’d never hurt like this. Once he was certain Joy couldn’t see him, he leaned against the nearest building and braced both hands on his knees.
Whoever said it was ”better to have loved and lost” was a serious dipshit.
Chapter 9
The Horny Hippies were at it again, and judging by the volume of their moans, they were either achieving tantric climax or amputating each other’s limbs. Joy hoped for the latter. Because now that she knew what she was missing, each of their cries was like salt on a skinned knee, and she didn’t need another reminder of what she’d lost.
“Whatever,” she muttered while shuffling her slippers across the living room. “I can have an orgasm without a man.” But she tasted the lie on her tongue. No battery-operated toy could master her body the way Ryan had.
She kicked aside an empty pizza box and plopped down onto the sofa, then curled up in a ball to stare at the television. Welling moisture blurred her vision, not that she cared to watch whatever was playing. She dragged a crumpled tissue beneath her nose and blotted her eyes, which brought Ryan’s discarded T-shirt into focus.
Like an addict jonesing for a fix, she snatched the shirt from the coffee table and brought it to her nose, pulling in a deep breath. It still smelled like his spicy aftershave even after a week, and the familiar scent filled her with a mingling of relief and pain.
God, she missed him.
She missed the sound of Ryan’s voice and the lopsided curve of his smile. She missed the feel of his hands on her skin, both tender and possessive. More than that, she missed the way he listened when she spoke, as if nothing on earth were more fascinating than what she’d had for lunch that day.
Each night without him felt emptier than the last, and she couldn’t look at cupcakes, pretzels, or any flavor of Ben & Jerry’s without breaking into hysterics. Which made grocery shopping quite the adventure. Joy’s time apart from Ryan had finally allowed her to see that she loved him—straight to the bottom of her broken heart.
Not that it mattered.
When she’d tried to apologize, he’d screened her calls and refused to answer. Her instincts told her she could earn his forgiveness, but not unless she dated him publicly. Very publicly, as in taking him home to meet Mom and Dad. And she’d survived enough lectures on the science behind image in politics—everything from tie color symbolism to which hairstyles voters favor—to know that her father would have a conniption fit.
If only Ryan could wait until after the election . . .
But she had no right to ask that of him.
Her cell phone rang from beneath a pile of tissues, and Joy sprung from the sofa in hopes that Ryan had finally returned one of her messages. Her fingers trembled as she turned it over and glimpsed the screen.
Mom calling.
Joy’s heart sank. She swiped the glass and answered. “I know, I know. I’ll be there.”
Mom paused for a beat. “You sound awful.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, heavens. Are you sick?” In
But that didn’t happen. Joy just stood there, dumbstruck and crying.
“Never mind,” he said. “I guess it doesn’t matter.” Ryan scraped together what was left of his dignity and handed her their souvenir picture from the
Belle
. He didn’t want it anymore. “Here, take it. Now you can destroy all evidence that you slummed it with a guy like me.”
Then he turned on his booted heel and left her behind. He didn’t look back.
Halfway up the block, the pain he’d been too shocked to feel caught up to him with lethal force. It started as a white-hot pinprick behind his breastbone and, within seconds, spread outward until he could barely breathe. Ryan had inked and pierced nearly every part of his body, but he’d never hurt like this. Once he was certain Joy couldn’t see him, he leaned against the nearest building and braced both hands on his knees.
Whoever said it was ”better to have loved and lost” was a serious dipshit.
Chapter 9
The Horny Hippies were at it again, and judging by the volume of their moans, they were either achieving tantric climax or amputating each other’s limbs. Joy hoped for the latter. Because now that she knew what she was missing, each of their cries was like salt on a skinned knee, and she didn’t need another reminder of what she’d lost.
“Whatever,” she muttered while shuffling her slippers across the living room. “I can have an orgasm without a man.” But she tasted the lie on her tongue. No battery-operated toy could master her body the way Ryan had.
She kicked aside an empty pizza box and plopped down onto the sofa, then curled up in a ball to stare at the television. Welling moisture blurred her vision, not that she cared to watch whatever was playing. She dragged a crumpled tissue beneath her nose and blotted her eyes, which brought Ryan’s discarded T-shirt into focus.
Like an addict jonesing for a fix, she snatched the shirt from the coffee table and brought it to her nose, pulling in a deep breath. It still smelled like his spicy aftershave even after a week, and the familiar scent filled her with a mingling of relief and pain.
God, she missed him.
She missed the sound of Ryan’s voice and the lopsided curve of his smile. She missed the feel of his hands on her skin, both tender and possessive. More than that, she missed the way he listened when she spoke, as if nothing on earth were more fascinating than what she’d had for lunch that day.
Each night without him felt emptier than the last, and she couldn’t look at cupcakes, pretzels, or any flavor of Ben & Jerry’s without breaking into hysterics. Which made grocery shopping quite the adventure. Joy’s time apart from Ryan had finally allowed her to see that she loved him—straight to the bottom of her broken heart.
Not that it mattered.
When she’d tried to apologize, he’d screened her calls and refused to answer. Her instincts told her she could earn his forgiveness, but not unless she dated him publicly. Very publicly, as in taking him home to meet Mom and Dad. And she’d survived enough lectures on the science behind image in politics—everything from tie color symbolism to which hairstyles voters favor—to know that her father would have a conniption fit.
If only Ryan could wait until after the election . . .
But she had no right to ask that of him.
Her cell phone rang from beneath a pile of tissues, and Joy sprung from the sofa in hopes that Ryan had finally returned one of her messages. Her fingers trembled as she turned it over and glimpsed the screen.
Mom calling.
Joy’s heart sank. She swiped the glass and answered. “I know, I know. I’ll be there.”
Mom paused for a beat. “You sound awful.”
“Thanks.”
“Oh, heavens. Are you sick?” In
Similar Books
