"Someone want to clue me in on what the hell happened last night?" I grit out.

Scotty lets out a slow breath. "You wanted a girl. I don't know what happened between you and the siren, but we started the set and you drank yourself fucking stupid. Lindsay and I got you home and I knew you what you said—but when she tried to touch you, you flipped the fuck out. Almost hit her."

His tone is dark and furious and I understand it. I've never touched a woman. Not in violence. That I was that shitty… "I'm sorry," I whisper. There's a breath of silence, and I stare at the dark coffee swirling in my mug. I don't want to see the disappointment in Scott's eyes and I'm not ready to look at Lindsay, not yet. "I don't know what else to say. Just that I fucked up and I’m so sorry. It's won't happen again."

"Do you even understand why it happened this time?" Lindsay asks, and her voice is tinged with annoyance.

"Because you aren't Peyton."

 "You fucking knew that, Rike. You weren't under any illusions about who you were going home with."

I wasn't but I don't like what that says about me. "Why the fuck were you about to cheat on her?" she asks. “Even if I wouldn’t have let it happen—what the fuck were you thinking?”

"It's not your business," I say, my gaze finally lifting to find hers.

"Bullshit. If you want that, you should probably avoid bringing me home. But here I am, and I got to deal with your shitty temper, so why don't you do us both the favor of being honest?"

"I was pissed. I don't know. It was a shit move and I won't repeat it."

She sits in silence for a moment, and I want to shove away from the table and bolt. Her gaze is too sharp and too assessing, and she doesn't like what she sees.

I don't blame her. I don't like me very much at the moment either.

"She cares about you, Rike. I know you're probably wondering, because I know Peyton. She likes her privacy and she fucking adores her secrets. But she likes you and she's let you get close to her. She doesn't do that for anyone. Don't fuck that up. And don't use me to hurt her. I'm not down with that bullshit."

My gaze cools and it skates over her, just as judgmental as hers on me had been. "Then what the fuck are you doing here?"

She shrugs. "I'm here for Scott, asshole. It has nothing to do with you."

I jerk, throwing a startled look at Scotty. He’s ignoring me, sipping his coffee with a careful eye watching Lindsay.

What the hell is happening here, and how did I miss it?

“If you got your head out of your ass,” Lindsay says, “maybe you wouldn’t miss it.”

Scott snorts a laugh and I realize I’ve spoken out loud. I flush.

“I’m gonna go,” Lindsay says. Scott rises and kisses her briefly, and my eyes narrow. “Call me later?”

He nods and she waves at me with a narrowed eyed look before ducking out of the kitchen. I hear the apartment door slam behind her and my eyes go wide as I stare at my best friend like I’ve never seen him.

“What the actual fuck, Scott?”

He shrugs. “She’s a nice girl, man. And we’ve both been bored, with you and Pey so wrapped up in each other.”

I stare at him for a long minute, long enough that he fidgets and finally looks up at me.

His eyes are bright and daring me to say something. And because I'm an idiot, I do. "You actually care about Lindsay?"

"Why the hell is that so hard to believe?" he asks.

"Because that's not your M.O."

"Taking a month to fuck a girl isn't yours," he snaps back. And stands. Rinses his cup with his back to me.

It's covered in tattoos and scars, and I know all of the markings as well as I know my own hands. Fuck, I put some of them there. "She matters, Rike. End of story. Go back to your siren, and try not to fuck up what we both have going on here."

He doesn't say anything else as he stalks out of the kitchen and I'm left standing with a cold cup of coffee and no fucking clue how the hell our life got so weird so damn fast.

***

She's furious when I step into the little deli. It's off the campus of UT , cheap and not very good, but she likes it and I humor her. Right now, she's sitting in our normal booth, her computer on the table next to her BLT, ignored as she taps angrily at the phone in her hand.

Her gaze, when it swings up to meet mine, is hot and hurt, her lips a tight unforgiving line, and I let out an inaudible sigh.

"What the hell were you thinking last night?" she snaps while I slip into the booth.

"Why do psychologist hate elevators?” I stare at her, my gaze pleading for her to pick up her line of the joke, but she just sits back and crosses her arms over her pretty breasts, glaring and waiting for the explanation I don't have. "Because they drive you up a wall."

It doesn't get a response, but I didn't really think it would. I just had to try.

"I'm not in the mood for that shit, Jokes," she says sharply. "You fucking took my roommate home last night. How the hell do you expect me to overlook that?"

"I didn't know Peyton was your roommate," I say softly."

Her eyes go impossibly wide. "Is that really what you're worried about right now?"

"I think it is," I say slowly, deliberately, weighing my words. My gaze flicks over her face. "I think it's the issue. I know all the reasons we shouldn’t work. I'm not good for you. I have a shit ton of baggage. I deal with shit by avoiding it, or picking a fight. By taking another girl home to fuck. Those are all the reasons we shouldn't work. But that's not the reason we'll fall apart."

"No?" she says sarcastically and I shake my head, leaning back. I'm mirroring her, and it pisses her off--her arms drop almost defiantly to the table top.

"It won't work because you refuse to trust me. You won't tell me a goddamn thing about you. You don't mind seeing my world—"

"What, a shitty bar and a record store? A tattoo shop? That's the only part of your world that you'll show me."

"That's the only part of my world that matters," I almost shout. "That's what I give a fuck about. So you can think it's shit. I don't give a fuck. But that's the reality of my world. A dirty bar, a shitty record store and a rundown tattoo shop. A best friend who doesn't know what the fuck boundaries are. That's what's important to me. The question is if you can deal with it."

"What the hell makes you think I can't?" she growls.

"Because you bolt every time things start to get serious." I shoot back. "You like the danger of it. You like me finger fucking you on the stage, you like that I'm not like all the other frat boys you play with. But you won't be honest with me for five fucking minutes."

She's pale and almost shaking in her side of the booth, her fingers white-knuckled as they clench around her glass of unsweet tea. "I'm honest," she whispers. "I’ve never lied to you."

I shrug. "There's a helluva difference between lying and not telling the truth. What is it about me that you want but can't stand to get close to? Because that shit won't work for me."

“I'm not the one who took another dude home. You took my roommate home and fucked her and you’re making it seem like I'm the one who fucked up."

"You don't trust me. So arguing with you about what happened isn't worth it."

I lean across the table and grab half her sandwich. She's staring at me and her eyes are furious. I sigh. "I didn't touch her. You can ask her and Scott if you don't believe me. Or you can tell me to fuck off and we can both cut our losses. Kinda wonder if that's not a good option."